A simple story

• &£./

Presented to the
LIBRARY of the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO

by

Mrs . Andrew Kellogg

STANDARD
NOVELS.

N° XXVI.

" No kind of literature is so generally attractive as Fiction. Pictures of
life and manners, and Stories of adventure, are more eagerly received by
the many than graver productions, however important these latter may be.
APULEIUS is better remembered by his fable of Cupid and Psyche than by
his abstruser Platonic writings ; and the Decameron of BOCCACCIO has out
lived the Latin Treatises, and other learned works of that author."

A SIMPLE STORY.

BY MRS. INCHBALD.

NATURE AND ART.

BY THE SAME.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
(LATE COLBURN AND BENTLEY):

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH

CUMMING, DUBLIN ; AND

GALIONANI, PARIS.

1833.

LONDON ;

Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

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SIMPLE STORY.

MRS. INCHBALD.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET

(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN):

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;

CUMMING, DUBLIN; AND

GALIGNANI, PARIS.

1833.

MEMOIR OF MRS. INCHBALD.

As an authentic memoir of Mrs. Inchbald, composed from
documents in her own hand- writing, is shortly to be pub
lished, we shall confine ourselves, on the present occasion,
of the admission of her Tales in " THE STANDARD NO
VELS," to a detail of the leading facts of her life which have
never yet been given with even tolerable accuracy.

Elizabeth Inchbald was the last child but one of the
numerous family of John and Mary Simpson, of Standing-
field, in Suffolk, and born on the 15th of October, 1753.
Her father died when she was but eight years old, and her
mother was left to struggle, deeply encumbered, with the
concerns of a farm which we believe was the sole source
of profit, and indeed maintenance, to the family.

Mrs. Inchbald has told us that she never was sent to
school, and never had any governess or preceptor. In that
particular she resembled Miss Burney, another writer of
novels, and her equal in the delineation of character and
passion. But the latter lady lived at least in the atmo
sphere of letters, and her father was a man of science and
refinement.

The family of the Simpsons was Catholic; and the
neighbourhood abounded in respectable persons of that
communion, who willingly extended their friendship to the
interesting farm-house at Standingfield, where the daugh
ters were spoken of as amiable and handsome girls ; Eliza
beth particularly admired, though she has candidly admit
ted that her sister Deborah was handsomer than herself.
Elizabeth had a defect to surmount which caused her infi
nite vexation — she, from her infancy, stammered ; and
yet the early passion of her mind was to be an actress.
A 3

vi MEMOIR OF MKS. INCHBALD.

Bury and its fair supplied them with amusements, and
the theatre there gave to her brother George his love of
dramatic representations : he came home from this seat of
his enjoyments an actor in embryo, and unconsciously, per
haps, encouraged his sister in the secret design she had
meditated. She was confirmed in it after by his really
entering the profession. As to her impediment, she wrote
out all the words with which she had difficulty, and by
slow articulation, and a measured manner, disciplined her
organs of speech.

Sanguine as youth may be, it seldom calculates more
erroneously than when it applies, with its natural timidity
and inexperience, to a country manager for an engage
ment on his stage as a means of provision in life. Beauty,
it is true, will do something ; and the female debutante is
seldom awkward, which the males at first are sure to be.
But the requisites for a coup de main are those of intrepid
nature. If discipline is needed to perfect the actress, she
must find it through successive barns, and play-houses
little better, incessant variety of parts, and audiences
equally composed of ignorance and prejudice.

Miss Simpson, under injunctions of secrecy, wrote to
Mr. Griffith, who at that time had the management of
the Norwich theatre, to give her an engagement, if he
judged her abilities worthy of encouragement. He wrote
a reply of the doubtful gender, and they had interviews,
too, of a charming description ; but he avoided every thing
like engagement. She now saw the necessity of striking
at the heart ; and therefore determined, with the Wrong-
head family, upon a " Journey to London."

On the 7th of May, ill I, she came to London on a
visit to her sister Hunt, whose husband was a tailor, and
resided in Southampton Buildings, Holborn, in one of its
courts. Mr. James Hunt had married another of her
sisters. Two more of them were the wives of Mr. Hug-
gins and Mr. Slender ; so that London, unless she chose
mystery and inconvenience, always offered her choice of
asylum and associates. With her relations she visited the
usual sights of the metropolis — the museum, the play
houses, the public gardens. She had, in the country,

MEMOIR OP MRS. INCHBALD. Vll

received Mr. Inchbald's addresses, and now attended most
to his personal friends. He accompanied her to Vauxhall,
and they supped together at a tavern ; after which he took
leave of her on setting out for Birmingham. Three days
after, she left London for home, on the 4th of June.

Inchbald corresponded with both mother and daughter
at Standingfield, and their letters were thickly interchanged
the whole year. It was not till March., 1772, that she
determined upon a new adventure. — On the 10th of
April, she packed up her things, and wrote a " farewell
letter" to her mother. On the llth, left home unsus
pected, and by the Norwich Fly arrived safely and quite
unexpected again in the " great city." She got lodgings
at the Rose and Crown, in St. John Street.

She now put in execution the grand part of her project,
namely, to see Mr. Reddish the tragedian, and Mr. King
the comedian, and beg their assistance as to the stage.
King, a man of kindly feelings, talked much with her, and
promised to visit her at the Rose and Crown in St. John's
Street. He did not arrive, and in a panic she suddenly
abdicated ; and, after some " strange adventures," as she
calls them, got new lodgings at midnight, as a passenger
disappointed of a place in the stage, at the White Swan on
Holborn Bridge. On the 15th of this Fool-month she
again visited King, who gave her some faint hopes. She
then sat down and wrote, on the l6th and 17th, a letter to
her sister, D. Hunt, detailing her penniless " misventures" —
took it herself to the post, kept her chamber the rest of the
day, and began her theatrical studies, en attendant a reply
from sister Hunt. A stranger, whose name was Redman,
found out her residence, and wrote to her : — she answered
his letters, met her sister in pursuance of her answer, and
they drank tea together at a public garden. On the 21st,
while calling upon Mr. King, her brother Slender came in
her way, and demanding her address, threatened her with
a chaise and Standingfield next day. On the 22d, Inch-
bald met her at Slender's, and they had intercourse daily.
In May, she was negotiating an engagement for the country
with Dodd, which was absolutely concluded in about ten
days ; but, upon a visit to him, she saw some unequivocal

Viii MEMOIR OF MBS. INCHBALD.

symptoms of his bad management — threw a basin of hot
water in his face, and wrote to him to justify her conduct
from the provocation. Inchbald saw that this unprotected
state of hers should be closed as speedily as possible ; and
declared, to her great delight, that he hoped he should be
able to marry her. On the evening of the 9th of June,
1772, Mr. Rice, a Catholic priest, came to sister Slen-
der's and married them. On the 10th they went to
church, and were married by the Protestant rites, and her
sister Slender and she went to the theatre and saw Mr.
Inchbald act Oakley in the Jealous Wife. With her hus
band she soon set off for Bristol. — She made her first
appearance on the stage, in Cordelia, on the 4th of Septem
ber, to her husband's Lear. On the 18th they came back
to London, and on the 7th of October set off in the Bury
stage on a visit to her mother at Standingfield : they could
make but a short visit, for they were obliged to return to
London to take shipping for Scotland : — they had a
stormy week's passage, and landed at Leith on the 17th.
Her husband, Wilson (Don Jerome), and she, went post
to Glasgow, where they arranged with Digges that she
should act Cordelia on the 26th. On the removal of the
company to Edinburgh, we find a Mr. Stirling playing
lago to Mr. Inchbald's Othello, for the benefit of husband
and wife. This gentleman had spent the evening with her,
in her husband's absence, on the 7th of January, and from
that time their intimacy increased, till our heroine seems
to have "more needed the divine than the physician."
She grew uneasy, wrote, two or three times, the state of
things to her spiritual director; and insisted, with Mr,
Stirling, upon being alone in the absence of Mr. Inchbald.
That gentleman, who complained of her indifference to
him, chose to be absent, and high words ensued, and se
parate chambers were demanded by the lady. In the mean
time, Mr. Stirling resumed his seat, read to her while
Inchbald was abroad, and, very indiscreetly we think, she
indulged herself in a correspondence with him during
absence. With Digges they continued, and acted the
usual north circuit until the middle of June, 1776, when
Mr. Inchbald unhappily had a dispute with the Edinburgh

MEMOIR OP MRS. INCHBALD. IX

audience, and a riot, in consequence, closed their engage
ment.

Mrs. Inchbald, with the aid of a master, had heen stu
dying the French language while in Scotland ; and now,
of all the absurdities with which, at times, even clever
people are carried away, Mr. Inchbald resolved to go to
Paris, and make his livelihood by his talent as an artist —
his wife, in the mean time, as a bel esprit, was to become
a perfect Frenchwoman, and realise all the visions of
authorship, which, while speaking the language of the stage,
might have entered her imagination. They took shipping
at Shields on the 7th of July, and landed at St. Valeri, in
France, on the 23d. They arrived at length in Paris;
and the French evinced their accustomed politesse to a
beauty, a wit, and a Catholic, of the rival nation. On the
31st of August she had begun a farce, but had left Paris;
and Mr. Inchbald had, perhaps, finished a portrait of his
wife. Some absurd biographers have made them continue
abroad five years; and the least inaccurate about a year :
they left Dieppe, however, on the 18th September, and
were back at Brighton on the following day, to try for
strolling engagements, with a ' ' wrangling character " from
Edinburgh ; and often were compelled to go without either
dinner or tea, unless a raw turnip, pluckt up in the fields,
could aonstructively pass for either, or both. This tour of
five years, therefore, was completed in 57 days : such is
the authentication of biography.

To London they at last came, and quitted it for Chester;
whence they proceeded the next day to Liverpool, and met
there with a liberal engagement from the manager, Younger.
Through October and November they played there with
much success; on the 9th of December they acted for
the benefit of Mr. and Miss Farren, and on the 17th ar
rived at Manchester. At this town, on the 18th of January,
1777, they drank tea and supped at Mrs. Siddons's, and
there saw her brother, Kemble, for the first time. A very
intimate acquaintance was commenced between these clever
people at once. Kemble, though never a lover, seems to
have been the cause of many disputes between his new
friends. In March they took country lodgings on Russel

X MEMOIR OF MRS. INCHBALD.

Moor, where they seem to have rusticated most agreeably,
with the Siddons and the Kemble ; the latter as playful as
a boy, and the future queen of tears singing over her house
hold labour, without a dream of the greatness she was so
soon to achieve. Their next stage was that of York for
Mrs. Siddons, and Birmingham for the party. When the
friends were sundered by different engagements, the Inch-
balds, very unhappy, came to London, on their way to
Canterbury. On the 2d of July they reached the City
of Pilgrims, and then had neither tea nor supper, and the
day following neither dinner nor tea. On the 24th they
began to act with Dimond, and continued at Canterbury
till the 22d of September, when they determined to pass
some time at Standingfield.

Their grand card was the York Company ; and they at
length succeeded to their hearts' content. Wilkinson en
gaged them both ; and when they left the maternal dwell
ing, on the 13th of October, it was to join their new
manager at Huh1. With this excellent man they continued
till the unhappy death of Mr. Inchbald, on the 6th of June,
1779- It was, we learn, by an accident, and quite sudden.
She simply calls that day " a day of horror/' and the week
that followed, one of ft grief, horror, and almost despair."

On the 12th of February, 1780, Suett paid his serious
addresses to our lovely widow. She weighed one name
against the other, and poor Dicky's kicked the beam. On the
1 9th of September, at Doncaster, she took her leave of the
York Company, and arrived safely in London ; and on the
24th had her first interview with Mr. Harris of Covent-
Garden theatre. The matter was soon arranged, and she
acted on the London boards, the first time, Bellario, in
Philaster, the 3d of October, 1780. There can be little
doubt of her respectable utility as an actress: — in some few
parts, of which the character is a feminine gentleness, and
virtuous timidity, such as Lady Frances in the Belle's
Stratagem, she was admirable. Harris proffered her An
gelina, in the Fop's Fortune. But her salary was low, and
did not bear her away from the train of Harlequin ; and
she was loth to suffer a deduction of 10*. per week, to keep
her from enchanted, or enchanting, ladies, who walk in

MEMOIR OF MRS. 1NCHBALD. XI

and out before every sort of scene, arrived in the stage, or
landing from the packet — virgins of the sun, in Persian
temples, or of the moon, if she condescends to shine upon
pantomime masquerades. This alone made her engagement
bitter to her ; nor could she well avoid it, even at Col-
man's summer house. She was in Ireland, acting with
Daly, from November, 1782, to May, 1783, and hand
somely paid. In vain did she try to better her condition
by offering farces to Mr. Harris : — he had no opinion of
ihem, and she sometimes was indignant at his treatment of
her and her works. In this position she had another offer
of marriage, and from the Don Jerome of the Duenna,
Richard Wilson, the old companion of her husband. This
she wisely rejected.

For forty years together this amiable woman lived in
London, or its immediate vicinity, cultivating assiduously
her literary talents, and investing her gains in the funds.
The father of her dramatic fortune was Mr. Colman the
elder ; who, liking the idea of her " Mogul Tale," took
great pains in preparing it for his stage ; and also cleared
out from the dust of his cabinet her comedy of " I'll Tell
You What," to which he wrote both prologue and epilogue.
These were followed by a " Widow's Vow" — " All on a
Summer's Day" — "Animal Magnetism" — " The Child
of Nature" — " Midnight Hour" — "Such Things are" —
" Married Man"—" The Hue and Cry"— "Next Door
Neighbours" — " Young Men and Old Women" — " Every
One has his Fault" — " The Wedding Day" — " Wives as
they were, and Maids as they are" — " Lover's Vows" —
"The Wise Man of the East" — "To Marry or not to
Marry" — " The Massacre," a tragedy — and the "Case
of Conscience," a play in five acts.

In addition to which, though certainly first in genius,
we have to mention her " Simple Story" — and her "Na
ture and Art," — which will be standard works to the end
of time.

She practised self-denial from principle, and was instinct
ively charitable and liberal. Her family could not have
existed, but from her bounty ; and yet she contrived to

Xil MEMOIR OP MRS. INCHBALD.

3\ realise the following income, and bequeath the principal,
v and something more, at her death.

In the Long Annuities, she had annually £ 222 0 0

In 3 per cent. Consols 33 0 0

In 3 per cents. Reduced 550

\

Her yearly income of . £ 260 5 0

Her place in society, during her town life, was exactly
where she chose it should be. The highest ranks of
nobility were proud of her visits, and their coronets were
seen waiting at the door of her lodgings, to bear her, from
household toil, to take the airing of luxury and pride.
Yet she never forgot, or avoided, her humble connections ;
I and her feeling soul never considered the station of the
afflicted. Some few foibles excepted, as, for instance, the
solicitude as to her beauty, and her love of admiration,
we hazard little in saying, it will be difficult to name a
wiser or a better woman.

The last of her many wills is dated the 29th of April,

1 821 ; and after a short illness, she died, a sincere Catholic,

on the 1st of August following, and is interred in the

churchyard of Kensington. She had nearly completed

aa -{her 68th year.

Her friend Mrs. Piozzi, another memorable woman, died,
advanced age, a few months before her.

B.

London, March, 1833.

PREFACE

TO THE

FIRST EDITION OF "A SIMPLE STORY.

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 occu
pied, 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 sub
sistence by public speaking; and, with the utmost detestation
to the fatigue of inventing, a constitution suffering under a se
dentary life, and an education confined to the narrow bound
aries 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

B

2 PREFACE.

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 un
wittingly, 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 con
fided 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 Colley 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 libel, or, what is
equally pernicious, panegyric on the unworthy !

1791-

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 dis
criminating between the philosophical and the superstitious
part of that character, he adopted the former only, and pos
sessed qualities not unworthy of 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 from the merit they might acquire in reforming
mankind. He refused to shelter himself from the tempta
tions of the layman by the walls of a cloister ; but sought
for, and found that shelter within 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 in his youth contracted a sincere friend
ship, died, and left him the sole guardian of his daughter,
who was then eighteen.

The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution,
perfectly sensible of his state, thus reasoned with himself
before he made the nomination : — " 1 have formed no in
timate friendship during my own 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 which he had inspired. In this moment
of trembling apprehension for every thought which dares
B 2

4f A SIMPLE STORY.

across my mind, and 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
which, 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
consult her present happiness, and leave her to the care of
those whom she thinks 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 very fabric
which they may have themselves erected."

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 which religion provides, and which now,
amidst these agonising tortures, cheers with humble hope
my afflicted 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 wel
fare now occupied the anxious thoughts of her expiring
father. From him the care of her education had been
withheld, as he kept inviolate his promise to her departed
mother on the article of religion, and therefore consigned
his daughter to a boarding-school for Protestants, whence
she returned with merely such ideas of piety as ladies of
fashion, at her age, mostly imbibe. Her little heart, em
ployed in all the endless pursuits of personal accomplish
ments, had left her mind without one ornament, except
such as nature gave ; and even they were not wholly pre
served from the ravages made by its rival, art.

While her father was in health he beheld, with extreme
delight, his accomplished daughter, without one fault which

A SIMPLE STORY. 5

taste or elegance could have imputed to her ; nor ever en
quired what might be her other faih'ngs. But, cast on a
bed of sickness, and upon the point of leaving her to her
fate, those failings at once rushed on his thought ; and all
the pride, the fond enjoyment he had taken in beholding her
open the ball, or delight her hearers with her wit or song,
escaped his remembrance, or, not escaping it, were lamented
with a sigh of compassion, or a contemptuous frown at such
frivolous qualifications.

" Something essential," said he to himself, " must be
considered — something to prepare her for an hour like this.
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 the moral virtues to
those of religion, and pious faith to native honour, will
protect without controlling, instruct without tyrannising,
comfort without flattering; and, perhaps, in time, make
good by choice, rather than by constraint, the tender 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 his friend's perfect esteem, he
still was restrained 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 any opinions 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 that 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.
B 3

A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER II.

DORRIFORTH returned to London heavily afflicted for the
loss of his friend j and yet, perhaps, with his thoughts more
engaged upon the trust which that friend had reposed in
him. He knew the life Miss Milner had heen accustomed
to lead : he dreaded the repulses his admonitions might
possibly meet ; 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 such was his attention to
those in poverty, and the moderation of his own desires,
that he lived in all the careful plainness of economy. His
habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly
gentlewoman, who had a maiden niece residing with her,
not many years younger than herself. But, although Miss
Woodley was thirty-five, and in person exceedingly plain,
yet she possessed such cheerfulness of temper, and such ari
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 had he thought it ne
cessary, notwithstanding his religious vow of celibacy, to
fly the roof of two such innocent females as Mrs. Horton
and her niece. On their part, they regarded him with all
that respect and reverence which the most religious flock
shows to 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 which they had occupied during the life of Mr.
Horton.

Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth's return from his journey,
preparations were commenced for the reception of his ward ;
her father having made it his request that she might, for a

, A SIMPLE STORY. 7

time at least, reside in the same house with her guardian,
receive the same visits, and cultivate the acquaintance of
his companions and friends.

When the will of her father was made known to Miss
Milner, she submitted without the least 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 there take up her abode, with all the retinue
of a rich heiress.

Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this ac
quisition to her family was likely to make to her annual
income, and style of living. The good-natured Miss
Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their new
guest, yet she herself could not tell why ; but the reason
was, that her kind heart wanted a 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 reflections of Dprriforth were less agreeably en
gaged : cares, doubts, fears, possessed his mind — and so
forcibly possessed it, that upon every occasion which offered,
he would inquisitively endeavour 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 pre
vented his meeting her at her father's, the very few times
he had been at his house, since her final return from
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 j
but his face, except a pair of dark bright eyes, a set of
white teeth, and a graceful arrangement in his clerical
curls of brown hair, had not one feature to excite ad
miration — yet such a gleam of sensibility was diffused over
B 4

8 A SIMPLE STORY.

each, that many persons admired his visage as completely
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 you read the feelings of his heart —
{. saw all its inmost workings — the quick pulses that beat
with hope and fear, or the gentle ones that moved in a
more equal course of patience and resignation. On this
countenance his thoughts were portrayed,- and as his
mind was enriched with every virtue that could make it
valuable, so was his face adorned with every expression of
those virtues ; and they not only gave a lustre to his aspect,
but added an harmonious sound to all he uttered : it was
persuasive, it was perfect eloquence; whilst in his looks
you beheld his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever
coinciding with what he said.

With one of those expressions of countenance, which
revealed anxiety of heart, and yet with that graceful re
straint 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 re
quest 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 the person interrogated.

" Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about
Miss Milner : when I saw her she was very young j 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 which this lady had increased, but not
inspired.

tf And she is very beautiful — that I can assure you,"
said Lady Evans.

tf Which I call no qualification," said Dorriforth, rising
from his chair in evident uneasiness.

" But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty
is something."

<f Much worse than nothing, in my opinion," returned
Dorriforth.

A SIMPLE STORY.

" But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not, from what I have
said, frighten yourself, and imagine your ward worse than
she really is. All I know of her is merely, that she's
young, idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with half-a-dozen lovers
in her suite; some coxcombs, others men of gallantry,
some single, and others 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 educa
tion, the best company, nor 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, ft 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, but an attentive listener to this
discourse, ventured here to say exactly six words : " Then
don't mention them any more."

" Let us change the subject," said Dorriforth.

"With all my heart," cried Lady Evans; " and I am
sure it will be to the young lady's advantage."

" Is Miss Milner tall or short ? " asked Mrs. Horton,
still wishing for farther information.

" Oh, tall enough of all conscience," returned she : " I
tell you again that 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 Lady Evans, " I never heard
of a pad to make straight an ill-shapen disposition."

" Oh, yes," answered Miss Woodley : " good company,
good books, experience, and the misfortunes of others, may
have more power to form the mind to virtue, than "

10

A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed ; for Lady
Evans, rising hastily from her seat, cried, " I must be gone
— I have a hundred people waiting for me at home — be
sides, 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 she : " I believe, Mrs. Hill-
grave, 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 severe losses : as soon as the name of Miss Milner
was uttered, she lifted up 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 equally with the most
inquisitive of her sex, asked the new visiter — "if she
might be permitted to know, why, at the mention of Miss
Milner, she had seemed so much affected."

This question exciting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned
anxiously round, attentive to the reply.

t( Miss Milner," answered she, " has been my benefac
tress, 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 own eyes
moistened with joy, nearly as much as hers 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 de
termined to seize upon all our effects. His daughter, how
ever, by her intercessions, 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."

A SIMPLE STORY. 11

Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave
by the hand, and told her, ts 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 dis
position."

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, and fix her abode at Mrs. Horton's ; and her guardian,
accompanied by Miss Woodley, went in his carriage to
meet her, and waited at an inn on the road for her re
ception.

After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father,
Miss Milner, upon the tenth of November, arrived at the
place, halfway on her journey to town, where Dorriforth
and Miss Woodley were expecting her. Besides attendants,
she had with her a gentleman and 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 re
posed 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

12 A SIMPLE STORY.

trembled at his heart, and, consequently, spread a gloom
over all his face. Miss Woodley was even obliged to
rouse 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 de
scription.

But the natural vivacity, the gaiety 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 de
meanour. The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her
by Miss Woodley as her " guardian, and her deceased
father's most beloved friend," she burst into 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 — the re
motest sensations of his heart.

This affecting introduction being o.er, after some mi
nutes passed in general conversation, the carriages were
again ordered ; and, bidding farewell to the relations who
had accompanied her, Miss Milner, her guardian, and Miss
Woodley departed for town ; the two ladies in Miss Mil
ner Y carriage, and Dorriforth in that in which she came.

Miss Woodley, as they rode along, made no attempts to
ingratiate herself with Miss Milner ; though, perhaps, such
an honour might constitute one of her first wishes : she
behaved to her but as she constantly behaved to every other
human creature ; and that was sufficient to gain the
esteem of a person possessed of an understanding equal to
Miss Milner's. She had penetration to discover Miss
Woodley's unaffected worth, and was soon induced to re
ward it with the warmest friendship.

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER a night's rest in London, — less violently impressed
with the loss of her father, reconciled, if not already at-

A SIMPLE STORY. 13

tached to her new acquaintance, her thoughts pleasingly
occupied with the reflection that she was in that gay me
tropolis, a wild and rapturous picture of which her active
fancy had often formed, — Miss Milner waked from a peace
ful and refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and
with all those airy charms, which, for a while, had yielded
their transcendent power to the weaker influence of her
filial sorrow.

Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to
Dorriforth on the preceding day, when she joined them
this morning at breakfast, re-possessed of her lively ele
gance and dignified simplicity, they gazed at her, and at
each other alternately, with astonishment : and Mrs. Horton,
as she sat at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but as
a menial servant ; such command has beauty when united
with sense and virtue. In Miss Milner it was so united.
Yet let not our over-scrupulous readers be misled, and ex
tend 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 she 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 started habitually at
the unpleasant voice of control. She was beautiful ; she
had been too frequently told the high value of that beauty,
and thought every moment passed in wasteful idleness
during which she was not gaining some new conquest. She
had a quick sensibility, which too frequently discovered
itself in the immediate resentment of injuries or neglect.
She had, besides, acquired 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 re
partee, not because she possessed those qualities which can
properly be called wit, but that what she said was delivered
with an energy, an instantaneous and powerful conception
of the sentiment, joined with a real or a well-counterfeited
simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch smile.
Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of

14- A SIMPLE STORY.

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 the ward of Dorriforth by her actions ; by
all the round of great or trivial circumstances that shall be
related.

At breakfast, which had just begun at the commence
ment 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
of those qualities on the part of Mrs. Horton. The dis
course at length drew from Mr. Dorriforth this observ
ation : —

" 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 ! "

f ' No ! pray 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."

" Then your actions are to contradict your appearance."

For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality pecu
liar to wits, of hazarding the thought that first occurs,
which thought is generally truth. On this, he paid her a
compliment in return : —

fe You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very
bad judge of what is plain, and what is not."

( ' How so ? "

fc 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 ; f( and so I give up the one for the other."

A SIMPLE STORY. 15

With a serious face, as if proposing a very serious question,
Dorriforth continued, — " And you really believe you are
not handsome ? "

tf I should, if I consulted my own opinion, believe that
I was not : but in some respects I am like Roman Catho
lics ; I don't believe upon my own understanding, but
from what other people tell me."

" And let this convince you," replied Dorriforth, " that
what we teach is truth ; for you find you would be de
ceived, 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 dif
ference, 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 religious ignorance; while Mrs. Horton, unper-
ceived, as she imagined, made the sign of the cross upon
her forehead, as a guard against the infectious taint of he
retical opinions. This pious ceremony Miss Milner by
chance observed, and now showed such an evident propen
sity to burst into a fit of laughter, that the good lady of
the house could no longer contain her resentment, but ex
claimed, <f God forgive you," with a severity so different
from the sentiment which the words conveyed, that the
object of her anger was, on this, obliged freely to indulge
that impulse which she had in vain been struggling to sup
press ; and no longer suffering under the agony of restraint,
she gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty
so uncontrolled, that it soon 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."

16 A SIMPLE STORY.

" 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 ac
cents, saying she would not forgive implied only forgive
ness; 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 all its pleasures ; while
Dorriforth has been sighing with apprehension, attending
to all her words and ways with precaution, and praying
with zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her
guardian's acquaintance, and, added to them, the new
friendships (to use 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 thim from her visits or visiters, to warn her of her
danger : yet when a moment offered, he caught 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 genuine 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 ;
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 which
her birth and fortune entitled her to enjoy.

Among the many visiters who attended at her levees,
and followed her wherever she went, there was one who
seemed, even when absent from her, to share her thoughts.
This was Lord Frederick Lawnley, the younger son of a

A SIMPLE STORY. 17

duke, and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning
women of taste.

He was not more than twenty-three ; animated, elegant,
extremely handsome, and possessed of every accomplish
ment that would captivate a heart less susceptible of love
than Miss Milner's was supposed to he. With these al
lurements, no wonder if she took pleasure in his company;
no wonder if she took pride in having it known that he waa
among the number of her devoted admirers. Dorriforth
beheld this growing intimacy with alternate pain and plea
sure : 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 with
out even the authority of matrimonial views.

With sentiments like these, Dorriforth could never dis
guise his uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick ; nor
could the latter want penetration to 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 then held a place in her bosom,
and that was vanity ; vanity defined into all the species of
pride, vain-glory, 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 in their first im
pulse too frequently met and intercepted by some darling
folly.

Miss Woodley (who could easily discover a virtue, al
though of the most diminutive kind, and scarcely through
the magnifying glass of calumny could ever perceive a fault,)
was Miss Milner's inseparable companion at home, and her
zealous advocate with Dorriforth, whenever, during her
absence, she became the subject of discourse. He listened
c

18 A SIMPLE STORY.

with hope to the praises of her friend, but saw with despair
how little they were merited. Sometimes he struggled to
suhdue his anger, but oftener strove to suppress tears of
pity for his ward's hapless state.

By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Fre
derick to her as a lover ; the servants whispered it, and
some of the public prints had even fixed the day of mar
riage : but as no explanation had taken place on his part,
Dorriforth's uneasiness was increased; and he seriously told
Miss Milner, he thought it would be indispensably prudent
in her to entreat Lord Frederick to discontinue his visits.
She smiled with ridicule at the caution ; but finding it re
peated, and in a manner that indicated authority, she pro
mised not only to make, but to enforce the request. The
next time he came, she. did so; assuring him it was by her
guardian's desire, ef who, from motives of delicacy, had
permitted her to solicit as a favour what he could himself
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, —

(f By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself;
and it is jealousy alone that makes him treat me in this
manner."

(f For shame, my Lord," cried Miss Woodley, who was
present, and who trembled with horror at the sacrilegious
supposition.

<s Nay, shame to him, if he is not in love," answered
his Lordship ; " for who but a savage could behold beauty
ike hers without owning its power ? "

" Habit," replied Miss Milner, " is every thing : Mr.
-Dorriforth sees and converses with beauty: but, from
habit, he does not fall in love ; and you, my Lord, from
habit, often do."

" Then you believe that love is not in my disposition ? "

" No more of it, my Lord, than habit could very soon
extinguish."

A SIMPLE STORY. 19

" 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 divine blessings love can bestow."

" Then you indulge the passion to avoid a sin ? This
very motive deters Mr. Dorriforth from that indulgence."

" It ought to deter him, for the sake of his oaths : but
monastic vows, like those of marriage, were made to be
broken ; and surely when your guardian cast his eyes on
you, his wishes "

"Are never less pure>" she replied 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 acci
dental entrance at the very moment this praise had been
conferred upon him in his absence heightened the blush to
a deep glow on every feature : confusion and earnestness
caused even her lips to. tremble, and her whole frame to
shake.

*.e What is the matter ? " cried Dorriforth, looking with
concern on her discomposure.

te A compliment paid by herself to you, sir," replied
Lord Frederick, " has affected your ward in the manner
you have seen."

" As if she blushed at the untruth," said Dorriforth.

<( .Nay, that is unkind," cried Miss Wopdley ; (f for if
you had been here •— — *"'

(f I Would not have said what I did," replied Miss Mil
ner, (t but had left him to vindicate, himself."

** Is it possible that I can want any vindication ? Who
would think it worth their while to slander so unimportant
a person as I am?'*

<e The man who has the charge of Miss Milner," replied
Lord Frederick, " derives, a, consequence from her."

" No ill consequence, I hope, my Lord !" said Dorri
forth, with a firmness in his voice, and with an eye so
fixed, that his antagonist 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. Then, as if in compliment to her,
c 2

20 A SIMPLE STORY.

he changed the subject; and with an air 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 con
fess before the ladies, lest, in order to excite their com
passion, 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 Eloisa 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 suppressed, and she threw open the sash
and held her head out at the window, to conceal the em
barrassment these lines had occasioned.

The Earl of Elmwood was at that juncture announced
— a Catholic nobleman, just come of age, and on the eve
of marriage. His visit was to his cousin, Mr. Dorriforth ;
but as all ceremonious visits were alike received by Dorri
forth, Miss Milner, and Mrs. Horton's family, in one
common apartment, Lord Elmwood was ushered into this,
and of course directed the conversation to a different topic.

CHAPTER VI.

WITH an anxious desire that the affection, or acquaintance,
between Lord Frederick and Miss Milner might be finally
dissolved, her guardian received, with infinite satisfaction,
overtures of marriage from Sir Edward Ashton. Sir Ed
ward was not young or handsome, old or ugly, but im
mensely rich, and possessed of qualities that made him worthy
of the happiness to which he aspired. He was the man
whom Dorriforth would have chosen before any other for

A SIMPLE STORY. „ 21

for the husband of his ward ; and his wishes made him
sometimes hope, against his cooler judgment, that Sir Ed
ward would not be rejected. He was resolved, at all
events, to try the force of his own power in the strongest
recommendation of him.

Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion which, in
almost every instance, subsisted between Miss Milner and
her guardian, there was in general the most punctilious
observance of good manners from each towards the other —
on the part of Dorriforth more especially ; for his polite
ness would sometimes appear even like the result of a sys
tem which he had marked out for himself, as the only
means to keep his ward restrained within the same limit
ations. Whenever he addressed her there was an unusual
reserve upon his countenance, and more than usual gentle
ness in the tone of his voice : this appeared the effect
of sentiments which her birth and situation inspired,
joined to a studied mode of respect, best calculated 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, which she had
not been accustomed to correct, she was perpetually on the
verge of treating him with levity ; but he would on the
instant 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 said that he believed she possessed the power
of making so deserving a man happy to the summit of his
wishes. A laugh of ridicule was the only answer ; but a
sudden frown from Dorriforth having silenced her mirth,
he resumed his usual politeness, and said, —

" I wish you would show a better taste than thus point
edly to disapprove of Sir Edward."
c 3

22 A SIMPLE STORY.

" How, Mr. Dorriforth, 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 me ?"

Dorriforth wished not to flatter her by a compliment she
seemed to have sought for, and for a moment hesitated
what answer to make,

" Reply, sir, to that question," she said.

" Why, then, madam," returned he, ' ' it is my opinion,
that supposing what your humility has advanced 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, taste, or rather reason, has little power to
act."

" You are in the right, Mr. Dorriforth : this is a proper
justification of Sir Edward,— -and when I fall in love, I beg-
that you will make the same excuse for me."

"Then," said he, earnestly, "before your heart is in
that state which I have described, exert your reason."

(e I shall," answered she, ' c and assuredly not consent
to marry a man whom I could never love."

" Unless your heart be already .disposed of, Miss Milner,
what can make you speak with, such a degree of certainty?"

He thought on Lord Frederick when he uttered this,
and he ri vetted his eyes upon her as if to penetrate her
most secret inclinations, and yet trembling for what he
might find there. She blushed, and her looks would have
confirmed her guilty, if the unembarrassed and free tone
of her voice, more than her words, had not preserved her
from that sentence.

"No," she replied, (c my heart is not stolen away ; and
yet I can venture to declare, that Sir Edward will never
possess it."

fc I am sorry, for both your sakes, that these are you
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 possibly be aware of. The heart once gone,
our thoughts, our actions, are no more our own, than that

A SIMPLE STORY. 2d

is " He seemed forcing himself to utter all this, and

yet he broke off as if he could have said much more, if the
extreme delicacy of the subject had not restricted him.

When he left the room, and she heard the door close
after him, she said, with an inquisitive thoughtfulness,
" What can make good people so skilled in all the weak
nesses 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 allure
ments, all its repentant sorrows, than like one who has lived
his whole time secluded in a monastic college, or in his own
study. Then he speaks with such exquisite sensibility on
the subject of love, that he commends the very thing which
he attempts to depreciate. I do not think my Lord
Frederick would make the passion appear in more pleasing
colours by painting its delights, than Mr. Dorriforth could
in describing its sorrows ; and if he talks to me frequently
in this manner, I shall certainly take pity on Lord Frederick,
for the sake of his adversary's 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 saying, he will not be happy with me."
" I do not know : I cannot speak of marriage from ex
perience," answered Miss Woodley ; " but I think I can
guess what it is."

(t 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," cried Miss Woodley,
with her accustomed simplicity of heart, as if she had been
asking a favour that depended upon the will of the person
entreated ; " pray do not fall in love without the appro
bation of your guardian."

Her young friend smiled at the inefficacious prayer, but
promised to do all she could to oblige her.

24 A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER VII.

SIR EDWARD, not wholly discouraged by the denial with
which Dorriforth had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still
hoped for a kind reception : and he was so often at 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. Every
time he beheld the object of his passion (for he still con
tinued his visits, though not so frequently as heretofore,)
he pleaded his cause with such ardour, that Miss Woodley,
who was sometimes present, and ever compassionate, could
not resist wishing him success. He now unequivocally
offered marriage, and entreated that he might lay his pro
posals before Mr. Dorriforth ; but this was positively for
bidden.

Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known
partiality of her guardian for the addresses of Sir Edward,
than to any motive which depended upon herself: and to
Mr. Dorriforth he 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, that
love had, at present, gained no influence over her mind. Yet
did the watchful Miss Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh
escape from her unknown to herself, till she was reminded
of it ; and then a crimson blush would instantly overspread
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 compliance with
every new pursuit that might amuse those leisure hours
which her friend, she now perceived, passed in heaviness of
heart.

Balls, plays, incessant company, at length roused her
guardian from that mildness with which he had been ac
customed to treat her. Night after night his sleep had
been disturbed by fears for her when abroad: morning

A SIMPLE STORY. 25

after morning it had been broken by the clamour of her
return. He therefore gravely said to her one forenoon as
he met her accidentally upon the staircase, —

" I hope, Miss Milner, you pass this evening at home ? "

Unprepared for the sudden question, she blushed and
replied, ' e Yes ; " though she knew she was engaged to a
brilliant assembly, for which her milliner had been con
sulted a whole week.

She, however, flattered herself that what she had said
might be excused as a 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 even
ing — the present evening particularly marked. Her guar
dian looked astonished !

" I thought, Miss Milner, you gave me your word that
you would pass this evening at home ? "

" I mistook ; for I had before given my word that I
should pass it abroad."

"Indeed!" cried he.

te Yes, indeed ; and I believe it is right that 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 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 eyes — hers were immediately
cast down ; and she trembled — either with shame or with
resentment.

Mrs. Horton rose from her chair — moved the decanters
and fruit round the table — stirred the fire — and came back
to her chair again, before another word was uttered. Nor
had this good woman's officious labours taken the least
from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon as the
bustle she had contrived was over, returned in its full force.

26 A SIMPLE STORY.

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 showed herself
irresolute whether to open wide in defiance, or to shut sub
missively. Before she could resolve, he rose from his chair,
and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard him
use before, —

" I command you to stay at home this evening." And
he walked immediately out of the apartment by another
door.

Her hand fell motionless from that which she held —
she appeared motionless herself — till Mrs. Horton, (< be
seeching her not to be uneasy at the treatment she had
received," made her tears flow 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. It was not from any real cause of grief that Miss
Woodley wept ; but there was a magnetic quality in tears,
which always attracted hers.

Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the well-
meaning of her heart, and the ease of her conscience,
did not suffer her to think so. She, however, declared she
had (f long prognosticated it would come to this ; " and she
" only thanked Heaven it was no worse."

" What can be 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."

<e Do you think I would go," answered Miss Milner, with
an eagerness that, for a time, suppressed her tears, ' ( in con
tradiction to his will ? "

!C It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted con
trary to that; Miss Milner," replied Mrs. Horton, and

A SIMPLE STORY. 27

affected a tenderness of voice to soften the harshness of her
words.

" If you think so, madam, I see nothing that should
prevent me now." And she went eagerly out of the room,
as if she had resolved to disobey him. This alarmed poor
Miss Woodley.

' ' My dear aunt," she cried to Mrs. Horton, " follow and
prevail upon Miss Milner to give up her design : she means
to be at the ball, in opposition to her guardian's will."

" Then," said Mrs. Horton, " I'll not be instrumental
in deterring her. If she does go, it may be for the best :
it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer knowledge, what means
are proper to convert her from evil."

" But, my dear madam, she must be preserved from
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 work, when Mrs. Horton, in 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 of her friend, she
never marked, 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. He entered with a countenance which
evinced the remains of anger : his eye gave testimony of
his absent thoughts ; and though he took up a pamphlet
affecting to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely
knew he held it in his hand.

Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent
upon something else as Dorriforth's. She longed for the
event of this misunderstanding ; 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 im
prudence to speak a word upon the subject which employed

28 A SIMPLE STORY.

her thoughts, or even to 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 expose her to
detection. And for fear that 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 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 was not in a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt
herself 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 increase them.

The tea had scarcely been made, when a servant came
with Miss Milner's compliments, and she " did not mean
to have any tea." The pamphlet shook 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 he should prevent or resent her
disobedience to his commands. He coughed — drank his
tea — endeavoured to talk, but found it difficult — some
times he read ; and in this manner near two hours were
passed away, when Miss Milner came into the room — not
dressed for a ball, but as she had risen from dinner. Dor-
riforth read on, and seemed afraid of looking up, lest he
should see what he could not have pardoned. She drew a
chair, and sat at the table by the side of her delighted
friend.

After a few minutes' pause, and some little embarrass
ment on the part of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment
she had to encounter from this unexpected dutiful conduct,
she asked Miss Milner, " If she would now have any tea ?"
— She replied, <f No, I thank you, ma'am," in a voice
so languid, compared with her usual one, that Dorriforth
lifted up his eyes from the book ; and seeing her in the
same dress that she had worn all the day, turned them

A SIMPLE STORY. 29

hastily away from her again — not with a look of triumph,
but of confusion.

Whatever he might have suffered if he had seen Miss
Milner decorated, and prepared to bid defiance to his com
mands ; yet even upon that trial, he would not have
endured half the painful sensations he now for a moment
felt — he felt himself to blame.

He feared that he had treated her with too much
severity — he admired her condescension, accused himself
for having exacted it — he longed to ask her pardon — he
did not know how.

A cheerful reply from her, to a question of Miss Wood-
ley's, embarrassed him still more. He wished that she
had been sullen : he then would have had a temptation, or
pretence, to have been sullen too.

With all these sentiments crowding fast upon his heart,
he still read, or seemed to read, as if he took no notice of
what was passing; till a servant came into the room and
asked Miss Milner at what time she should want the car
riage ? to which she replied, (( I don't go out to-night."
Dorriforth then laid the book out of his hand, and, by the
time the servant had left the room, thus began : —

tf 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
duties of my office, and believe that no one is half so much
concerned if it robs you of any degree of happiness as I
myself am."

What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that
had she been burning with rage at his late behaviour, she
must have forgiven him, for the regret which he so forcibly
expressed. She was going to reply, but found she could not,
without accompanying her words with tears; therefore,
after the first attempt, she desisted.

On this he rose from his chair, and going to her, said,
" Once more show your submission by obeying me a
second time to-day. Keep your appointment ; and be
assured that I shall issue my commands with more circum
spection for the future, as I find how strictly they are
complied with."

30 A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Milner, the gay, the vain, the dissipated, the
haughty Miss Milner, sunk underneath this kindness, and
wept with a gentleness and patience, which did not give
more surprise than it gave joy to Dorriforth. He was
charmed to find her disposition so tractable — prophesied
to himself the future success of his guardianship, and her
eternal as well as temporal happiness from this specimen
of compliance.

CHAPTER VIII.

ALTHOUGH Dorriforth was the good man that he has been
described, there were in his nature shades of evil. There
was an obstinacy, which himself and his friends termed
firmness of mind j but which, had not religion and some
contrary virtues weighed heavily in the balance, would
have frequently degenerated into implacable stubbornness.
The child of a sister once beloved, who married a young
officer against her brother's consent, was at the age of three
years left an orphan, destitute of all support but from his
uncle's generosity ; but though Dorriforth maintained, he
would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart was a
receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the me
lancholy history of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, the parents
of the child, than she longed to behold the innocent in
heritor of her guardian's resentment, and took Miss Wood-
ley with her to see the boy. He was at a farm-house a
few miles from town ; and his extreme beauty and engag
ing manners wanted 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 looked at 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 piteously to go along
with her. Unused at any time to resist temptations, whe
ther to reprehensible or to laudable actions, she yielded to
his supplications ; and having overcome a few scruples of

A SIMPLE STORY. 31

Miss Woodley's, determined to take young Rushbrook to
town, and present him to his uncle. This design 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 excess of joy denoted by the child
on being placed in the carriage repaid 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 fears, " do you not wish his uncle should have a
warmer interest in his care than duty ? It is duty alone
which induces Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him : but it
is proper that affection should have some share in his be
nevolence ; and how, when he grows older, will he be so
fit an object of the love which compassion excites, as he is
at present ? "

Miss Woodley acquiesced. But before they arrived at
their own door it came into Miss Milner's remembrance,
that there was a grave sternness in the manners of her
guardian when provoked ; the recollection of which made
her a little apprehensive for what she had done. Her
friend, who knew him better than she did, was more so.
They both became silent as they approached the street
where they lived ; for Miss Woodley having once repre
sented her fears, and having suppressed them in resignation
to Miss Milner's better judgment, would not repeat them—
and Miss Milner would not confess that they were now
troubling her.

Just, however, as the coach stopped at their home, she
had the forecast and the humility to say, " We will not
tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is his nephew, unless he
should appear fond, and pleased with him, and then I
think we may venture without any danger."

This was agreed ; and when Dorriforth entered the
room just before dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was intro
duced as the son of a lady who frequently visited there.
The deception passed : his uncle shook hands with him ;
and at length, highly pleased with his engaging manner
and applicable replies, took him on his knee, and caressed
him with affection. Miss Milner could scarcely restrain

32 A SIMPLE STORY.

the joy it gave her; but unluckily Dorriforth said soon after
to the child, " And now tell me your name."

" Harry Rushbrook," replied he, with force and clear
ness of 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 had 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 like to have been
down," cried Harry, fearing no other danger. But his
uncle took hold of each hand which had twined around
him, and placed him immediately on the ground. The
dinner being that instant served, he gave no greater marks
of his resentment than calling for his hat, and walking in
stantly out of the house.

Miss Milner cried for anger ; yet she did not show less
kindness to the object of this vexatious circumstance : she
held him in her arms while she sat at table, and repeatedly
said to him (though he had not the sense to thank her),
" That she would always be his friend."

The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth
being passed, she returned with her little charge 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 gone, and sent him a note for the
sole purpose of acquainting him with it, offering at the
same time an apology for what had happened. He re
turned in the evening seemingly reconciled; nor was a
word mentioned of the incident which had occurred in the
former part of the day : still in his countenance remained
the evidence of a perfect recollection of it, without one
trait of compassion for his helpless nephew.

A SIMPLE STORY. SS

CHAPTER IX.

THERE are few things so mortifying to a proud spirit as
to suffer by immediate comparison : men can hardly bear
it, but to women the punishment is intolerable ; and Miss
Milner now laboured under this humiliation to a degree
which gave her no small inquietude.

Miss Fenton, young, of exquisite beauty, elegant manners,
gentle disposition, and discreet conduct, was introduced
to MissMilner's acquaintance by her guardian, and fre
quently, 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
panegyric on those virtues in which Miss Fenton excelled,
and in which his ward was obviously deficient. Conscious
of her own 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
one fault with her person or sentiments was equally im
possible — and yet to love her was unlikely.

That serenity of mind which kept her features in a con
tinual placid form, though enchanting at the first glance,
upon a second or third fatigued the sight for want of
variety ; and to have seen her distorted with rage, con
vulsed with mirth, or in deep dejection, had been to her
advantage. But her superior soul appeared above those
emotions, 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 only, 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

S4> A SIMPLE STORY.

was more charming variation in the plain features of Miss
Woodley*

Miss Milner had a heart affectionate to • her own sex,
even where she saw them in possession of superior charms ;
but whether from the spirit of contradiction, from feeling
herself more than ordinarily offended by her guardian's
praise of this lady, or that there was a reserve in Miss
Fenton that did not accord with her own frank and in
genuous disposition, so as to engage her esteem, certain it
is that she took infinite satisfaction in hearing her beauty
and virtues depreciated or turned into ridicule, particularly
if Mr. Dorriforth was present. This was painful to him
on many accounts ; perhaps an anxiety for his ward's con
duct was not among the least ; and whenever the circum
stance occurred, he could with difficulty restrain his anger.
Miss Fenton was not only a person whose amiable qualities
he 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 of her fortune had been
pointed out by his tutor ; and the utility of the marriage,
in perfect submission to his precepts, he never permitted
himself to question.

This preceptor held with a magisterial power the govern
ment of his pupil's passions ; nay, governed them so en
tirely, that 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 at which Dorriforth had
since been educated ; but previous to his education the
order had been 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 he seemed now en
tailed 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 sagacity to
direct the views of men more powerful, but less ingenious
than himself. The young earl, accustomed in his infancy

A SIMPLE STORY. 35

to fear him as his master, in his youthful manhood received
every new indulgence with gratitude, and at length loved
him as a father ; nor had Dorriforth as yet shaken off similar
sensations.

Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to influence the sen
timents and sensations of all human kind, but yet he had
the forbearance not to i( draw all hearts towards him."
There were some, whose hatred he thought not unworthy
of his pious labours to excite ; and in that pursuit he was
more rapid in his success than even in procuring esteem.
It was an enterprise in which 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
characters in 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 that whatever
she pleased to say should be admired.

Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as those of
men, though he had passed but little of his time in their
society. He saw Miss Milner's heart at the first sight of
her person ; and beholding in that small circumference a
weight of folly that he wished to eradicate, he began to
toil in the vineyard, eagerly courting her detestation of
him, in the hope he could also make her abominate her
self. In the mortifications of slight he was expert ; and
being a man of talents, whom all companies, especially those
of her friends, respected, he did not begin by wasting that
reverence he so highly valued upon ineffectual remonstrances,
of which he could foresee the reception, but wakened her
attention by his neglect of her. He spoke of her in her
presence as of an indifferent person ; sometimes forgetting
even to name her when the subject required it ; then would
ask her pardon, and say that he " really did not recollect
her," with such seeming sorrow for his fault, that she could
not suppose the offence intended, and of course felt the
affront more acutely.

While, with every other person she was the principle,
the cause, upon whom a whole party depended for con
versation, cards, music, or dancing, with Mr. Sandford she
D 2

36 A SIMPLE STORY.

found that she was of no importance. Sometimes she tried
to consider this disregard of her as merely the effect of ill-
breeding ; hut he was not an ill-bred man : he was a
gentleman by birth, and one who had kept the best com
pany — a man of sense and learning. " And such a man
slights me without knowing it," she said ; for she had not
dived so deeply into the powers of simulation, as to suspect
that such careless manners were the result of art.

This behaviour of Mr. Sandford had its desired effect :
it humbled her in her own opinion more than a thousand
sermons would have done, preached on the vanity of youth
and beauty. She felt an inward shame at the insignificance
of these qualities that she never knew before ; and would
have been cured of all her pride, had she not possessed a de
gree of spirit beyond the generality of her sex ; such a de
gree as even Mr. Sandford, with all his penetration, did
not expect to find. She determined to resent his treatment ;
and, entering the lists as his declared enemy, give to the
world a reason why he did not acknowledge her sovereignty
as well as the rest of her devoted subjects.

She now commenced hostilities against all his arguments,
his learning, and his favourite axioms ; and by a happy
talent of ridicule, in want of other weapons for this war
fare, she threw in the way of the holy father as great trials
of his patience as any that his order could have substituted
in penance. Many things he bore like a martyr — at others,
his fortitude would forsake him, and he would call on her
guardian, his former pupil, to interpose with his authority :
she would then declare that she only had acted thus " to
try the good man's temper, and that if he had combated
with his fretfulness a few moments longer, she would have
acknowledged his claim to canonisation ; but that, having
yielded to the sallies of his anger, he must now go through
numerous other probations."

If Miss Fenton was admired by Dorriforth, by Sand-
ford she was adored ; and, instead of placing 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

A SIMPLE STORY. 3?

only desire you to love Miss Fenton ; to resemble her, I
believe, is above your ability."

This was too much to bear composedly; and poor Miss
Woodley, who was generally a witness of these controversies,
felt a degree of sorrow at every sentence which, like the
foregoing, chagrined and distressed her friend. Yet as she
suffered, too, for Mr. Sandford, the joy of her friend's reply
was mostly 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,
that she could not refrain giving an answer herself in
his behalf — thus doing the duty of an adversary with all
the zeal of an advocate.

CHAPTER X.

MR. SANDFORD, finding his friend Dorriforth frequently
perplexed in the management of his ward, and he himself
thinking her incorrigible, gave his counsel, that a suitable
match should be immediately sought out for her, and the
care of so dangerous a person given into other hands. Dorri
forth acknowledged the propriety of this advice, but lamented
the difficulty of 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 Sandford, "that her affections are engaged;
and it is proper that you should know to whom." Dorri
forth thought he did know, and mentioned Lord Frederick ;
but said that he had no farther authority for this supposition
than what his observation had given him, for that every
explanation both upon his and her side had been evaded.
" Take her then," cried Sandford, " into the country ; and
if Lord Frederick should not follow, there is an end of your
suspicions." — " I shall not easily prevail upon Miss Milner
to leave town," replied he, " while it is in the highest
fashion." — "You can but try," returned Sandford ; "and if
you should not succeed now, at least fix the time you mean
D 3

38 A SIMPLE STORY.

to go during the autumn, and be firm to your deter
mination." — " But in the autumn/' replied Dorriforth,
" Lord Frederick will of course be in the country ; and as
his uncle's estate is near our residence, he will not then. so
evidently follow her, as he would if I could induce her to
go immediately."

It was agreed the attempt should be made. Instead of
receiving this abrupt proposal with uneasiness,, Miss Milner,
to the surprise of all 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 high estimation :
but your commendations are now become infinitely superior
in value by their scarcity ; for I do not believe that since
Miss Fen ton and Mr. Sandford came to town I have re
ceived one testimony of your esteem."

Had these words been uttered with pleasantry, they
might have passed without observation ; but at the con
clusion of the period, resentment flew to Miss Milner's
face, and she darted a piercing look at Mr. Sandford, which
more pointedly expressed that she was angry with him,
than if she had spoken volumes in her usual strain of
raillery. Dorriforth was confused; but the concern which
she had so plainly evinced for his good opinion throughout
all that she had been saying silenced any rebuke he might
else have given her, for this unwarrantable charge against
his friend. Mrs. Horton was shocked at the irreverent
manner in which Mr. Sandford was treated ; and Miss
Woodley turned to him with a benevolent smile upon her
face, hoping to set him an example of the manner in which
he should receive the reproach. Her good wishes did not
succeed ; yet he was perfectly unruffled, and replied with
coolness, —

" The air of the country has affected the lady already :
but it is a comfortable thing," continued he, " that in the
variety of humours to which some women are exposed, they
cannot be uniform even in deceit."

" Deceit ! " cried Miss Milner : ' ' in what am I deceit
ful? Did I ever pretend that I had an esteem for you ? **

A SIMPLE STORY. 39

" That would not have 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 that you might
probably be of the party. Then every grove was changed
into 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 apprehen
sions of my company in the country ; for I understand the
seat to which your guardian means to go belongs to you ;
and you may depend upon it, madam, that I will never
enter a house in which you are the mistress."

" Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in
which you are yourself 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 heedless 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 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 withheld her from ever uttering one angry sentence
directed immediately to him ; and a severe word of his,
instead of exasperating, was sure to subdue her. This was
the case at present : his words wounded 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,
D 4

40 A SIMPLE STORY.

and that to suffer himself to be moved by it would be a
tacit condemnation of his friend's conduct. She under
stood his thoughts,, and getting the better of her tears,
apologised for her weakness ; adding, —

' c She could never bear with indifference an unjust accu
sation."

" To prove that mine was unjust, 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 with apparent satisfaction she adjusted
the plan of her journey, (like those who behave well, not
so much to please themselves as to vex their enemies,) she
secretly triumphed in the mortification she hoped that
Mr. Sandford would receive from her obedient behaviour.

The news of this intended journey was of course soon
made public. There is a secret charm in being pitied, when
the misfortune is but ideal ; and Miss Milner found infinite
gratification in being told, " that hers was a cruel case, and
that it was unjust and barbarous to force so much beauty
into concealment while London was filled with her admirers,
who, like her, would languish in consequence of her soli
tude." These things, and a thousand such, a thousand
times repeated, she still listened to with pleasure ; yet pre
served the constancy not to shrink from her resolution of
submitting.

Those involuntary sighs, however, that Miss Woodley
had long ago observed, became still more frequent ; and a
tear half starting in her eye was an additional subject of
her friend's observation. Yet though Miss Milner at those
times was softened into melancholy, she by no means ap
peared unhappy. Her friend was acquainted with love
only by name ; yet she was confirmed from these increased
symptoms, in what she before only suspected, that love
must be the foundation of her care. " Her senses had
been captivated by the person and accomplishments of Lord
Frederick," said Miss Woodley to herself ; " but her under
standing compels her to see his faults, and reproaches her
passion. And, oh !" cried she, " could her guardian an

A SIMPLE STORY. 41

Mr. Sandford but know of this conflict, how much would
tbey have to admire ; how little to condemn ! "

With such friendly thoughts, and with the purest inten
tions, Miss Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen
reason to believe a contention of this nature was the actual
state of Miss Milner's mind. Dorriforth was affected at
the description, and Sandford urged more than ever the
necessity of leaving town. In a few days they departed :
Mrs. Horton, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner, and Mr. Dorri
forth, accompanied by Miss Fenton, whom Miss Milner,
knowing it to be the wish of her guardian, invited, for
three months before her marriage, to her country seat.
Elm wood House, or rather Castle, the seat of Lord Elm-
wood, was only a few miles distant from this residence,
and he was expected to pass great part of the summer
there, with his tutor, Mr. Sandford.

In the neighbourhood was also (as it has been already said)
an estate belonging to an uncle of Lord Frederick's ; and
most of the party suspected they should soon see him on a
visit there. To that expectation they in great measure
attributed 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 picture of tran
quillity. Her satisfaction was as evident as every other
person's ; and all severe admonition being at this time
unnecessary, either to exhort her to her duty, or to warn
her against her folly, she was even in perfect good humour
with Miss Fenton, and added friendship to hospitality.

Mr. Sandford, who came with Lord Elmwood to the
neighbouring seat, about a week after the arrival of Miss
Milner at hers, was so scrupulously 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 Elm wood's, the two

42 A SIMPLE STORY.

parties, residing at the two houses, 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
upon any occasion was ever exchanged between them.

Miss Milner did not like Mr. Sandford ; yet, as there
was no cause of inveterate rancour, admiring him, too, as
a man who meant well, and her being besides of a most for
giving 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 could not refrain from dropping a
tear at seeing Sandford turn back and wish them a " Good
day."

But though she had the 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 last trifling
occasion with a secret pleasure, and an admiration that she
had never before excited. She once insinuated to him to be
a mediator between them ; but before any accommodation
could take place, the peace and composure of their abode
were 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 given by Lord Elmwood, Sir Edward was
announced as an unexpected visiter. Miss Milner did not
suppose him such ; and she 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 proofs
how much he was rejoiced to see him. All the declining
enmity of Miss Milner was renewed at this behaviour ; and
suspecting Sandford as the instigator of the visit, she could
not overcome her displeasure, but gave way to it in a man
ner which she thought the most mortifying. Sir Edward,
in the course of conversation, enquired " What neighbours
were in the country?" and she, with an appearance of high
satisfaction named Lord Frederick Lawnley as being hourly

A SIMPLE STORY. 43

expected at his uncle's. The colour spread over Sir Ed
ward's face — Dorriforth was confounded — and Mr. Sand-
ford looked enraged.

" 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 ? " said 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 in
tention 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 company laughed — Mrs. Horton coughed
— Miss Woodley blushed — Lord Elm wood sneered — Dor
riforth frowned — and Miss Fenton looked just as she did
before.

The conversation was changed as soon as possible ; and
early in the evening the party from Milner Lodge returned
home.

Miss Milner had scarcely left her dressing-room, where
she had been taking off some part of her dress, when Dor-
riforth's servant came to acquaint her that his master was
alone in his study, and begged to speak with her. She
felt herself tremble : she immediately experienced a con
sciousness that she had not acted properly at Lord Elm-
wood's ; for she felt a presentiment that her guardian was
going to upbraid her; and her heart whispered that he had
never yet reproached her without a cause.

Miss Woodley just then entered her apartment, and she
found herself so much a coward, as to propose that she
should go with her, and aid her with a word or two occa
sionally in her excuse.

"What ! you, my dear," returned Miss Woodley, " who

44 A SIMPLE STORY.

*

not three hours ago had the courage to vindicate your own
cause before a whole company, of whom many Avere your
adversaries ; do you want an advocate before your guardian
alone, who has ever treated you with tenderness ? "

" It is that very tenderness which frightens me j which
intimidates, and strikes me dumb. Is it possible I can
return impertinence to the language and manners which
Mr. Dorriforth uses ? And as I am debarred from that
resource, what can I do but stand before him like a guilty
creature, acknowledging my faults ? "

She again entreated her friend to go with her ; but on a
positive refusal, from the impropriety of such an intrusion,
she was obliged at length to go by herself.

How much does the difference of exterior circumstances
influence not only the manners, but even the persons of
some people ! Miss Milner, in Lord Elmwood's drawing-
room, surrounded by listeners, by admirers (for even her
enemies could not look at her without admiration), animated
with approbation and applause — and Miss Milner, with no
giddy observer to give her actions a false eclat destitute of
all but her own understanding (which secretly condemns
her) upon the point of receiving censure from her guardian
and friend, are two different beings. Though still beauti
ful 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 thin
ner — and a very different contour presided over her whole
air, and all her features.

When she arrived at the door of the study, she opened
it with a trepidation she could hardly account for, and
entered to Dorriforth the altered woman she has been repre
sented. His heart had taken the most decided part against
her, and his face had assumed the most severe aspect of re
proach ; but 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 anger
with which he was prepared to begin, his voice involuntarily
softened, and without knowing what he said, he began, —

" My dear Miss Milner "

A SIMPLE STORY. 45

She expected he was angry, and in her confusion his gen
tleness was lost upon her. She imagined that what he said
might be censure, and she continued to tremble, though he
repeatedly assured her, that he meant only to advise, not to
upbraid her.

" For as 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 con
demn him, his character makes the freedom appear in a
more serious light than when he complains of you; and 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, " I do."

" One more question I have to ask, madam, and to which
I expect a reply equally unreserved : Is Lord Frederick the
man you approve for your husband ?"

Upon this close interrogation she discovered an embar
rassment, beyond any she had ever yet betrayed, and faintly
replied, —

"No, he is not/'

" Your words tell me one thing," answered Dorriforth,
" but your looks declare another : which am I to believe?"

" Which you please," was her answer, while she dis
covered an insulted dignity, that astonished, without con
vincing 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 ? "

fs You then promote the hopes of Lord Frederick without
one serious- intention of completing them ! This is a conduct
against which it is my duty to guard you, and you shall no
longer deceive either him or yourself. The moment he ar
rives, it is my resolution that you refuse to see him, or con
sent to become his wife."

In answer to the alternative thus offered, she appeared

46 A SIMPLE STORY.

averse to both propositions; and yet came to no explanation
why ; but left her guardian at the end of the conference as
much at a loss to decide upon her true sentiments., as he
was before he had thus seriously requested he might be in
formed of them ; but having steadfastly taken the resolu
tion which he had just communicated, he found that reso
lution a certain relief to his mind.

CHAPTER XII.

SIR EDWARD ASHTON, though not invited by Miss Milner,
yet frequently did himself the honour to visit her at her
house ; sometimes he accompanied Lord Elmwood, at other
times he came to see Dorriforth alone, who generally in
troduced him to the ladies. But Sir Edward was either so
unwilling to give pain to the object of his love, or so inti
midated by her frowns, that he seldom addressed her with
a single word, except the usual 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 in
sinuate himself into the affections of the woman he loved,
merely by not giving her offence either in speaking to her
or looking at her, formed a character so whimsical, that it
frequently forced a smile from Miss Milner, though his very
name had often power to throw a gloom over her face : she
looked upon him as the cause of her being hurried to the
election of a lover, before her own mind could well direct
her where to fix. Besides, his pursuit was troublesome,
while it was no triumph to her vanity, which, by the ad
dresses of Lord Frederick, was in the highest manner gra
tified.

His Lordship now arrives in the country, and calls one
morning at Miss Milner's : her guardian sees his carriage
coming up the avenue, and gives orders to the servants to

A SIMPLE STORY. 47

say their lady is not at home, but that Mr. Dorriforth is:
Lord Frederick leaves his compliments and goes away.

The ladies all observed his carriage and servants. Miss
Milner flew to her glass, adjusted her dress ; and in her
looks expressed every sign of palpitation — but in vain she
keeps her eye fixed upon the door of the apartment : no
Lord Frederick appears.

After some minutes of expectation the door opens, and
her guardian comes in. She was disappointed : he per
ceived that she was, and he looked at her with a most serious
face. She immediately called to mind the assurance he had
given her, " that her acquaintance with Lord Frederick in
its then improper state should not continue ;" and between
chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to behave.

Though the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said, with
out the smallest reserve, " Perhaps, Mis 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."

(t You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I
have no doubt, whether I concur or not."

" Yet believe me, madam, I should perform it more
cheerfully, if I could hope that, it was sanctioned by your
inclinations."

" I am not mistress of my inclinations, sir, or they should
conform to yours."

" Place them under my direction, and I will answer for
it they will."

A servant came in: — " Lord Frederick is returned, sir,
and says he should be glad to see you." — " Show him into
the study/' cried Dorriforth hastily, and, rising from his
chair, left the room.

" I hope they won't quarrel," said Mrs. Horton, meaning
that she thought they would.

" I am sorry to see you so uneasy, Miss Milner," said
Miss Fenton, with perfect unconcern.

As the badness of the weather had prevented their usual

48 A SIMPLK STORY.

morning's exercise, the ladies were employed at their
needles till the dinner bell called them away. (e Do you
think Lord Frederick is gone ?" then whispered Miss Mil.
ner to Miss Woodley. — "I think not/' she replied. — "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 in
violent haste through the hall : he seemed to fly."

(C 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
walk, he excused himself from accompanying them, and
they saw him in a distant field with Mr. Sandford in ear
nest conversation ; for Sandford and he stopped on one
spot for a quarter of an hour, as if the interest of the sub
ject had so engaged them, they stood still without knowing
it. Lord Elm wood, 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 relation, that he and the ladies would dine with him the
next day, if he was disengaged j and it was agreed they
should.

Still Dorriforth was in some perturbation, but the imme
diate cause was concealed till the day following, when,
about an hour before the company's departure from Elm-
wood Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were desired,
by a servant, to walk into a separate apartment, in which
they found Mr. Dorriforth, with Mr. Sandford, waiting for
them. 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 which oppressed
his mind, lest he should mistake the real sentiments of a
person whose happiness depended upon his correct know
ledge of them, would plead his excuse.

f< I know, Miss Milner," continued he, " the world in
general allows to unmarried women great latitude in dis-

A SIMPLE STORY. 4Q

guising their minds with respect to the man they love. I,
too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation that is
but consistent with a modesty that becomes every woman
upon the subject of marriage. But here,, to what point I
may limit, or you may extend, this kind of venial deceit
may so widely differ that it is not impossible for me to re
main 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
form an opinion by her constructions."

To all this serious oration, Miss Milner made no other
reply than by turning to Mr. Sandford, and asking, te if he
was the person of her own sex to whose judgment her
guardian was to submit his own?"

" Madam," cried Sandford, 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 sorrow
ful, 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 I should rather say,
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 is neither able to sup
press nor to confirm."

"Are there any more witnesses you may wish to call in,
sir, to remove your doubts of my veracity ? If there are,
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 person is welcome to judge me differ
ently."

" Dear Miss Milner \ " cried Miss Woodley, with a tone
of reproach for the vehemence with which she had spoken.

" Perhaps, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, t( you will
not now reply to those questions I was going to put ?"

50 A SIMPLE STORY.

" Did I ever refuse, sir/' returned she, with a self-
approving air, " to comply with any request that you have
seriously made ? Have I ever refused obedience to your
commands whenever you thought proper to lay them upon
me ? If not, you have no right to suppose that I will do
so now/1

He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly in
terrupted him, and walking towards the door, cried, "When
you come to the point for which you brought me here,
send for me again."

"Stay now," said Dorriforth. — "And Miss Milner,"
continued he, " I not only entreat, but conjure you to tell
me — have you given your word or your affections to Lord
Frederick Lawnley ?"

The colour spread over her face, and she replied, '*!
thought confessions were always to be made in secret: how
ever, as I am not a member of your church, I submit to
the persecution of a heretic, and I answer — Lord Frede
rick has neither my word nor any share in my affections."

Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miss Woodley looked at each
other with a degree of surprise that for some time kept
them silent. At length Dorriforth said, l( And it is your
firm intention never to become his wife ?"

To which she answered, te At present it is."

"At present ! Do you suspect you shall change your
mind ?"

" Women sometimes do."

"But before that change can take place, your acquaint
ance will be at an end : for it is that which I shall next
insist upon, and to which you can have no objection."

She replied, " I had rather it should continue."

" On what account ?" cried Dorriforth.

" Because it entertains me."

" For shame, for shame ! " returned he : " it endangers
your character and your happiness. Yet again, do not
suffer me to interfere, if the breaking with my Lord Fre
derick can militate against your felicity."

" By no means,*' she answered : " Lord Frederick
makes part of my amusement, but can never constitute
my felicity."

A SIMPLE STORY. 51

"Miss Woodley," said Dorriforth, "do you compre.
hend your friend in the same literal and unequivocal sense
that I do?"

" Certainly I do, sir."

" And pray, Miss Woodley/' said he,, "were those the
sentiments which you have always entertained?"

Miss Woodley hesitated. He continued — " Or has this
conversation altered them ?"

She hesitated again, then answered, f( This 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 as if I did," replied Sand-
ford.

" Then, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, " you see Lord
Frederick no more; and I hope I have your permission to
apprise him of this arrangement."

" You have, sir," she replied, with a completely unem
barrassed countenance and voice.

Her friend looked at her as if to discover some lurking
wish, adverse to all these protestations, but she could not
discern one. Sandford, too, fixed his penetrating eyes
upon her, as if he would look through her soul ; but find
ing it perfectly composed, he cried out, —

" Why, then, not write his 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 great reluctance that I meet him
upon this subject : he was extremely impatient and impor
tunate when he was last with me : he took advantage of
my ecclesiastical situation to treat me with a levity and ill
breeding, that I could ill have suffered upon any other con
sideration than a compliance with my duty."

"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

E 2

52 A SIMPLE STORY.

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/1 answered he, " rest assured I have no material
objection to my Lord Frederick, except from that dilemma
in which your acquaintance with him has involved us all ;
and I should conceive the same 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 that 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 con
clude it by assuring you, that 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 answer only 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
JVlilner 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 heavily. Dorriforth began to fear that she
had not only made a sacrifice of her affections, but of her
veracity ; yet why she had done so he could not compre
hend.

As the carriage moved slowly through a lane between
Elmwood Castle and her own house, on casting her eyes

A SIMPLE STORY. 5

out of the window, Miss Milner's countenance was bright-*
ened in an instant ; and that instant Lord Frederick, on
horseback, was at the coach door, and the coachman
stopped.

" Oh, Miss Milner," cried he, with a voice and manner
that could give little suspicion of the truth of what he said,
" I am overjoyed at the happiness of seeing you, even
though it is but an accidential meeting."

She was evidently glad to see him: but the earnestness
with which he spoke seemed to put her upon her guard not
to express the like satisfaction; 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 Dorri-
forth; upon which, without the smallest salutation, he
turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner
was confused, and Miss Woodley in torture, at this palpable
affront, to which Dorriforth alone appeared indifferent.

" Go on," said Miss Milner to the footman, " desire the
coachman to drive on."

s< 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, some-
thing 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 be
dictated by you, to you I shall send the answer."

Dorriforth, without making any 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 ser
vants so unusual, that it acted like electricity upon the man ;
and he drove away at the instant with such rapidity, that
Lord Frederick was in a moment many yards behind. As
E 3

54 A SIMPLE STORY.

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 it arrived at
the door of Miss Milner's house ; there, giving himself up
to the rage of love, or to rage against Dorriforth for the
contempt he had shown to him, he leaped from his horse
when Miss Milner stepped from her carriage, and seizing
her hand, entreated her " not to desert him, in compliance
with the injunctions of monkish hypocrisy."

Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly
scorn upon his countenance.

Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, —
:' " Excuse me from replying to you now, my Lord."

In return, he lifted her hand eagerly to his lips, and
began to devour it with kisses; when Dorriforth, with an
instantaneous impulse, rushed forward, and struck him a
violent blow in the face. Under the force of this assault,
and the astonishment it excited, Lord Frederick 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 with extreme
difficulty Mr. Dorriforth conveyed her to her own chamber,
without taking her in his arms. When, by the assistance
of her maid, he had placed her upon a sofa, overwhelmed
with shame and confusion for what he had done, he fell
upon his knees before her, and ff implored her forgiveness
for the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence."
And that he had alarmed her, and had forgotten the respect
which he thought sacredly her due, seemed the only cir
cumstance which then dwelt upon his thoughts.

She felt the indecorum of the posture he had conde
scended to take, and was shocked. To see her guardian at
her feet, struck her with a sense of impropriety, as if she
had seen a parent there. With agitation and emotion, she
conjured him to rise ; and, with a thousand protestations,
declared " that she thought the rashness of the action was
the highest proof of his regard for her."

Miss Woodley now entered : her care being ever em
ployed upon the unfortunate, Lord Frederick had just been
the object of it : she had waited by his side, and, with every

A SIMPLE STORY. 5

good purpose, had preached patience to him, while ne was
smarting under the pain, but more under the shame, of his
chastisement. At first, his fury threatened a retort upon
the servants around him (and who refused his entrance into
the house) of the punishment he had received. But, in the
certainty of an amende honorable, which must hereafter be
made, he overcame the many temptations which the moment
offered ; and, remounting his horse, rode away from the
scene of his disgrace.

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 Lord Frederick, neg
ligent of what might be the event if he still remained
there. After enquiring, and being told that he was gone,
Dorriforth retired to his own apartment — with a bosom
torn by more excruciating sensations than those which he
had given to his adversary.

The reflection which struck him first with remorse, as he
shut the door of his chamber, was, — " I have departed
from my character — from the sacred character, the 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 noble
man, whose only offence was love, and a fond desire to insi
nuate himself into the favour of his mistress. I must atone
for this outrage in whatever manner he may choose ; and
the law of honour and of justice (though in this one
instance contrary to the law of religion) enjoins, that if he
demands my life in satisfaction for his wounded feelings, it
is his due. Alas ! that I could but have laid it down this
morning, unsullied with a cause for which it will make in-«
adequate atonement ! "

His next reproach was, — "I have offended, and filled
with horror, a beautiful young woman, whom it was my
duty to have protected from those brutal manners, to which
I myself have exposed her."

Again, — "I have drawn upon myself the just upbraid-
ings of my faithful preceptor and friend ; of the man in
whose judgment it was my delight to be approved : above
all, I have drawn upon myself the stings of conscience."
E 4

DO A SIMPLE STORY.

" Where shall I pass this sleepless night ? " cried hey
walking repeatedly across his chamber. f( Can I go to the
ladies ? I am unworthy of their 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 for
giveness ? He would spurn me for a coward. No" —
and he lifted up his eyes to Heaven, — " Thou all-great,
all- wise, and omnipotent Being, Thou whom I have most
offended, it is to Thee alone that I have recourse in this
hour of tribulation, and from Thee alone I solicit com
fort.1 The confidence with which I now address myself
to Thee, encouraged by that long intercourse which reli
gion has effected, I here acknowledge to repay me amply
in this one moment, for the many years of my past life,
devoted with my best, though imperfect, efforts to thy
service."

CHAPTER XIV.

ALTHOUGH Miss Milner had not foreseen any fatal event
resulting from the indignity offered to Lord Frederick, yet
she passed a night very different from those to which she
had been accustomed. No sooner was she falling into a
a sleep, than a thousand vague, but distressing, ideas darted
across her imagination. Her heart would sometimes whis
per to her when she was half asleep, (( Lord Frederick is
banished from you for ever." She shakes off the uneasiness
this consideration brings along with it : she then starts, and
sees the blow still aimed at him by Dorriforth. No sooner
has she driven away this painful image, than she is again
awakened by beholding her guardian at her feet suing for
pardon. She sighs, she trembles, and is chilled with terror.
Relieved by tears, towards the morning she sinks into a
slumber, but waking, finds the same images crowding all
together upon her mind : she is doubtful to which to

A SIMPLE STORY. 57

the preference. One, however, rushes the foremost and
continues so. She knows not the fatal consequence of
ruminating, nor why she dwells upon that, more than upon
all the rest, but it will give place to none.

She rises languid and disordered, and at breakfast adds
fresh pain to Dorriforth by her altered appearance.

He had scarcely left the room, when an officer waited
upon him with a challenge from Lord Frederick. To the
message delivered by this gentleman, he replied, —

" Sir, as a clergyman, more especially of the Church of
Rome, I know not whether I am not exempt from answer
ing a demand of this kind ; but not having had forbearance
to avoid an offence, I will not claim an exemption, that
would only indemnify me from making reparation."

" You will then, sir, meet Lord Frederick at the ap
pointed hour ? " said the officer.

" I will, sir ; and my immediate care shall be to find a
gentleman who will accompany me."

The officer withdrew, and when Dorriforth was again
alone, he was going once more to reflect ; but he durst not.
Since yesterday, reflection, for the first time, was become
painful to him ; and even as he rode the short way to
Lord Elmwood's immediately after, he found his own
thoughts were so insufferable, that he was obliged to enter
into conversation with his servant. Solitude, that formerly
charmed him, would, at those moments, have been worse
than death.

At Lord Elmwood's, he met Sandford in the hall ; and
the sight of him was no longer welcome : he knew how
different the principles which he had just adopted were to
those of that reverend friend, and without Sandford's com
plaining, or even suspecting what had happened, his pre
sence was a sufficient reproach. He passed him as hastily
as he could, and enquiring for Lord Elmwood, disclosed to
him his errand. It was to ask him to be his second. The
young earl started, and wished to consult his tutor ; but
that his kinsman strictly forbade ; and having urged his
reasons with arguments which at least the Earl could not
refute, he was at length prevailed upon to promise that he
would accompany him to the field, which was at the distance

So A SIMPLE STORY*.

only of a few miles, 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 preparations for the
event which might ensue from this meeting. He wrote
letters to several of his friends, and one to his ward ; in
writing which, he could with difficulty preserve the usual
firmness of his mind.

Sandford, going into Lord Elmwood's library soon after
his relation had left him, expressed his surprise at finding
he was gone ; upon which that nobleman, having answered
a few questions, and given a few significant hints that he
was intrusted 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 the challenge, but was still
more enraged at his wickedness in accepting it. He ap
plauded his pupil's virtue in making the discovery, and
congratulated himself that he should be the instrument of
saving not only his friend's life, 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 that house which he had so long
refused to enter, and at a time when he was upon aggra
vated 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 elo
quence could make him recall the promise he had given to
repair the injury. Unshaken by the arguments, persua
sions, and menaces of Sandford, he gave an additional
• proof of that inflexibility for which he had been long dis
tinguished; and, after a dispute of two hours, 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.

A SIMPLE STORY, 59

Sanclford left him, determined, however, that Lord Elm-
•wood should not be accessory in his guilt, and this he de
clared ; upon which Dorriforth took the resolution of
seeking another second.

In passing through the house on his return home, Sand-
ford 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 in general
played about her heart, she took hold of one of his hands,
and pressed it with a kindness which told him more forcibly
that he was welcome, 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 ex
cuse for breaking his word, cried, —

" I beg your pardon, madam ; but I was brought hither
in my anxiety to prevent murder."

" Murder I" exclaimed all the ladies.

<f 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 that 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 into the garden. She soon recovered ; for the tu
mult of her mind would not suffer her to remain inactive,
and she was roused, in spite of her weakness, to endeavour
to ward off the impending disaster. In vain, however, she
attempted to walk to her guardian's apartment : she sunk
as before, and was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley
was despatched to bring him to her.

Informed of the cause of her indisposition, he followed
Miss Woodley with a tender anxiety for her health, and

60 A SIMPLE STORY.

with grief and confusion that he had so carelessly en
dangered 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 sufferings 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 alone, had been to blame ; but which he had
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 pro
mise, which I know is ever sacred, that you will not meet
my Lord Frederick."

He hesitated.

" Oh, madam," cried Sandford, " he is grown a libertine
now ; and I would not believe his word, if he were to give
it you/'

" Then, sir," returned Dorriforth, angrily, " you may
believe my word, for I will keep that which I gave 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 prevent our
meeting at all If not, reckon but among the many duels
that are fought, how few are fatal j and, even in that case,

how small would be the loss to society, if " He was

proceeding.

" I should ever deplore the loss ! " cried Miss Milner t
" on such an occasion, I could not survive the death of
either."

" For my part," he replied, " I look upon my life as
much forfeited to my Lord Frederick, to vhom 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 affair will
not be settled immediately; and I have no doubt, but that

A SIMPLE STORY. 61

all will be as you could wish. Do you think I should ap
pear 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 evinced
he was better informed.

" You will stay within, then, all this day ? " said Miss
Milner.

" I am engaged to dinner," he replied : " it is unlucky;
— I am sorry for it — but I '11 be at home early in the
evening."

" Stained' with human blood," cried Sandford, " or
yourself a corpse ! "

The ladies lifted up their hands. Miss Milner rose
from her seat, and threw herself at her guardian's feet.

" You kneeled to me last night : I now kneel to you/'
she cried ; " kneel, never desiring to rise again, if you
persist in your intention. I am weak, I am volatile, I am
indiscreet ; but I have a heart from which some impres
sions can never — oh ! never, — be erased."

He endeavoured to raise her : she persisted to kneel —
and here the affright, the terror, the anguish she endured,
discovered to her her own sentiments, which, till that mo
ment, she had doubted, — and she continued, —

ce I no longer pretend to conceal my passion — I love
Lord Frederick Lawnley."

Her guardian started.

" Yes, to my shame, I love him," cried she, all emo.
tion : " I meant to have struggled with the weakness,
because I supposed it would be displeasing to you ; but
apprehension for his safety has taken away every power of
restraint, and I beseech you to spare his life."

" This is exactly what I thought," cried Sandford, with
an air of triumph.

" 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 that she could not
resist,) — "I own, Miss Milner, I am greatly affected and
wounded at this contradiction in your character."

62 A SIMPLE STORY.

({ But did not I say so?" cried Sandford, interrupting
him.

<f However," continued he, " you may take my word,
though you have deceived me in yours, that Lord Fre
derick's life is secure. For your sake, I would not en
danger it for the universe. But let this be a warning to
you "

He was proceeding with the most austere looks, and
pointed language, when observing the shame and the self-
reproach that agitated her mind, he divested himself in
great measure of his resentment, 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."

ff I am not worthy of your friendship, Mr. Dorriforth,"
said she, sobbing with grief; " and from this moment for
sake 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 a nature
in which the rest of the company could have no share
whatever; they were all, except Mr. Sandford, retiring;
when Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying,
t( Stay you with me : I was never so unfit to be left with
out your friendship."

ff Perhaps at present you can dispense with mine ? " said
Dorriforth. She made no answer. He then once more
assured her Lord Frederick's life was safe, and was quitting
the room : but when he recollected in what humiliation he
had left her, turning towards her as he opened the door,
he added, —

" And be assured, madam, that my esteem for you shall
be the same as ever."

Sandford, as he followed him, bowed, and repeated the
same words, " And, madam, be assured that my esteem for
you shall be the same as ever."

A SIMPLE STORY. 63

CHAPTER XV.

THIS taunting reproof from Sandford made little impres
sion upon Miss Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on a
subject of much more importance than the opinion which he
entertained of her. She threw her arms about her friend
the moment they were left alone, and asked, with anxiety,
" what she thought of her behaviour ? " Miss Woodley,
who could not approve of the duplicity she 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, Miss Woodley," returned she, sobbing upon her
bosom, " pity the agonies of my heart, my heart by na
ture sincere, when such are the fatal propensities it che
rishes, that I must submit to the grossest falsehoods rathe
than reveal the truth."

" What can you mean ? " cried Miss Woodley, with the
strongest amazement in her face.

" Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick ? Do you sup
pose I can love him ? — Oh fly, and prevent my guardian
from telling him such an untruth."

" What can you mean ?" repeated Miss Woodley ; " I
protest you terrify me." For this inconsistency in the be
haviour of Miss Milner appeared as if her senses had been
deranged.

" Fly," she resumed, " and prevent the inevitable ill
consequence which will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be
told this falsehood. It will involve us all in greater dis
quiet than we suffer at present."

" Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner ? **

" That which impels all my actions — an unsurmount-

able instinct ; a fatality that will for ever render me the

O^ A SIMPLE STORY.

most miserable of human beings, and yet you, even you,
my dear Miss Woodley, will not pity me."

Miss Woodley pressed her closely in her arms, and vowed,
C{ that while she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she
still would pity her."

' ' Go to Mr. Dorriforth, then, and prevent him from im
posing upon Lord Frederick."

" But that imposition is the only means of preventing
the duel," replied Miss Woodley. " The moment I have
told him that your affection was but counterfeited, he will
no longer refuse accepting the challenge."

" Then, at all events, I am undone," exclaimed Miss
Milner ; te for the duel is horrible, even beyond every thing
else."

" How so ? " returned Miss Woodley, " since you have
declared that you do not care for my Lord Frederick ? "

" But are you so blind," returned Miss Milner, with a
degree of madness in her looks, " as 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 my
self, 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 which I know not how I shall be ex
tricated ? And do I entertain a hope ? No, Miss Wood-
ley, 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 advice to deliver me
from the difficulties which surround me."

A SIMPLE STORY.

65

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, yet among the most terrific in the cata
logue of crimes.

Miss Milner had lived so long in a family who had im
bibed those opinions, that she was convinced of their ex
istence : nay, her own reason told her that solemn vows of
every kind ought to be sacred ; and the more she respected
her guardian's understanding, the less did she call in ques
tion his religious tenets : in esteeming him, she esteemed
all his notions ; and, among the rest, 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 ecclesiastic, though all her
esteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the quali
ties and accomplishments of her guardian, yet education
would have given such a prohibition to her love, that she
would have 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, and with horror.

Miss Woodley, something recovered from her first sur
prise and sufferings — for never did her susceptible mind
suffer so exquisitely — amidst all her grief and abhorrence,
felt that 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 mo
ment of my life since I first saw you. That moment was
teeming with a weight of cares, under which I must labour
till my death."

" And even in death," replied Miss Woodley, " do

66 A SIMPLE STORY.

not 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 free from the apprehension, that
notwithstanding the positive assurance of her guardian, if
he and Lord Frederick should meet, the duel might still
take place ; she therefore rang the bell, and enquired if Mr.
Dorriforth was still at home ? The answer was, " He had
rode out." — " You remember," said Miss Woodley, " he
told you he should dine from home." This did not, how
ever, dismiss her fears, and she despatched two servants
different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting them with
her suspicions, and charging them to prevent the duel.
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 en
quire.

The excessive alarm which Miss Milner discovered upon
this occasion was imputed by the servants, and by others
who were witnesses of it, to her affection for Lord Fre
derick ; while none but Miss Woodley knew, or had the
most distant suspicion of, the real cause.

Mrs. Horton and Miss Fenton, who were sitting toge
ther 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 censure. They longed to see if she
would have the confidence to look them in the face ; them,
to whom she had so often protested, that she had not the
smallest attachment to Lord Frederick, but from motives
of vanity.

These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner
had been served, but met Miss Milner at the table with a
less degree of pleasure than they had expected ; for her
mind was so totally abstracted from any consideration of
them, that they could not discern a single blush, or
confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No,
she had before them divulged nothing of which she was
ashamed : she was only ashamed that what she had said

A SIMPLE STORY. 6?

was not true. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone was
that secret intrusted 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.

Soon after the dinner was removed, Lord Elmwood
entered; and that gallant young nobleman declared — (< Mr.
Saodford had used him ill, in not permitting him to accom
pany his relation ; for he feared that Mr. Dorriforth would
now throw himself upon the sword of Lord Frederick, with
out a single friend near to defend him." A rebuke from
the eye of Miss Woodley, which, from this day, had a com
mand over Miss Milner, restrained her from expressing the
affright she suffered from this intimation. Miss Fenton
replied, <e As to that, my Lord, 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 con
fession, all differences must be reconciled." — "What con
fession?" asked Lord Elmwood.

Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which
gave her pain even to recollect, rose, in order to retire into
her own apartment, but was obliged to sit down again, till
she received the assistance of Lord Elmwood and'her friend,
who led her into her dressing-room. She reclined upon a
sofa there, and though left alone with that friend, a silence
followed of half an hour : nor, when the conversation beganj
was the name of Dorriforth once uttered ; they were grown
cool and considerate since the discovery, and both were
equally fearful of naming him.

The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the charms
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 was by a servant, who
with alacrity opened the dressing-room door, without pre
viously rapping, and cried, " Madam, Mr. Dorriforth."

Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to
Miss Milner. Miss Woodley beheld the glow of joy and
of guilt upon her face, and did not rise to give him her
F 2

68 A SIMPLE STORY.

seat, as was her custom, when she was sitting by his ward,
and he came to her with intelligence. 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, she had
forgot to enquire of the safety of his antagonist — of the
man whom she had pretended to love so passionately : even
smiles of rapture were upon her face, though Dorriforth
might be returned from putting him to death. This in
congruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was
jconfounded ; but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion
either of her love for him or indifference for Lord Frederick
had no place, easily reconciled this inconsistency, and said, —

" You see by my countenance that all is well ; and there
fore you smile on me before I tell you what has passed."

This brought her to the recollection of her conduct ; and
now, with looks ill constrained, she attempted the expres
sion of an alarm she did not feel.

" Nay, I assure you Lord Frederick is safe," he re
sumed, " 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 waist
coat as a kind of sling.

She cast her eyes there, and seeing where the ball had
entered the coat sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream,
and reclined upon the sofa. Instead of that affectionate
sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her
slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an
unpitying tone, and said, " Miss Milner, you have heard
Lord Frederick is safe : you have therefore nothing to
alarm you." Nor did she run to hold a smelling-bottle, or
to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near fainting,
and without any assistance from her friend, was going him.
self to give it ; but on this, Miss Woodley interfered, and
having taken her head upon her arm, assured him, (f it
was a weakness to which Miss Milner was very subject ;
that she would ring for her maid, who knew how to relieve
her instantly with a few drops. Satisfied with this assur
ance, Dorriforth left the room ; and a surgeon being come
$0 examine his wound, he retired into his own chamber.

4. SIMPLE STORY. 69

CHAPTER XVI.

THE power delegated by the confidential to those in
trusted with their secrets, Miss Woodley was the last per
son on earth to abuse — but she was also the last who, by
an accommodating 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,
if it was ever perpetrated. Adultery, reason would per
haps have informed her, was a more pernicious evil to
society ; but to a religious mind, what sound is so horrible
as sacrilege? Of vows made to God or to man, the former
must weigh the heaviest. Moreover, the sin of infidelity
in the married state is not a little softened, to common un
derstandings, by its frequency ; whereas, of religious vows
broken by a devotee she had never heard ; unless where
the offence had been followed by such examples of divine
vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this world (as
well as eternal punishment in the other), as served to ex
aggerate the wickedness.

She, who could and who did pardon Miss Milner, was
the person who saw her passion in the severest light, and
resolved upon 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 might be 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 stead
fast principles so much as shaken 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

for which this unhappy ward was not prepared ; and that

was an entire separation from her guardian. She had, from

F 3

70 A SIMPLE STOBT.

the first, cherished her passion without the most remote
prospect of a return : she was prepared to see Dorriforth,
without ever seeing him more nearly connected to her than
as her guardian and friend; but not to see him at all — for
that, she was not prepared.

But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable neces
sity of this measure 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 a passion for Lord Frederick, and this pro
posed plan of separation, the most intricate incoherence
appeared in the character of Miss Milner ; and, in order to
evade a marriage with him, and 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 Fre
derick and Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his
antagonist, 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 be
haviour; and Sandford now (his resolution once broken)
no longer refused entering Miss Milner's house, but came
whenever it was convenient, though he yet avoided the
mistress of it 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 of his engagement
with Lord Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted
with him in his own chamber ; nor did Miss Milner see
her guardian after his first return from that engagement
before the following noon. She enquired, however, of his
servant how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his
wound was but slight ; yet this enquiry she durst not make
before Miss Woodley.

When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it
was evident that he had thrown from his heart a load of
cares ; and though they had left a languor upon his face,
content was in his voice, in his manners, in every word and

A SIMPLE STORY. 71

action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment against
his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had
led him, he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to
wish to soothe the perturbation, which the recollection of
her own conduct had evidently raised in her mind. His
endeavours were successful — she was soothed every time he
spoke to her ; and had not the watchful eye of Miss Wood-
ley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly dis
covered, that 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 her 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
some time in the evening : I have to speak with 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, such
as 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 took a part.

Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appoint
ment, but the only one who conceived with what sensation
it was received.

While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorri-
forth, Miss Milner had thought of little, except of him.
As soon as they withdrew into another apartment, she re
membered Miss Woodley ; and turning her head suddenly,
saw her friend's face imprinted with suspicion and dis
pleasure. This at first was painful to her ; but recollect-
F 4

72 A SIMPLE STORY.

ing, that within a couple of hours she was to meet her
guardian alone — to speak to him, and hear him speak to
her 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 su
pernatural power have endowed her with the means, and at
the same time have shown to her the ills that must arise
from such an effect of her charms, she had assuredly virtue
enough to have declined the conquest ; but without enquir
ing what she proposed, she never saw him, without pre
viously endeavouring to look more attractive than she would
have desired before any other person. And now, without
listening to the thousand exhortations that spoke in every
feature of Miss Woodley, she flew to a looking-glass, to
adjust her dress in a manner that she thought most en
chanting.

Time stole away, and the time of going to her guardian
arrived. In his presence, unsupported by the presence of
any other, every grace that she had practised, every look
that she had borrowed to set off her charms, were anni
hilated ; 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, respect
ful, 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 high satis
faction that she had given him, by at length revealing to
him the real state of her mind.

ef And when I take 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 perfec
tion and human happiness, you might have fixed your
affections with perhaps less propriety ; and still, where my

A SIMPLE STORY. 73

unwillingness to have thwarted your inclinations might not
have permitted me to contend with them."

Not a word of reply did this speech demand ; or, if it
had, not a word could she have given.

11 And now, madam, the reason of my desire to speak
with you is, to know the means you think most proper to
pursue, in order to acquaint Lord Frederick, that notwith
standing this late repulse, there are hopes of your partiality
in his favour."

" Defer the explanation," she replied eagerly.

" I heg your pardon — it cannot be. Besides, how can
you indulge a disposition thus unpitying ? Even so ardently
did I desire to render the man who loves you happy, that
though he came armed against my life, had I not reflected,
that 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 with his safety, to think then on gratifying
him. And, indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after
the many denials which you have no doubt given him,
should be considered. I therefore consult your topinion
upon the manner in which it shall be made."

(C Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments
of surprise, and that pity, which the fate impending in
spired; and which might urge me to express myself of
Lord Frederick in a manner my cooler thoughts will not
warrant ? "

tf 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, attempts to retract, can make
me change these sentiments."

(t I am very sorry," she replied, confused and trembling.

" Why sorry ? — Come, give me commission to reveal
your partiality. I'll not be too hard upon you: a hint
from me 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."

74 A SIMPLE STORY.

" I never gave Lord Frederick hope."

" But you never plunged him into despair."

" His pursuit intimates that I never have ; but he has
no other proof."

{t However light and frivolous you have been upon fri
volous subjects, yet I must own, Miss Milner, that I did
expect, when a case of this importance came seriously
before you, you would have discovered a proper stability in
your behaviour."

ff I do, sir ; and it was only when I was affected with a
weakness, which arose from accident, that I have betrayed
inconsistency."

" You then assert again, that you have no affection for
my Lord Frederick ? "

" Not enough to become his wife."

" You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder
you should be so : it shows a prudent foresight which 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 if you were
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 made before ; but upon this occasion I must
intrude it once again. Miss Fenton is its object : her
fortune is inferior to yours; her personal attractions are
less "

Here the powerful 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 beau
tiful 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

A SIMPLE STORY. 75

sedateness that might with less hazard ensure 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."

ee You mean to say, that love shall alone induce you."

« I do."

Cf If you would point out a subject upon which I am the
least able to reason, and on which my sentiments, such as
they are, are formed only from theory, and even there
more cautioned than instructed, it is the subject of love.
And yet, even that little which I know, tells me, without a
doubt, that what you said 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."

(f 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 con.
noisseurs ? "

" 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."

ft Then, from all you have said, madam, on this occasion,
I am to conclude that you still refuse to marry Lord
Frederick?"

" You are."

" And you submit never to see him again ? "

" I do."

t( All you then said to me yesterday was false ? "

" I was not mistress of myself at the time."

tf 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

7O A SIMPLE STORY.

was going away ; but Dorriforth called to him to stay, and
said with warmth,, —

" Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what per
suasion, I can prevail upon Miss Milner to confide in me
as her friend j to lay her heart open, and credit mine when
I declare to her that I have no view in all the advice I give
to her, but her immediate welfare."

*c Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of that lady,"
replied Sandford : " it has been formed ever since my first
acquaintance with her, and it continues the same."

" But instruct me how I am to inspire her with con
fidence," returned Dorriforth ; " how I am to impress her
with a sense of that which is for her advantage."

" You can work no miracles," replied Sandford : " you
are not holy enough."

<f And yet my ward," answered Dorriforth, ff 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 that she may," replied Dorriforth, mildly ; for
he saw the tears flowing down her face at the rough and
severe manner in which Sandford had spoken, and he
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
I know ; but where you are, Mr. Dorriforth, unless I am
turned out, I shall always 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 upon a nice punctilio, I left you
so long without my visits, and without my counsel : in that
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

A SIMPLE STORY. 77

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 : —

te And here do I venture, like a missionary among
savages; hut if I can only save you from their scalping
knives — from the miseries which that lady is preparing for
you — I am rewarded."

Sandford spoke this with great fervour ; and the offence
of her love never appeared to her in so tremendous a point
of view, as when 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 sounded equally
ominous. The words <e murder " and ' ' excommunication "
he had likewise uttered ; all the fatal effects of sacrilegious
love. Frightful superstitions struck her to the heart, and
she could scarcely prevent falling down under their op
pression.

Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining
herself, and with the utmost tenderness went towards her ;
and, supporting her, said, ' ' I beg your pardon ; I invited
you hither with a far different intention than your un
easiness ; and be assured — "

Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth re
sumed : — " Hold, Mr. Sandford : the lady is under my
protection ; and I know not whether it is not requisite that
you should apologise to her, and to me for what you have
already said."

<f 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, sir," cried Dorriforth ; and, leading her
kindly to the door, as if to defend her from his malice, told
her, <c he would take another opportunity of renewing the
subject."

78 A SIMPLE STORY.

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 woman was
far above, or rather beneath, his comprehension." It was
so indeed; for with all his penetration, and few even of that
school had^more, he had not yet penetrated into the recesses
of Miss Milner's mind.

Miss Woodley, to whom she repeated all that had passed
between herself, her guardian, and Sandford, took this mo
ment, in the agitation of her spirits, to alarm her still more
by prophetic insinuations ; and at length represented to her
here, for the first time, the necessity, ef that Mr. Dorriforth
and she no longer should remain 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 sin
cerely to be prevailed upon.

" But in what manner can I accomplish the separation?"
cried she: " for, till I marry, we are obliged, by my father's
request, to live in the same house/'

ff 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 that 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.

" I will reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the
real state of your heart ; which your present inconsistency
of 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, if
you will separate from him by any mode of your own : but
that you shall separate is my determination; and in spite of

A SIMPLE STORY. 79

all your sufferings, this shall be the expedient, 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 con
demn myself to explain to him your weakness. What as
tonishment ! 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 from
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
but his friendship for me 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 bur
den indeed."

Miss Woodley immediately began to contrive schemes
for their separation ; and, with all her invention alive on
the subject, the following was the only natural one that she
could form.

Miss Milner, in a letter to her distant relation at Bath,
was to complain of the melancholy of a country life, which
she was to say her guardian imposed upon her ; and she
was to entreat the lady to send a pressing invitation that she
would pass a month or two at her house : this invitation
was to be laid before Dorriforth for his approbation ; and
the two ladies were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest
wishes for his consent. This plan having been properly
regulated, the necessary letter was sent to Bath, and Miss
Woodley waited with patience, but with a watchful guard
upon the conduct of her friend, till the answer should arrive.
During this interim a tender and complaining epistle
from Lord Frederick was delivered to Miss Milner ; to
which, as he received no answer, he prevailed upon his
uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon her, and obtain
a verbal reply; for he still flattered himself, that fear of her
guardian's anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter
which he had sent, was the sole cause of her apparent in
difference.

80 A SIMPLE STORY.

The old gentleman was introduced both to Miss Milner
and to Mr. Dorriforth ; but received from each an answer so
explicit, that it left his nephew no longer in doubt but that
all farther pursuit was vain.

Sir Edward Ashton, about this time, also submitted to a
formal dismission ; and had then the mortification to reflect,
that he was bestowing upon the object of his affections the
tenderest proof of his regard by having absented himself
entirely from her society.

Upon this serious and certain conclusion" to 'the hopes,
of Lord Frederick, Dorriforth was more astonished than ever
at the conduct of his ward. He had once thought her be
haviour in this respect was ambiguous ; but since her con
fession of a passion for that nobleman, he had no doubt but
in the end she would become his wife. He lamented to find
himself mistaken, and thought it proper now to condemn
her caprice, not merely in words, but in the general tenour
of his behaviour. He consequently became more reserved,
and more austere than he had been since his first acquaint
ance with her ; for his manners, not from design, but im
perceptibly to himself, had been softened since he became
her guardian, by that tender respect which he had uniformly
paid to the object of his protection.

Notwithstanding the severity he now 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, frequently rigour, could
not but make their whole party less cheerful than it had
been. Lord Elmwood, too, at this time, was lying danger
ously ill of a fever ; Miss Fen ton, of course, was as much
in sorrow as her nature would permit her to be ; and both
Sandford and Dorriforth were in extreme concern upon his
Lordship's account.

In this posture of affairs, the letter of invitation arrives
from Lady Luneham at Bath. It was shown to Dorriforth;
and, to prove to his ward that he is so much offended as no
longer to feel that excessive interest in her concerns which
he once felt, he gives an opinion on the subject with indif
ference : he desires " Miss Milner will do what she herself
thinks proper." Miss Woodley instantly accepts this per-

A SIMPLE STORY. 81

mission, writes back, and appoints the day upon which her
friend means to set off for the visit.

Miss Milner is wounded at the heart by the cold and
unkind manners of her guardian, but dares not take one step
to retrieve his opinion. Alone, or to her friend, she sighs
and weeps : he discovers her sorrow, and is doubtful whe
ther the departure of Lord Frederick from that part of the
country is not the cause.

When the time she was to set out for Bath was only two
xlays off, the behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its
usual form, if not a greater share of polite and tender atten
tion 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 shown her that he was so, and he now began to wish
that he had not. She is not happy (he considered within
himself) : every word and action declares she is not : I may
have been too severe, and added perhaps 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 that spot for ever,
but for the firm resistance of Miss Woodley.

"What will the absence of a few months effect ?" said
she, pleading her own cause. " At the end of a few months
at farthest he will expect me back ; and where then will be
the merit of this separation ?"

" In that time," replied Miss Woodley, " we may find
some method to make it longer." To this she listened with
a kind of despair, but uttered, she was "resigned," — and
she 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 that 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 most 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

82 A SIMPLE STORY.

• .

he led her she could not restrain her tears; which increased,
as he parted from her, to convulsive sobs. He was affected
by her grief; and though he had previously bid her farewell,
he drew her gently on one side, and said, with the tenderest
concern, " My dear Miss Milner, we part friends? I hope
we do. On my side, depend upon it, that I regret nothing
so much, at our separation, as having ever given you a mo
ment's pain."

" I believe so," was all she could utter; for she hastened
from him lest his discerning eye should discover the cause
of the weakness which thus overcame her. But her appre
hensions were groundless : the rectitude of his own heart
was a bar to the suspicion of hers. He once more kindly
bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.

Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part of
the journey, about thirty miles, where they were met by
Sir Henry 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 that she had done so ; implored
her forgiveness ; promised to correspond with her punc
tually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every con
solation . short of cherishing her fatal passion; but in that,
and that only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Miss Milner arrived at Bath, she thought it the most
altered place she had ever seen. She was mistaken ; it was
herself that was changed.

The walks were melancholy, the company insipid, the
ball room fatiguing; for — she had left behind all that
could charm or please her.

Though she found herself much less happy than when
she was at Bath before, yet she felt that she would not, even

A SIMPLE STORY. 8#

to enjoy all that past happiness,, be again reduced to the
being she was at that period. Thus does the lover consider
the extinction of his passion with the same horror as the
libertine looks upon annihilation : the one would rather live
hereafter, though in all the tortures described as constitut
ing his future state, than cease to exist ; so there are no
tortures which a lover would not suffer rather than cease to
love.

In the wide prospect of sadness before her, Miss Milner's
fancy caught hold of the only comfort which presented
itself j and this, faint as it was, in the total absence of every
other, her imagination painted to her as excessive. The
comfort was a letter from Miss Woodley — a letter, in
which the subject of her love would most assuredly be men
tioned ; and, in whatever terms, it would still be the means
of delight.

A letter arrived — she devoured it with her eyes. The
post mark denoting from whence it came, the name of
" Milner Lodge" written on the top, were all sources of
pleasure ; and she read slowly every line it contained, to
procrastinate the pleasing expectation she enjoyed, till she
should arrive at the name of Dorriforth. At last, her im
patient eye caught the word, three lines beyond the place
she was reading : irresistibly, she skipped over those lines,
and fixed on the point to which she was attracted.

Miss Woodley was cautious in her indulgence; she
made the slightest mention possible of Dorriforth ; saying
only, <e He was extremely concerned, and even dejected,
at the little hope there was of his cousin Lord Elmwood's
recovery." Short and trivial as this passage was, it was
still more important to Miss Milner than any other in the
letter : she read it again and again, considered, and re
flected upon it. Dejected ! thought she ; what does that
word exactly mean ? Did I ever see Mr. Dorriforth de
jected ? How, I wonder, does he look in that state ? Thus
did she muse, while the cause of his dejection, though a
most serious one, and pathetically described by Miss Wood-
ley, scarcely arrested her attention. She ran over with
haste the account of Lord Elmwood's state of health : she
certainly pitied him while she thought of him, but she did
G 2

84 A SIMPLE STORY^

not think of him long. To die, was a hard fate for a young
nobleman just in possession of his immense fortune, and on
the eve of marriage with a beautiful young woman ; but
Miss Milner thought that an abode in heaven might be still
better than all this, and she had no doubt but that his
Lordship would be an inhabitant there. The forlorn state
of Miss Fen ton ought to have been a subject for her com
passion ; but she knew that lady had resignation to bear any
lot with patience, and that a trial of her fortitude might be
more nattering to her vanity than to be Countess of Elm-
wood : in a word, she saw no one's misfortunes equal to
her own, because she knew no one so little able to bear
misfortune.

She replied to Miss Woodley 's letter, and dwelt very
long on that subject which her friend had passed over
lightly. This was another indulgence ; and this epistolary
intercourse was now the only enjoyment she possessed. From
Bath she paid several visits with Lady Luneham : all were
alike tedious and melancholy.

But her guardian wrote to her ; and though it was on a
topic of sorrow, the letter gave her joy. The sentiments
it expressed were merely common-place, yet she valued them
as the dearest effusions of friendship and affection ; and her
hands trembled, and her heart beat with rapture, while she
wrote the answer, though she knew it would not be received
by him with one emotion like those which she experienced.
In her second letter to Miss Woodley, she prayed like a
person insane to be taken home from confinement ; and,
like a lunatic, protested in sensible language she te had no
disorder." But her friend replied, <f That very declaration
proves its violence." And she assured her, nothing less
than placing her affections elsewhere should induce her to
believe but that she was incurable.

The third letter from Milner Lodge brought the news of
Lord Elmwood's death. Miss Woodley was exceedingly
affected by this event, and said little else on any other sub
ject. Miss Milner was shocked when she read the words,
" He is dead," and instantly thought, —

" How transient are all sublunary things ! Within a few
years / shall be dead ; and how happy will it then be, if I

A SIMPLE STORY. 85

have resisted every temptation to the alluring pleasures of
this life ! " The happiness of a peaceful death occupied
her contemplation for near an hour ; but at length every
virtuous and pious sentiment this meditation inspired served
but to remind her of the many sentences she had heard
from her guardian's lips upon the same subject: her thoughts
were again fixed on him, and she could think of nothing
besides.

In a short time after this, her health became impaired
from the indisposition of her mind : she languished, and
was once in imminent danger. During a slight delirium
of her fever, Miss Woodley's name and her guardian's were
incessantly repeated. Lady Luneham sent them immediate
word of this ; and they both hastened to Bath, and arrived
there just as the violence and danger of her disorder had
ceased. As soon as she became perfectly recollected, her
first care, knowing the frailty of her heart, was to enquire
what she had uttered while delirious. Miss Woodley, -who
was by her bedside, begged her not to be alarmed on that
account, and assured her she knew, from all her attendants,
that she had only spoken with a friendly remembrance (as
was really the case) of those persons who were dear to her.
. She wished to know whether her guardian was come to
see her, but she had not the courage to ask before her friend;
and she in her turn was afraid, by the too sudden mention
of his name, to discompose her. Her maid, however, after
some little time, entered the chamber, and whispered Miss
Woodley. Miss Milner asked inquisitively, " what she
said?"

The maid replied softly, " Lord Elm wood, madam, wishes
to come and see you for a few moments, if you will allow
him."

At this reply Miss Milner stared wildly.

" I thought," said she, " I thought Lord Elmwood had
been dead. Are my senses disordered still ? "

(C No, my dear," answered Miss Woodley ; " it is the
present Lord Elmwood who wishes to see you : he whom
you left ill when you came hither is dead."

" And who is the present Lord Elmwood ? " she asked.
G 3

86 A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Woodley, after a short hesitation, replied, — " Your
guardian."

ff And so he is/' cried Miss Milner ; " he is the next
heir — I had forgot. But is it possible that he is here ? "

ff Yes," returned Miss Woodley, with a grave voice
and manner, to moderate that glow of satisfaction which
for a moment sparkled even in her languid eye, and hlushed
over her pallid countenance, — " yes ; as he heard you were
ill, he thought it right to come and see you."

(e He is very good," she answered, and the tear started
in her eyes.

te Would you please to see his Lordship ?" asked her
maid.

' ' Not yet, not yet," she replied ; " let me recollect my
self first." And she looked with a timid doubt upon her
friend, to ask if it was proper.

Miss Woodley could hardly support this humble refer
ence to her judgment, from the wan face of the poor in
valid, and taking her by the hand, whispered, " You shall
do what you please." In a few minutes Lord Elmwood
was introduced.

To those who sincerely love, every change of situation
or circumstances in the object beloved appears an advantage.
So the acquisition of a title and estate was, in Miss Milner's
eye, an inestimable advantage to her guardian ; not on
account of their real value, but that any change, instead of
diminishing her passion, would have served only to increase
it, even a change to the utmost poverty.

When he entered, the sight of him seemed to be too
much for her ; and after the first glance she turned her
head away. The sound of his voice encouraged her to look
once more ; and then she riveted her eyes upon him.

<( It is impossible, my dear Miss Milner," he gently
whispered, " to say what joy I feel that your disorder has
subsided."

But though it was impossible to say, it was possible to
look what he felt, and his looks expressed his feelings. In
the zeal of those sensations, he laid hold of her hand, and
hekl it between his : this he did not himself know ; but
she did.

A SIMPLE STORY. 87

(t You have prayed for me, my Lord, I make no doubt,"
said she, and smiled, as if thanking him for those prayers.

<c Fervently, ardently ! " returned he ; and the fervency
with which he had prayed spoke in every feature.

" But I am a Protestant, you know ; and if I had died
such, do you believe I should have gone to heaven ? "

" Most assuredly, that would not have prevented you."

" But Mr. Sandford does not think so."

" He must; for he hopes to go there himself."

To keep her guardian with her, Miss Milner seemed
inclined to converse ; but her solicitous friend gave Lord
Elmwood a look which implied that it might be injurious
to her, and he retired.

They had only one more interview before he left the
place, at which Miss Milner was capable of sitting up. He
was with her, however, but a very short time, some ne
cessary concerns relative to his late kinsman's affairs calling
him in haste to London. Miss Woodley continued with
her friend till she saw her entirely reinstated in her health ;
during which time her guardian was frequently the subject
of their private conversation ; and upon those occasions
Miss Milner has sometimes brought Miss Woodley to ac
knowledge, ' ' that could Mr. Dorriforth have possibly fore
seen the early death of the last Lord Elmwood, it had been
more for the honour of his religion (as that ancient title
would now after him become extinct), if he had preferred
marriage vows to those of celibacy."

CHAPTER XIX.

WHEN the time for Miss Woodley's departure arrived,
Miss Milner entreated earnestly to accompany her home,
and made the most solemn promises that she would guard
not only her behaviour, but her very thoughts, within the
limitation her friend should prescribe. Miss Woodley at
length yielded thus far, " That as soon as Lord Elmwood
was set out on his journey to Italy, where she had heard
G 4

88 A SIMPLE STORY.

him say that he should soon he obliged to go, she would
no longer deny her the pleasure of returning ; and if (after
the long absence which must consequently take place be
tween him and her) she could positively affirm the sup
pression of her passion was the happy result, she would
then take her word, and risk the danger of seeing them
once more reside together."

This concession having been obtained, they parted ; and,
as winter was now far advanced, Miss Woodley returned to
her aunt's house in town, from whence Mrs. Horton was,
however, preparing to remove, in order to superintend Lord
Elm wood's house (which had been occupied by the late
earl), in Grosvenor Square ; and her niece was to accom
pany her.

If Lord Elmwood was not desirous that Miss Milner
should conclude her visit and return to his protection, it
was partly from the multiplicity of affairs in which he was
at this time engaged, and partly from having Mr. Sandford
now entirely placed with him as his chaplain ; for he dread
ed, that living in the same house, their natural antipathy
might be increased even to aversion. Upon this account, he
once thought of advising Mr. Sandford to take up his abode
elsewhere ; but the great pleasure he took in his society,
joined to the bitter mortification he knew such a proposal
would be to his friend, would not suffer him to make it.

Miss Milner all this time was not thinking upon those
she hated, but on those she loved. Sandford never came
into her thoughts, while the image of Lord Elmwood never
left them. One morning, as she sat talking to Lady Lune-
ham on various subjects, but thinking alone on him, Sir
Harry Luneham, with another gentleman, a Mr. Fleetmond,
came in, and the conversation turned upon the improbability
there had been, at the present Lord Elm wood's birth, that
he should ever inherit the title and estate which had now
fallen to him; — and, said Mr. Fleetmond, " independent of
rank and fortune, this unexpected occurrence must be mat
ter of infinite joy to Mr. Dorriforth."

"No," answered Sir Harry, "independent of rank and
fortune, it must be a motive of concern to Tijm ; for he
must now regret, beyond measure, his folly in taking priest's

A SIMPLE STORY. 89

orders ; thus depriving himself of the hopes of an heir, so
that his title, at his death, will be lost."

" By no means," replied Mr. Fleetmond : " he may yet
have an heir, for he will certainly marry."

" Marry ! " cried the baronet.

" Yes," answered the other ; " it was that I meant by
the joy it might probably give him, beyond the possession
of his estate and title."

" How be married ? " said Lady Luneham. " Has he
not taken a vow never to marry ?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Fleetmond; "but there are no
religious vows from which the sovereign pontiff at Rome
cannot grant a dispensation : as those commandments which
are made by the Church, the Church has always the power
to revoke ; and when it is for the general good of religion,
his holiness thinks it incumbent on him to publish his bull,
and remit all penalties for their non-observance. Certainly
it is for the honour of the Catholics, that this earldom
should continue in a Catholic family. In short, I'll ven
ture to lay a wager, my Lord Elm wood is married within
a year."

Miss Milner, who listened with attention, feared she was
in a dream, or deceived by the pretended knowledge of Mr.
Fleetmond, who might know nothing: — yet all that he
had said was very probable ; and he was himself a Roman
Catholic, so that he must be well informed on the subject
upon which he spoke. If she had heard the direst news
that ever sounded in the ear of the most susceptible of
mortals, the agitation of her mind and person could not
have been stronger : she felt, while every word was speak
ing, a chill through all her veins — a pleasure too exquisite,
not to bear along with it the sensation of exquisite pain ;
of which she was so sensible, that for a few moments it
made her wish that she had not heard the intelligence ;
though, very soon after, she would not but have heard it
for the world.

As soon as she had recovered from her first astonishment
and joy, she wrote to Miss Woodley an exact account of
what she had heard, and received this answer : —

"I am sorry any body should have given you this

90 A SIMPLE STORY.

piece of information, because it was a task in executing
which I had promised myself extreme satisfaction; — but
from the fear that your health was not yet strong enough to
support, without some danger, the burden of hopes which I
knew would, upon this occasion, press upon you, I deferred
my communication, and it has been anticipated. Yet, as
you seem in doubt as to the reality of what you have been
told, perhaps this confirmation of it may fall very little short
of the first news ; especially when it is enforced by my
request, that you will come to us, as soon as you can with
propriety leave Lady Luneham.

" Come, my dear Miss Milner, and find in your once
rigid monitor a faithful confidante. I will no longer
threaten to disclose a secret you have trusted me with, but
leave it to the wisdom or sensibility of his heart (who is
now to penetrate into the hearts of our sex in search of
one that may beat in unison with his own) to find the secret
out. I no longer condemn, but congratulate you on your
passion; and will assist you with all my advice and my ear
nest wishes, that it may obtain a return."

This letter was another of those excruciating pleasures,
that almost reduced Miss Milner to the grave. Her appe
tite forsook her ; and she vainly endeavoured for several
nights to close her eyes. She thought so much upon the
prospect of accomplishing her hopes, that she could admit
no other idea; not even invent one probable excuse for
leaving Lady Luneham before the appointed time, which
was then at the distance of two months. She wrote to
Miss Woodley to beg her contrivance, to reproach her for
keeping the intelligence so long from her, and to thank her
for having revealed it in so kind a manner at last. She
begged also to be acquainted how Mr. Dorriforth (for still
she called him by that name) spoke and thought of this
sudden change in his prospects.

Miss Woodley 's reply was a summons for her to town
upon some pretended business, which she avoided explain
ing, but which entirely silenced Lady Luneham's entreaties
for her stay.

To her question concerning Lord Elmwood she answer
ed, " It is a subject on which he seldom speaks : he appears

A SIMPLE STORY. Ql

just the same he ever did ; nor could you by any part
of his conduct conceive that any such change had taken
place." Miss Milner exclaimed to herself, " I am glad he
is not altered. If his words, looks, or manners, were any
thing different from what they formerly were, I should not
like him so well." And just the reverse would have been
the case, had Miss Woodley sent her word he was changed.
The day for her leaving Bath was fixed: she expected it with
rapture ; but before its arrival, she sunk under the care of
expectation ; and when it came, was so much indisposed,
as to be obliged to defer her journey for a week.

At length she found herself in London — in the house
of her guardian — and that guardian no longer bound to a
single life, but enjoined to marry. He appeared in her
eyes, as in Miss Woodley's, the same as ever ; or perhaps
more endearing than ever, as it was the first time she had
beheld him with hope. Mr. Sandford did not appear the
same ; yet he was in reality as surly and as disrespectful
in his behaviour to her as usual ; but she did not observe,
or she did not feel his morose temper as heretofore — he
seemed amiable, mild, and gentle; at least this was the
happy medium through which her self-complacent mind
began to see him : for good humour, like the jaundice,
makes every one of its own complexion.

CHAPTER XX.

LORD ELMWOOD was preparing to go abroad for the purpose
of receiving in form the dispensation from his vows : it was,
however, a subject he seemed carefully to avoid speaking
upon ; and when by any accident he was obliged to men
tion it, it was without any marks either of satisfaction or
concern.

Miss Milner's pride began to be alarmed. While he was
Mr. Dorriforth, and confined to a single life, his indifference
to her charms was rather an honourable than a reproachful
trait in his character; and, in reality, she admired him for

92 A SIMPLE STORY.

the insensibility. But on the eve of being at liberty, and
on the eve of making his choice, she was offended that
choice was not immediately fixed upon her. She had been
accustomed to receive the devotion of every man who saw
her; and not to obtain it of the man from whom, of all
others, she most wished it, was cruelly humiliating. She
complained to Miss Woodley, who advised her to have
patience ; but that was one of the virtues in which she was
least practised.

Nevertheless, encouraged by her friend in the commend
able desire of gaining the affections of him, who possessed
all her own, she left no means unattempted for the con
quest ; but she began with too great a certainty of suc
cess, not to be sensible of the deepest mortification in the
disappointment ; nay, she now anticipated disappointment,
as she had before anticipated success ; by turns feeling the
keenest emotions from hope and from despair.

As these passions alternately governed her, she was al
ternately in spirits or dejected ; in good or in ill humour ;
and the vicissitudes of her prospect at length gave to her
behaviour an air of caprice, which not all her follies had
till now produced. This was not the way to . secure the
affections of Lord Elmwood : she knew it was not ; and
before him she was under some restriction. Sandford
observed this; and, without reserve, added to the list of
her other failings hypocrisy. It was plain to see that Mr.
Sandford esteemed her less and less every day ; and as he
was the person who most influenced the opinion of her
guardian, he became to her, very soon, an object not merely
of dislike but of abhorrence.

These mutual sentiments were discoverable in every
word and action, while they were in each other's company ;
but still in his absence, Miss Milner's good nature, and
total freedom from malice, never suffered her to utter a
sentence injurious to his interest. Sandford's charity did
not extend thus far; and speaking of her with severity one
evening, while she was at the opera, " his meaning," as he
said, " but to caution her guardian against her faults,"
Lord Elmwood replied, —

A SIMPLE STORY. 9

" There is one fault, however, Mr. Sandford, I cannot
lay to her charge."

" And what is that, my Lord ? " cried Sandford, eagerly.
" What is that one fault which Miss Milner has not ? "

" I never," replied Lord Elm wood, " heard Miss Milner,
in your absence, utter a syllable to your disadvantage."

<f She dares not, my Lord, because she is in fear of you ;
and she knows you would not suffer it."

" She then," answered his Lordship, " pays me a much
higher compliment than you do; for you freely censure
her, and yet imagine I will suffer it."

<e My Lord," replied Sandford, " I am undeceived now,
and shall never take that liberty again."

As Lord Elmwood always treated Sandford with the
utmost respect, he began to fear he had been deficient upon
this occasion ; and the disposition which had induced him
to take his ward's part was likely, in the end, to prove un
favourable to her : for perceiving that Sandford was offended
at what had passed, as the only means of atonement, he
began himself to lament her volatile and captious propen
sities ; in which lamentation, Sandford, now forgetting his
affront, joined with the heartiest concurrence, adding, —

" You, sir, having at present other cares to employ your
thoughts, ought to insist upon her marrying, or retiring
wholly into the country."

She returned home just as this conversation was finished ;
and Sandford, the moment she entered, rang for his candle
to retire. Miss Woodley, who had been at the opera with
Miss Milner, cried, —

" Bless me ! Mr. Sandford, are you not well, you are
going to leave us so early ? "

He replied, " No : I have a pain in my head."

Miss Milner, who never listened to complaints without
sympathy, rose immediately from the chair she was just
seated on, saying, —

" I think I never heard you, Mr. Sandford, complain of
indisposition before. Will you accept of my specific for
the headach? Indeed, it is a certain relief — I'll fetch it
instantly."

She went hastily out of the room, and returned with a

94 A SIMPLE STORY.

bottle, which, she assured him, " was a present from Lady
Luneham, and would certainly cure him/' And she pressed
it upon him with such an anxious earnestness, that, with
all his churlishness, he could not refuse taking it.

This was but a common-place civility, such as is paid
by one enemy to another every day ; but the manner was
the material part. The unaffected concern, the attention,
the good- will she demonstrated in this little incident, was
that which made it remarkable; and which immediately
took from Lord Elmwood the displeasure to which he had
been just before provoked, or rather transformed it into a
degree of admiration. Even Sandford was not insensible
to her kindness, and in return, when he left the room,
" wished her a good night."

To her and Miss Woodley, who had not been witnesses
of the preceding conversation, what she had done appeared
of no merit : but to the mind of Lord Elmwood the merit
was infinite ; and, upon the departure of Sandford, he be
gan to be unusually cheerful. He first pleasantly reproached
the ladies for not offering him a place in their box at the
opera. — " Would you have gone, my Lord?" asked Miss
Milner, highly delighted.

" Certainly," returned he, " had you invited me."

fc Then from this day I give you a general invitation :
nor shall any other company be admitted but those whom
you approve."

" I am very much obliged to you," said he.

(e And you," continued she, " who have been accustomed
only to church music, will be more than any one enchanted
with hearing the softer music of love."

" What ravishing pleasures you are preparing for me !"
returned he. ff I know not whether my weak senses will
be able to support them."

She had her eyes upon him when he spoke this ; and she
discovered in his, that were fixed upon her, a sensibility
unexpected — a kind of fascination, which enticed her to
look on, while her eyelids fell involuntarily before its
mighty force, and a thousand blushes crowded over her
face. He was struck with these sudden signals, hastily

A SIMPLE STORY. 95

recalled his former countenance, and stopped the con
versation.

Miss Woodley, who had been a silent observer for some
time^ now thought a word or two from her would be ac
ceptable rather than troublesome.

" And pray, my Lord," said she, ({ when do you go to
France ? "

" To Italy, you mean : I shall not go at all/' said h£.
" My superiors are very indulgent, for they dispense with
all my duties. I ought, and I meant, to have gone abroad ;
but as a variety of concerns require my presence in Eng
land, every necessary ceremony has taken place here."

<( Then your Lordship is no longer in orders ? " said Miss
Woodley.

" No : they have been resigned these five days."

<c My Lord, I give you joy," said Miss Milner.

He thanked her, but added, with a sigh, " If I have
given up content in search of joy, I shall, perhaps, be a
loser by the venture." Soon after this, he wished them a
good night, and retired.

Happy as Miss Milner found herself in his company,
she saw him leave the room with infinite satisfaction, be
cause her heart was impatient to give a loose to its hopes
on the bosom of Miss Woodley. She bade Mrs. Horton
immediately good night; and, in her friend's apartment,
gave way to all the language of passion, warmed with the
confidence of meeting its return. She described the sen
timents she had read in Lord Elmwood's looks ; and though
Miss Woodley had beheld them too, Miss Milner's fancy
heightened the expression of every glance, till her con
struction became, by degrees, so extremely favourable to
her own wishes, that had not her friend been likewise
present, and known in what measure to estimate those
symptoms, she must infallibly have thought, by the joy to
which they gave birth, that he had openly avowed a passion
for her.

Miss Woodley, of course, thought it her duty to allay
these ecstasies, and represented to her she might be de
ceived in her hopes ; or, even supposing his wishes inclined
towards her, there were yet great obstacles between them.

yO A SIMPLE STORY.

" Would not Sandford, who directed his every thought and
purpose, be consulted upon this important one ? And if
he was, upon what but the most romantic affection on the
part of Lord Elm wood had Miss Milner to depend ? And
his Lordship was not a man to be suspected of submitting
to the excess of any passion." Thus did Miss Woodley
argue, lest her friend should be misled by her hopes ; yet,
in her own mind, she scarcely harboured a doubt that any
thing would occur to thwart them. The succeeding cir
cumstance proved she was mistaken.

Another gentleman of family and fortune made overtures
to Miss Milner ; and her guardian, so far from having his
thoughts inclined towards her on his own account, pleaded
this lover's cause even with more zeal than he had pleaded
for Sir Edward and Lord Frederick ; thus at once destroy
ing all those plans of happiness which poor Miss Milner
had formed.

In consequence, her melancholy disposition of mind was
now predominant : she confined herself at home, and, by
her own express order, was denied to all her visiters.
Whether this arose from pure melancholy, or the still lin
gering hope of making her conquest, by that sedateness of
manners which she knew her guardian admired, she herself,
perhaps, did not perfectly know. Be that as it may, Lord
Elm wood could not but observe this change, and1 one morn
ing thought fit to mention and to applaud it.

Miss Woodley and she were at work together when he
came into the room ; and after sitting several minutes, and
talking upon indifferent subjects, to which his ward replied
with a dejection in her voice and manner, he said, —

(t. Perhaps I am wrong, Miss Milner, but I have observed
that you are lately more thoughtful than usual."

She blushed, as she always did when the subject was
herself. He continued : — " Your health appears perfectly
restored, and yet I have observed you take no delight in
your former amusements."

" Are you sorry for that, my Lord ? "

fe No, I am extremely glad ; and I was going to con
gratulate you upon the change. But give me leave to en-

A SIMPLE STORY. 97

quire, to what fortunate accident we may attribute this
alteration ?"

" Your Lordship then thinks all my commendable deeds
arise from accident, and that I have no virtues of my
own."

" Pardon me, I think you have many." This he spoke
emphatically, and her blushes increased.

He resumed: — " How can I doubt of a lady's virtues,
when her countenance gives me such evident proofs of
diem ? Believe me, Miss Milner, that in the midst of your
gayest follies, while you thus continue to blush, I shall re
verence your internal sensations."

" Oh, my Lord ! did you know some of them, I am
afraid you would think them unpardonable."

This was so much to the purpose, that Miss Woodley
found herself alarmed, but without reason : Miss Milner loved
too sincerely to reveal it to the object. He answered, —

" And did you know some of mine, you might think
them equally unpardonable."

She turned pale, and could no longer guide her needle.
In the fond transport of her heart she imagined that his
love for her was among the sensations to which he al
luded. She was too much embarrassed to reply, and he
continued, —

" We have all much to pardon in one another ; and I
know not whether the officious person who forces even his
good advice is not as blamable as the obstinate one who
will not listen to it. And now, having made a preface to
excuse you, should you once more refuse mine, I shall ven
ture to give it."

" My Lord, I have never yet refused to follow your ad
vice, but where my own peace of mind was so nearly con
cerned as to have made me culpable had I complied."

" Well, madam, I submit to your past determinations, and
shall never again oppose your inclination to remain single."

This sentence, as it excluded the design of soliciting for
himself, gave her the utmost pain ; and her eye glanced at
him, full of reproach. He did not observe it, but went
on: —

tc While you continue unmarried, it seems to have been

H

98 A SIMPLE STORY.

your father's intention that you should continue under my
immediate care; but as I mean for the future to reside
chiefly in the country, answer me candidly, Do you think
you could be happy there, for at least three parts of the
year ? "

After a short hesitation, she replied, ff I have no ob
jection."

" I am glad to hear it," he returned eagerly; " for it is
my sincere desire to have you with me : your welfare is
dear to me as my own ; and were we apart, continual ap
prehensions would prey upon my mind."

The tear started in her eye, at the earnestness that ac
companied these words : he saw it ; and to soften her still
more with the sense of his esteem for her, he increased his
earnestness while he said, —

" If you will take the resolution to quit London, for the
length of time I mention, there shall be no means omitted
to make the country all you can wish. I shall insist upon
Miss Woodley's company for both our sakes ; and it will
not only be my study to form such a society as you may
approve, but I am certain it will be likewise the study of
Lady Elm wood "

He was going on ; but, as if a poniard had thrust her to
the heart, she writhed under this unexpected stroke.

He saw her countenance change — he looked at her stead
fastly.

It was not a common change from joy to sorrow, from
content to uneasiness, which Miss Milner discovered — she
felt, and she expressed anguish. Lord Elmwood was
alarmed and shocked. She did not weep ; but she called
Miss Woodley to come to her, with a voice that indicated
a degree of agony.

" My Lord," cried Miss Woodley, seeing his conster
nation, and trembling lest he should guess the secret ; (e my
Lord, Miss Milner has again deceived you : you must not
take her from London — it is that, and that alone, which is
the cause of her uneasiness."

He seemed more amazed still, and still more shocked at
her duplicity than at her torture. " Good Heaven ! " ex
claimed he, "how am I to accomplish her wishes? What

A SIMPLE STORY. 99

am I to do ? How can I judge, if she will not confide in
me, but thus for ever deceive me ? "

She leaned, pale as death, on the shoulder of Miss
Woodley, her eye fixed with apparent insensibility to all
that was said, while he continued, —

" Heaven is my witness, if I knew — if I could conceive
the means how to make her happy, I would sacrifice my
own happiness to hers."

" My Lord," said Miss Woodley, with a smile, " per
haps I may call upon you hereafter to fulfil your word."

He was totally ignorant what she meant; nor had he
leisure, from the confusion of his thoughts, to reflect upon
her meaning : he nevertheless replied, with warmth, " Do ;
you shall find I '11 perform it. Do ; I will faithfully per
form it."

Though Miss Milner was conscious this declaration could
not, in delicacy, be ever adduced against him, yet the
fervent and solemn manner in which he made it cheered
her spirits ; and as persons enjoy the reflection of having in
their possession some valuable gem, though they are deter
mined never to use it, so she upon this promise was com
forted, and grew better. She now lifted up her head, and
leaned it on her hand, as she sat by the side of a table : still
she did not speak, but seemed overcome with sorrow. As
her situation became, however, less alarming, her guardian's
pity and affright began to take the colour of resentment ;
and though he did not say so, he was, and looked, highly
offended.

At this juncture Mr. Sandford entered. On beholding
the present party, it required not his sagacity to see, at the
first view, that they were all uneasy ; but, instead of the
sympathy this might have excited in some dispositions,
Mr. Sandford, after casting a look at each of them, ap
peared in high spirits.

(C You seem unhappy, my Lord," said he, with a smile.

" You do not, Mr. Sandford," Lord Elm wood replied.

" No, my Lord ; nor would I, were I in your situation.
What should make a man of sense out of temper but a
worthy object !" and he looked at Miss Milner.
H 2

100 A SIMPLE STORY.

<c There are no objects unworthy our care/' replied Lord
Elmwood.

" But there are objects on whom all care is fruitless,
your Lordship will allow."

fi I never yet despaired of any one, Mr. Sandford."

" And yet there are persons of whom it is presumption
to entertain any hopes." And he looked again at Miss
Milner.

" Does your head ache, Miss Milner ? " asked her friend,
seeing her hold it with her hand.

" Very much," returned she.

" Mr. Sandford," said Miss Woodley, " did you use
all those drops Miss Milner gave you for a pain in the
head?"

" Yes," answered he, " I did." But the question at
that moment somewhat embarrassed him.

" And I hope you found benefit from them," said Miss
Milner, with great kindness, as she rose from her seat, and
walked slowly out of the room.

Though Miss Woodley followed her, so that Mr. Sand-
ford was left alone with Lord Elmwood, and might have
continued his unkind insinuations without one restraint,
yet his lips were closed for the present. He looked down
on the carpet — twitched himself upon his chair — and be
gan to talk of the weather.

CHAPTER XXI.

WHEN the first transports of despair were past, Miss Mil
ner suffered herself to be once more in hope. She found
there were no other means to support her life ; and, to her
comfort, her friend was much less severe on the present
occasion than she had expected. No engagement between
mortals was, in Miss Woodley's opinion, binding like that
entered into with Heaven ; and whatever vows Lord Elm-
wood had possibly made to another, she justly supposed

A SIMPLE STORY. 101

that no woman's love for him equalled Miss Milner's. It
was prior to all others, that established her claim, at least,
to contend for success ; and, in a contention, what rival
would not fall before her ?

It was not difficult to guess who this rival was ; or, if
they were a little time in suspense, Miss Woodley soon ar
rived at the certainty, by enquiring of Mr. Sandford ; who,
unsuspecting why she asked, readily informed her that the
intended Lady Elmwood was no other than Miss Fenton,
and that the marriage would be solemnised as soon as the
mourning for the late Lord Elmwood was over. This last
intelligence made Miss Woodley shudder : she repeated it,
however, to Miss Milner, word for word.

" Happy, happy woman ! " exclaimed Miss Milner of
Miss Fenton : " she has received the first fond impulse of
his heart, and has had the transcendent happiness of teach
ing him to love ! "

" By no means," returned Miss Woodley, finding no
other suggestion likely to comfort her ; " do not suppose
that his marriage is the result of love : it is no more than
a duty, a necessary arrangement ; and this you may plainly
see by the wife on whom he has fixed. Miss Fenton was
thought a proper match for his cousin, and that same pro
priety has transferred her to him."

It was easy to convince Miss Milner that all which her
friend said was truth, for she wished it so. " And, oh ! "
she exclaimed, " could I but stimulate passion, against the
cold influence of propriety ; do you think, my dear Miss
Woodley" — and she looked with such begging eyes, it
was impossible not to answer as she wished — " do you
think it would be unjust to Miss Fenton, were I to inspire
her appointed husband with a passion which she may not
have inspired, and which I believe she cannot feel ? "

Miss Woodley paused a minute, and then answered,
"No;" but there was a hesitation in her manner of
delivery : she did say ' ' No -3 " but she looked as if she
was afraid she ought to have said " Yes." Miss Milner,
however, did not give her time to. recall the word, or to
alter its meaning by adding others, but ran on eagerly, and
declared, " As that was her opinion, she would abide by itj
H 3

102

A SIMPLE STORY.

and do all she could to supplant her rival." In order, ne
vertheless, to justify this determination, and satisfy the
conscience of Miss Woodley, they both concluded that
Miss Fen ton's heart was not engaged in the intended mar
riage, and, consequently, that she was indiiferent whether
it ever took place or not.

Since the death of the late Earl, she had not been in
town ; nor had the present Earl been near the place where
she resided, since the week in which her lover died : of
course, nothing similar to love could have been declared at
so early a period ; and if it had been made known at a
later, it must only have been by letter, or by the deputation
of Mr. Sandford, who they knew had been once in the
country to visit her; but how little he was qualified to
enforce a tender passion was a comfortable reflection.

Revived by these conjectures, of which some were true,
and others false — the very next day a gloom overspread
their bright prospects, on Mr. Sandford's saying, as he en
tered the breakfast-room, —

<c Miss Fenton,, ladies, desired me to present her com
pliments."

' ' Is she in town ? " asked Mrs. Horton.

ff She came yesterday morning," returned Sandford,
<c and is at her brother's in Ormond Street : my Lord and
I supped there last night, and that made us so late home."

Lord Elmwood entered soon after, and bowing to his
ward, confirmed what had been said, by telling her,
that ff Miss Fenton had charged him with her kindest
respects."

' e How does poor Miss Fenton look ? " Mrs. Horton
asked Lord Elmwood.

To which question Sandford replied, " Beautiful, —
she looks beautifully."

' ' She has got over her uneasiness, I suppose, then ? "
said Mrs. Horton, not dreaming that she was asking the
question before her new lover.

" Uneasy ! " replied Sandford : ' ' uneasy at any trial
this world can send? That would be highly unworthy of her."

" But sometimes women do fret at such things," replied
Mrs. Horton, innocently.

A SIMPLE STORY. 103

Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner, if she meant to ride
this delightful day ?

While she was hesitating, —

" There are different kinds of women/' said Sandford, di
recting his discourse to Mrs. Horton : " there is as much
difference between some women, as between good and evil
spirits."

Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner again, if she took an
airing ?

She replied, " No."

" And beauty," continued Sandford, " when endowed
upon spirits that are evil, is a mark of their greater, their
more extreme wickedness. Lucifer was the most beautiful
of all the angels in paradise." —

e( How do you know ? " said Miss Milner.

" But the beauty of Lucifer," continued Sandford, in
perfect neglect and contempt of her question, " was an
aggravation of his guilt ; because it showed a double share
of ingratitude to the Divine Creator of that beauty."

{( Now you talk of angels," said Miss Milner, " I wish
I had wings ; and I should like to fly through the Park
this morning."

(< You would be taken for an angel in good earnest,"
said Lord Elmwood.

Sandford was angry at this little compliment, and cried, —
fc I should think the serpent's skin would be much more
characteristic."

(t My Lord," cried she, " does not Mr. Sandford use me
ill ? " Vexed with other things, she felt herself extremely
hurt at this, and made the appeal almost in tears.

" Indeed, I think he does." And he looked at Sand-
ford as if he was displeased.

This was a triumph so agreeable to her, that she imme
diately pardoned the offence ; but the offender did not so
easily pardon her.

" Good morning, ladies," said Lord Elmwood, rising to
go away.

" My Lord," said Miss Wbodley, " you promised Miss
Milner to accompany her one evening to the opera : this is
opera night."

H 4

104 A SIMPLE STORY;

<f Will you go, my Lord ? " asked Miss Milner, in a
voice so soft, that he seemed as if he wished, but could not
resist it. '

" I am to dine at Mr. Fenton's to-day/' he replied;
"and if he and his sister will go., and you will allow them
part of your box, I will promise to come."

This was a condition by no means acceptable to her ;
but as she felt a desire to see him in company with his in
tended bride, (for she fancied she could perceive his secret
sentiments, could she once see them together.) she an
swered not ungraciously, " Yes, my compliments to Mr.
and Miss Fenton, and I hope they will favour me with
their company."

" Then, madam, if they come, you may expect me —
else not." He bowed, and left the room.

All the day was passed in anxious expectation by Miss
Milner, what would be the event of the evening ; for upon
her penetration that evening all her future prospects she
thought depended. If she saw by his looks, by his words,
or assiduities, that he loved Miss Fenton, she flattered her
self she would never think of him again with hope ; but if
she observed him treat her with inattention or indifference,
she would cherish, from that moment, the fondest expect
ations. Against that short evening her toilet was con
sulted the whole day : the alternate hope and fear which
fluttered in her heart gave a more than usual brilliancy to
her eyes, and more than usual bloom to her complexion.
But vain was her beauty ; vain all her care to decorate
that beauty ; vain her many looks to her box-door in hopes
to see it open — Lord Elm wood never came.

The music was discord ; every thing she saw was dis
tasteful : in a word, she was miserable.

She longed impatiently for the curtain to drop, because
she was uneasy where she was : yet she asked herself,
' ' Shall I be less unhappy at home ? Yes j at home I
shall see Lord Elmwood, and that will be happiness. But
he will behold me with neglect, and that will be misery!
Ungrateful man ! I will no longer think of him." Yet
could she have thought of him, without joining in the same
idea Miss Fenton, her anguish had been supportable ; but

A SIMPLE STORY. 105

while she painted them as lovers, the tortures of the rack
are not in many degrees more painful than those which she
endured.

There are hut few persons who ever felt the real passion
of jealousy, because few have felt the real passion of love ;
but with those who have experienced them both, jealousy
has not only affected the mind, but every fibre of their
frame ; and Miss Milner's every limb felt agonising tor
ment, when Miss Fenton, courted and beloved by Lord
Elmwood, was present to her imagination.

The moment the opera was finished, she flew hastily
down stairs, as if to fly from the sufferings she experienced.
She did not go into the coffee-room, though repeatedly
urged by Miss Woodley, but waited at the door till her
carriage drew up.

Piqued — heart-broken — full of resentment against the
object of her uneasiness, and inattentive to all that passed,
as she stood, a hand gently touched her own ; and the most
humble and insinuating voice said, — " Will you permit
me to lead you to your carriage ? " She was awakened
from her reverie, and found Lord Frederick Lawnley by
her side. Her heart, just then melting with tenderness to
another, was perhaps more accessible than heretofore ; or,
bursting with resentment, thought this the moment to re
taliate. Whatever passion reigned that instant, it was
favourable to the desires of Lord Frederick, and she looked
as if she was glad to see him. He beheld this with the
rapture and the humility of a lover : and though she did
not feel the least particle of love in return, she felt gratitude
in proportion to the insensibility with which she had been
treated by her guardian; and Lord Frederick's supposition was
not very erroneous, if he mistook this gratitude for a latent
spark of affection. The mistake, however, did not force
from him his respect : he handed her to her carriage,
bowed low, and disappeared. Miss Woodley wished to
divert her thoughts from the object which could only make
her wretched; and as they rode home, by many encomiums
upon Lord Frederick, endeavoured to incite her to a regard
for him : Miss Milner was displeased at the attempt, an4
exclaimed, —

106

A SIMPLE STORY.

" What ! love a rake, a man of professed gallantry !
Impossible. To me a common rake is as odious as a com
mon prostitute is to a man of the nicest feelings. Where
can be the joy, the pride of inspiring a passion which fifty
others can equally inspire ? "

" Strange," cried Miss Woodley, " that you, who pos
sess so many follies incident to your sex, should, in the
disposal of your heart, have sentiments so contrary to wo
men in general."

f( My dear Miss Woodley," returned she, " put in com
petition the languid addresses of a libertine, with the ani
mated affection of a sober man, and judge which has the
dominion. Oh ! in my calendar of love, a solemn lord
chief justice, or a devout archbishop, ranks before a licen
tious king."

Miss Woodley smiled at an opinion which she knew half
her sex would ridicule ; but by the air of sincerity with
which it was delivered, she was convinced her recent be
haviour to Lord Frederick was but the mere effect of
chance.

Lord Elmwood's carriage drove to his door just at the
time hers did. Mr. Sandford was with him, and they
were both come from passing the evening at Mr. Fenton's.

' ' So, my Lord," said Miss Woodley, as soon as they met
in the drawing-room, ' ' you did not come to us ? "

tf No," answered he, " I was sorry; but I hope you did
not expect me."

" Not expect you, my Lord ? " cried Miss Milner. " Did
not you say that you would come ? "

" If I had, I certainly should have come," returned he,
" but I only said so conditionally."

ff That I am a witness to," cried Sandford ; " for I was
present at the time, and he said it should depend upon Miss
Fenton."

ff And she, with her gloomy disposition," said Miss
Milner, te chose to sit at home."

ff Gloomy disposition ! " repeated Sandford : " she has a
great share of sprightliness ; and I think I never saw her
in better spirits than she was this evening, my Lord."

Lord Elmwood did not speak.

A SIMPLE STORY. 107

" Bless me, Mr. Sandford," cried Miss Milner, " I
meant no reflection upon Miss Fenton's disposition ; I
only meant to censure her taste for staying at home."

" I think/' replied Sandford, " a much heavier censure
should be passed upon those who prefer rambling abroad."

" But I hope, ladies, my not coming," said Lord Elm.
wood, " was no inconvenience to you ; for you had still, I
see, a gentleman with you."

" Oh, yes, two gentlemen," answered the son of Lady
Evans, a youth from school, whom Miss Milner had taken
along with her.

fc What two ? " asked Lord Elm wood.

Neither Miss Milner nor Miss Woodley answered.

t( You know, madam," said young Evans, " that hand,
some gentleman who handed you into your carriage, and
you called my Lord."

" Oh ! he means Lord Frederick Lawnley," said Miss
Milner carelessly, but a blush of shame spread over her face.

" And did he hand you into your coach ?" asked Lord
Elmwood earnestly.

<f By mere accident, my Lord," Miss Woodley replied;
" for the crowd was so great "

" I think, my Lord," said Sandford, " it was very lucky
that you were not there."

" Had Lord Elmwood been with us, we should not have
had occasion for the assistance of any other," said Miss
Milner.

" Lord Elmwood has been with you, madam," returned
Sandford, " very frequently, and yet "

" Mr. Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, interrupting him,
" it is near bedtime : your conversation keeps the ladies
from retiring."

" Your Lordship's does not," said Miss Milner, " for
you say nothing."

ec Because, madam, I am afraid to offend."

" But do not you also hope to please ? and without
risking the one, it is impossible to arrive at the other."

" I think, at present, the risk would be too hazardous ;
and so I wish you a good night." And he went out of the
room somewhat abruptly.

108

A SIMPLE STORY.

" Lord Elm wood/' said Miss Milner, " is very grave :
he does not look like a man who has been passing the even
ing with the woman he loves."

" Perhaps he is melancholy at parting from her/' said
Miss Woodley.

f( More likely offended/' said Sandford, " at the manner
m which that lady has spoken of her."

" Who, I ? I protest I said nothing "

" Nothing ! Did not you say that she was gloomy ? "

'-' Nothing but what I thought, I was going to add, Mr.
Sandford."

" When you think unjustly, you should not express
your thoughts."

"Then, perhaps, I should never speak."

" And it were better you did not, if what you say is to
give pain. Do you know, madam, that my Lord is going
to be married to Miss Fen ton ? "

(f Yes," answered Miss Milner.

f( Do you know that he loves her ? "

" No," answered Miss Milner.

" How ! do you suppose he does not ? "

<( I suppose that he does, yet I don't know it."

" Then if you suppose that he does, how can you have
the imprudence to find fault with her in his presence ? "

" I did not. To call her gloomy was, I knew, to com
mend her both to him and to you, who admire such tem
pers."

' ' Whatever her temper is, every one admires it ; and so
far from its being what you have described, she has great
vivacity; vivacity which comes from the heart."

" No; if it came from thence, I should admire it too;
but, if she has any, it rests there, and no one is the better
for it."

" Pshaw ! " said Miss Woodley, ' ' it is time for us to
retire ; you and Mr. Sandford must finish your dispute in
the morning."

" Dispute, madam ! " said Sandford ; ' e I never disputed
with any one beneath a doctor of divinity in my life. I
was only cautioning your friend not to make light of those
virtues, which it would do her honour to possess. Miss

A SIMPLE STORY. 109

Fenton is a most amiable young woman, and worthy of
just such a husband as my Lord Elmwood will make her."
" I am sure/' said Miss Woodley, " Miss Milner thinks
so : she has a high opinion of Miss Fenton ; she was at
present only jesting."

" But, madam, a jest is a very pernicious thing, when
delivered with a malignant sneer. I have known a jest
destroy a lady's reputation : I have known a jest give one
person a distaste for another : I have known a jest break off
a. marriage."

<( But I suppose there is no apprehension of that in the
present case ? " said Miss Woodley, wishing he might an
swer in the affirmative.

" Not that I can foresee. No, Heaven forbid," he re
plied; " for I look upon them to be formed for each other;
their dispositions, their pursuits, their inclinations the same:
their passions for each other just the same ; pure, white as
snow."

(( And, I dare say, not warmer," replied Miss Milner.
He looked provoked beyond measure.
<f My dear," cried Miss Woodley, " how can you talk
thus ? I believe, in my heart, you are only envious, be
cause my Lord Elmwood has not offered himself to you."

' ' To her ! " said Sandford, affecting an air of the utmost
surprise; " to her! Do you think he received a dispensation
from his vows to become the husband of a coquette —

a " He was going on.

" Nay, Mr; Sandford," cried Miss Milner, " I believe,
after all, my worst crime, in your eyes, is that of being a
heretic."

( ' By no means : it is the only circumstance that can
apologise for your faults ; and if you had not that excuse,
there would be none for you."

ff Then, at present, there is an excuse : I thank you,
Mr. Sandford : this is the kindest thing you ever said to
me. But I am vexed to see that you are sorry for having
said it."

ff Angry at your being a heretic !" he resumed — " In
deed I should be much more concerned to see you a dis
grace to our religion."

110 A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Milner had not been in a good humour the whole
evening : she had been provoked several times to the full
extent of her patience : but this harsh sentence hurried her
beyond all bounds, and she arose from her seat in the most
violent agitation, exclaiming, " What have I done to be
thus treated ? "

Though Mr. Sandford was not a man easily intimidated,
he was upon this occasion evidently alarmed ; and stared
about him with so violent an expression of surprise, that
it partook, in some degree, of fear. Miss Woodley clasped
her friend in her arms, and cried with the tenderest affec
tion and pity, " My dear Miss Milner, be composed."

Miss Milner sat down, and was so for a minute ; but
her dead silence was almost as alarming to Sandford as her
rage had been ; and he did not perfectly recover himself
till he saw tears pouring down her face. He then heaved
a sigh of content that all had thus ended; but in his
heart resolved never to forget the ridiculous affright into
which he had been thrown. He stole out of the room
without uttering a syllable : but as he never retired to rest
before he had repeated a long form of evening prayer,
when this evening he came to that part which supplicates
" grace for the wicked," he took care to mention Miss
Milner's name with the most fervent devotion.

CHAPTER XXII.

OF the many restless nights that Miss Milner passed, this
was not one. It is true, she had a weight of care upon her
heart, even heavier than usual, but the burden had over
come her strength. Wearied out with hopes, with fears,
and, at the end, with disappointment and rage, she sunk
at once into a deep slumber. But the more forgetfulness
had then prevailed, the more powerful was the force of
remembrance when she awoke. At first, so sound her
sleep had been, that she had a difficulty in calling to mind
why she was unhappy ; but that she was unhappy she

A SIMPLE STORY. Ill

well recollected. When the cause came to her memory,
she would have slept again ; but it was impossible.

Though her rest had been unbroken, it had not been
refreshing j she was far from well, and sent word of her
indisposition,, as an apology for not being present at break
fast. Lord Elmwood looked concerned when the message
was delivered : Mr. Sandford shook his head.

" Miss Milner's health is not good !" said Mrs. Horton,
a few minutes after.

Lord Elmwood laid down the newspaper to attend to
what she said.

" To me there is something very extraordinary about
her ! " continued Mrs. Horton, rinding she had caught his
Lordship's attention.

" So there is to me ! " added Sandford, with a sarcastic
sneer.

" And so there is to me ! " said Miss Woodley, with a
serious face and a heartfelt sigh.

Lord Elmwood gazed by turns at each, as each deli
vered their sentiments ; and when they were all silent, he
looked bewildered, not knowing what judgment to form
from any one of these sentences.

Soon after breakfast, Mr. Sandford withdrew to his own
apartment : Mrs. Horton, in a little time, went to hers :
Lord Elmwood and Miss Woodley were left alone. He
immediately rose from his seat, and said, —

" I think, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner was extremely
to blame, though I did not choose to tell her so before
Mr. Sandford, in giving Lord Frederick an opportunity of
speaking to her, unless she means that he shall renew his
addresses."

" That, I am certain," replied Miss Woodley, " she
does not mean ; and I assure you, my Lord, seriously, it
was by mere accident she saw him yesterday evening, or
permitted his attendance upon her to her carriage."

fe I am glad to hear it," he returned quickly ; " for
although I am not of a suspicious nature, yet in regard to
her affection for him, I cannot but still have my doubts."
" You need have none, my Lord," replied Miss Woodley,
with a smile of confidence.

112 A SIMPLE STORY.

fe And yet you must own her behaviour has warranted
them. Has it not been, in this particular, incoherent and
unaccountable ? "

" The behaviour of a person in love, no doubt/' an
swered Miss Woodley.

' f Don't I say so ? " replied he, warmly ; ff and is not
that a just reason for my suspicions ?"

fc But is there only one man in the world on whom
those suspicions can fix ? " said Miss Woodley, with the
colour mounting into her face.

(e Not that I know of — not one more that I know of,"
he replied, with astonishment at what she had insinuated,
and yet with a perfect assurance that she was in the wrong.

(( Perhaps I am mistaken," answered she.

te Nay, that is impossible too," returned he, with anxiety.
" You share her confidence — you are perpetually with
her ; and for that reason, even if she did not confide in
you (which I know and rejoice that she does), you would
yet be acquainted with all her inclinations."

" I believe I am perfectly acquainted with them," re
plied Miss Woodley, with a significance in her voice and
manner which convinced him there was some secret to
learn.

After a hesitation, —

C( It is far from me," replied he, ff to wish to be intrusted
with the private sentiments of those who desire to with
hold them from me ; much less would I take any unfair
means to be informed. To ask any more questions of you,
I believe, would be unfair. Yet I cannot but lament that
I am not as well instructed as you are. I wish to prove
my friendship to Miss Milner, but she will not suffer me ;
and every step that I take for her happiness, I take in the
most perplexing uncertainty."

Miss Woodley sighed — but she did not speak. He
seemed to wait for her reply ; but as she made none, he
proceeded, —

" If ever breach of confidence could be tolerated, I cer
tainly know no occasion that would so justly authorise it
as the present. I am not only proper from character, but
from circumstances, to be relied upon : my interest is so

A SIMPLE STORY. 113

nearly connected with the interest, and my happiness with
the happiness of my ward, that those principles, as well as
my honour, would protect her against every peril arising
from my heing trusted."

" Oh, my Lord/' cried Miss V/oodley, with a most
forcible accent, " you are the last person on earth she
would pardon me for intrusting."

. " Why so ? " said he, warmly. " But that is the way —
the person who is our friend we distrust : where a com
mon interest is concerned, we are ashamed of drawing on
a common danger — afraid of advice, though that advice is
to preserve us. — Miss Woodley," said he, changing his
voice with excess of earnestness, " do you not believe that
I would do any thing to make Miss Milner happy ? "
" Any thing in honour, my Lord."
" She can desire nothing farther/' he replied in agi
tation. " Are her desires so unwarrantable that I cannot
grant them ? "

Miss Woodley again did not speak — and he conti
nued, —

" Great as my friendship is, there are certainly bounds
to it — bounds that shall save her in spite of herself;"
and he raised his voice.

se In the disposal of themselves," resumed he, with a
less vehement tone, "that great, that terrific disposal in
marriage (at which I have always looked with fear and
dismay), there is no accounting for the rashness of a
woman's choice, or sometimes for the depravity of her
taste. But in such a case, Miss Milner's election of a
husband sliall not direct mine. If she does not know how
to estimate her own value, I do. Independent of her for
tune, she has beauty to captivate the heart of any man ;
and with all her follies, she has a frankness in her manner,
an unaffected wisdom in her thoughts, a vivacity in her
conversation, and, withal, a softness in her demeanour, that
might alone engage the affections of a man of the nicest
sentiments, and the strongest understanding. I will not
see all these qualities and accomplishments debased. It is
my office to protect her from the consequences of a degrad
ing choice, and I will execute the obligation."

114? A SIMPLE STORY.

" My Lord, Miss Milner's taste is not a depraved one :
it is but too refined"

" What can you mean by that, Miss Woodley ? You
talk mysteriously. Is she not afraid that I will oppose her
inclinations ? "

(f She is sure that you will, my Lord."

" Then the person must be unworthy of her."

Miss Woodley rose from her seat — she clasped her
hands — every look and every gesture proved her alternate
resolution and irresolution to proceed farther. Lord Elm-
wood's attention was arrested before ; but now it was fixed
to a degree of curiosity and surprise, which her extraor
dinary manner could only have excited.

" My Lord," said she with a tremulous voice, te pro
mise me, declare to me, nay, swear to me, that it shall ever
remain a secret in your own breast, and I will reveal to you
on whom she has placed her affections."

This preparation made Lord Elmwood tremble; and
he ran over instantly in his mind all the persons he could
recollect, in order to arrive at the knowledge by thought,
quicker than by words. It was in vain he tried ; and he
once more turned his enquiring eyes upon Miss Woodley.
He saw her silent and covered with confusion. Again he
searched his own thoughts ; nor ineffectually as before.
At the first glance, the object was presented, and he beheld
— himself.

The rapid emotion of varying passions, which imme
diately darted over his features, informed Miss Woodley
that her secret was discovered. She hid her face, while
the tears that fell down to her bosom confirmed the truth
of his mind's suggestion, more forcibly than oaths could
have done. A short interval of silence followed, during
which she suffered tortures for the manner in which he
would next address her. A few seconds gave her this
reply : —

(t For God's sake, take care what you are doing : you
are destroying my prospects of futurity — you are making
this world too dear to me."

Her drooping head was then lifted up, and she caught
the eye of Dorriforth : she saw it beam expectation, amaze-

A SIMPLE STORY. 115

ment, joy, ardour, and love. Nay, there was a fire, a ve
hemence in the quick fascinating rays it sent forth, she
never before had seen. It filled her with alarm: she wished
him to love Miss Milner, but to love her with moderation.
Miss Woodley was too little versed in the subject to know
this would have been not to love at all ; at least not to the
extent of breaking through engagements, and all the various
obstacles that still militated against their union.

Lord Elmwood was sensible of the embarrassment his
presence gave Miss Woodley, and understood the reproaches
which she seemed to vent upon herself in silence. To
relieve her from both, he laid his hand with force upon
his heart, and said, " Do you believe me ? "

" I do, my Lord," she answered, trembling.

ct I will make no unjust use of what I know," he replied
with firmness.

" 1 believe you, my Lord."

" But for what my passions now dictate," continued he,
ft I will not hereafter answer. They are confused — they
are triumphant at present. I have never yet, however,
been vanquished by them ; and even upon this occasion,
my reason shall combat them to the last — and my reason
shall fail me, before I act dishonourably."

He was going to leave the room; she followed him, and
cried, " But, my Lord, how shall I see again the unhappy
object of my treachery ? "

" See her," replied he, e< as one to whom you meant no
injury, and to whom you have done none."

" But she would account it an injury."

" We are not judges of what belongs to ourselves," he
replied : " I am transported at the tidings you have re
vealed ; and yet, perhaps, it had been better if I had never
heard them."

Miss Woodley was going to say something farther ; but,
as if incapable of attending to her, he hastened out of the
room.

i 2

116 A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Miss WOODLEY stood for some time to consider which
way she was to go. The first person she met would en
quire why she had been weeping ; and if Miss Milner was
to ask the question, in what words could she tell, or in
what manner deny the truth ? To avoid her was her first
caution, and she took the only method : she had a hackney
coacli ordered, rode several miles out of town, and returned
to dinner with so little remains of her swollen eyes, that
complaining of the headach was a sufficient excuse for
them.

Miss Milner was enough recovered to be present at din
ner, though she hardly tasted a morsel. Lord Elmwood
did not dine at home, at which Miss Woodley rejoiced, but
at which Mr. Sandford appeared highly disappointed. He
asked the servants several times what my Lord said when
he went out ? They replied, ' ' Nothing more than that he
should not be at home to dinner." — "I can't imagine
where he dines ? " said Sandford. — ' f Bless me, Mr. Sand-
ford, can't you guess ? " cried Mrs. Horton, who by this
time was made acquainted with his intended marriage.
ff He dines with Miss Fenton, to be sure." — " No," re
plied Sandford, " he is not there : I came from thence just
now, and they had not seen him all day." Poor Miss
Milner, on this, began to eat a little ; for where we hope
for nothing, we receive small indulgences with joy.

Notwithstanding the anxiety and trouble under which
Miss Woodley had laboured all the morning, her heart for
many weeks had not felt so light as it did this day at din
ner. The confidence that she reposed in the promises of
Lord Elmwood ; the firm reliance she had upon his deli
cacy and his justice ; the unabated kindness with which
her friend received her, while she knew that no one sus
picious thought had taken harbour in her bosom ; and the
conscious integrity of her own intentions, though she might
have been misled by her judgment, all comforted her with
the hope she had done nothing she ought to wish recalled.

A SIMPLE STORY; 117

But although she felt thus tranquil, in respect to what she
had divulged, yet she was a good deal disquieted with the
dread of next seeing Lord Elmwood.

Miss Milner, not having spirits to go abroad, passed the
evening at home. She read part of a new opera, played
upon her harp, mused, sighed, occasionally talked with
Miss Woodley, and so passed the tedious hours till near
ten, when Mrs. Horton asked Mr. Sandford to play a game .
at piquet, and on his excusing himself, Miss Milner offered
in his stead, and was gladly accepted. They had just
begun to play when Lord Elmwood came into the room.
Miss Milner's countenance immediately brightened ; and
though she was in a negligent morning dress, and looked
paler than usual, she did not look less beautiful. Miss
Woodley was leaning on the back of her chair to observe
the game, and Mr. Sandford sat reading one of the fathers
at the other side of the fire-place. Lord Elmwood, as he
advanced to the table, bowed, not having seen the ladies
since the morning, nor Miss Milner that day : they returned
the salute, and he was going up to Miss Milner (as if to
enquire of her health), when Mr. Sandford, laying down his
book, said, —

" My Lord, where have you been all day ? "

" I have been very busy," replied he, and walking from
the card-table went up to him.

Miss Milner played one card for another.

" You have been at Mr. Fenton's this evening, I sup
pose ? " said Sandford.

" No ; not at all to-day."

" How came that about, my Lord ? "

Miss Milner played the ace of diamonds, instead of the
king of hearts.

ff I shall call to-morrow," answered Lord Elmwood ;
and then walking with a very ceremonious air up to Miss
Milner, said, " he hoped she was perfectly recovered."

Mrs. Horton begged her ' ' to mind what she was about."

She replied, " I am much better, sir."

He then returned to Sandford again : but never, during
all this time, did his eye once encounter Miss Woodley's ;
and she, with equal care, avoided his.
i 3

118 A SIMPLE STORY.

Some cold dishes were now brought up for supper ; Miss
Milner lost her deal, and the game ended.

As they were arranging themselves at the supper-table,
" Do, Miss Milner/' said Mrs. Horton, " have something
warm for your supper ; a chicken boiled, or something of
that kind : you have eaten nothing to-day."

With feelings of humanity, and apparently no other
sensation, — but never did he feel his philanthropy so for
cible, — Lord Elmwood said, " Let me beg of you, Miss
Milner, to have something provided for you."

The earnestness and emphasis with which these few
words were pronounced were more flattering than the finest
turned compliment would have been : her gratitude was
expressed in blushes, and by assuring him she was now
" so well as to sup on the provisions before her." She
spoke, however, and had not made the trial ; for the mo
ment she carried a morsel to her lips, she laid it on her
plate again, and turned paler, from the vain endeavour to
force her appetite. Lord Elmwood had always been at
tentive to her, but now he watched her as he would a child ;
and when he saw by her struggles that she could not eat,
he took her plate from her, gave her something else, and
all with a care and watchfulness in his looks, as if he had
been a tender-hearted boy, and she his darling bird, the
loss of which would embitter all the joy of his holidays.

This attention had something in it so tender, so officious,
and yet so sincere, that it brought the tears into Miss
Woodley's eyes, attracted the notice of Mr. Sandford, and
the observation of Mrs. Horton ; while the heart of Miss
Milner overflowed with a gratitude that gave place to no
sentiment except her love.

To relieve the anxiety which her guardian expressed,
she endeavoured to appear cheerful ; and that anxiety, at
length, really made her so. He now pressed her to take
one glass of wine with such solicitude, that he seemed to
say a thousand things besides. Sandford still made his
observations ; and being unused to conceal his thoughts
before the present company, he said bluntly, —

" Miss Fenton was indisposed the other night, my Lord,
and you did not seem half thus anxious about her."

A SIMPLE STORY. 119

Had Sandford laid all Lord Elmwood's estate at Miss
Milner's feet, or presented her with that eternal bloom which
adorns the face of a goddess, he would have done less to
endear himself to her, than by this one sentence : she looked
at him with a most benign countenance, and felt affliction
that she had ever offended him.

(t Miss Fenton," Lord Elmwood replied, C( has a brother
with her : her health and happiness are in his care ; —
Miss Milner's are in mine."

" Mr. Sandford," said Miss Milner, " I am afraid that
I behaved uncivilly to you last night ; will you accept of
an atonement ? "

" No, madam," returned he : " I accept no expiation
without amendment."

" Well, then," said she, smiling, ' '. suppose I promise
never to offend you again, — what then ? "

" Why, then, you'll break your promise."

" Do not promise him," said Lord Elmwood, " for he
means to provoke you to it."

In the like conversation the evening passed, and Miss
Milner retired to rest in far better spirits than her morn
ing's prospect had given her the least pretence to hope.
Miss Woodley, too, had cause to be well pleased ; but her
pleasure was in great measure eclipsed by the reflection,
that there was such a person as Miss Fenton. She wished
she had been equally acquainted with hers as with Miss
Milner's heart, and she would then have acted without in
justice to either ; but Miss Fenton had of late shunned
their society, and even in their company was of a temper
too reserved ever to discover her mind. Miss Woodley
was obliged, therefore, to act to the best of her own judg
ment only, and leave all events to Providence.

i 4

320 A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WITHIN a few weeks, in the house of Lord Elmwood,
every thing; and every person, wore a new face. He was
the professed lover of Miss Milner — she the happiest of
human heings ; Miss Woodley partaking in the joy — Mr.
Sandford lamenting, with the deepest concern, that -Miss
Teuton had heen supplanted : and what added poignantly
to his concern was, that she had heen supplanted by Miss
Milner. Though, a churchman, he bore his disappoint
ment with the impatience of one of the laity : he could
hardly speak to Lord Elm wood ; he would not look at Miss
Milner, and was displeased with every one. It was his
intention, when he first became acquainted with Lord
Elmwood's resolution, to quit his house ; and as the Earl
had, with the utmost degree of inflexibility, resisted all his
good counsel upon this subject, he resolved, in quitting
him, never to be his adviser again. But, in preparing to
leave his friend, his pupil, his patron, and yet him, who,
upon most occasions, implicitly obeyed his will, the spi
ritual got the better of the temporal man, and he deter
mined to stay, lest, in totally abandoning him to the pursuit
of his own passions, he should make his punishment even
greater than his offence. " My Lord," said he, " on the
stormy sea upon which you are embarked, though you will
not shun the rocks that your faithful pilot would point out,
he will, nevertheless, sail in your company, and lament
over your watery grave. The more you slight my advice,
the more you require it ; so that, until you command me
to leave your house (as I suppose you will soon do, to
oblige your lady), I will continue along with you."

Lord Elmwood liked him sincerely, and was glad that
he took this resolution; yet as soon as his reason and
affections had once told him that he ought to break with
Miss Fenton, and marry his ward, he became so decidedly
of this opinion, that Sandford's never had the most trivial
weight : nor would he even flatter the supposed authority
he possessed over him, by urging him to remain in his

A SIMPLE STORY. 121

house a single day contrary to his inclinations. Sandford
observed, with grief, this firmness ; hut finding it vain to
contend, submitted — not,, however, with a good grace.

Amidst all the persons affected by this change in Lord
Elmwood's marriage-designs, Miss Fenton was, perhaps,
affected the least : she would have been content to have
married — she was content to live single. Mr. Sandford
had been the first who made overtures to her on the part
of Lord Elmwood, and was the first sent to ask her to dis
pense with the obligation. She received both of these pro
posals with the same insipid smile of approbation, and the
same cold indifference at the heart.

It was a perfect knowledge of this disposition in his in
tended wife, which had given to Lord Elmwood's thoughts
on matrimony the idea of dreary winter ; but the sensi
bility of Miss Milner had now reversed that prospect into
perpetual spring, or the dearer variety of spring, summer,
and autumn.

It was a knowledge, also, of this torpor in Miss Fenton's
nature from which he formed the purpose of breaking with
her ; for Lord Elmwood still retained enough of the sanc
tity of his former state to have yielded up his own happi
ness, and even that of his beloved ward, rather than have
plunged one heart into affliction by his perfidy. This, be
fore he offered his hand to Miss Milner, he was perfectly
convinced would not be the case : even Miss Fenton her
self assured him, that her thoughts were more upon the
joys of heaven than upon those of earth ; and as this cir
cumstance would, she believed, induce her to retire into a
convent, she considered it a happy rather than an unhappy
event. Her brother, on whom her fortune devolved, if she
took this holy resolution, was exactly of her opinion.

Lost in the maze of happiness that surrounded her,
Miss Milner oftentimes asked her heart, and her heart
whispered like a flatterer, " Yes," " Are not my charms
even more invincible than I ever believed them to be ?
Dorriforth, the grave, the pious, the anchorite Dorriforth,
by their force, is animated to all the ardour of the most im
passioned lover ; while the proud priest, the austere guar
dian, is humbled, if I but frown, into the veriest slave of

122 A SIMPLE STORY.

love." She then asked, " Why did I not keep him longer
in suspense ? He could not have loved me more, I believe,
but my power over him might have been greater still. I
am the happiest of women in the affection he has proved
to me, but I wonder whether it would exist under ill
treatment ? If it would not, he still does not love me as
I wish to be loved — if it would, my triumph, my felicity,
would be enhanced." These thoughts were mere phantoms
of the brain, and never, by system, put into action ; but,
repeatedly indulged, they were practised by casual occur
rences ; and the dear-bought experiment of being loved in
spite of her faults (a glory proud women ever aspire to)
was, at present, the ambition of Miss Milner.

Unthinking woman ! she did not reflect, that to the
searching eye of Lord Elmwood she had faults, with her
utmost care to conceal or overcome them, sufficient to try
all his love, and all his patience. But what female is not
fond of experiments ? To which, how few there are that
do not fall a sacrifice !

Perfectly secure in the affections of the man she loved,
her declining, health no longer threatened her ; her declin
ing spirits returned as before ; and the suspicions of her
guardian being now changed to the liberal confidence of
a doting lover, she again professed all her former follies,
all her fashionable levities, and indulged them with less
restraint than ever.

For a while, blinded by his passion, Lord Elmwood
encouraged and admired every new proof of 'her restored
happiness ,• nor, till sufferance had tempted her beyond her
usual bounds, did he remonstrate. But she who, as his
ward, had been ever gentle, and (when he strenuously
opposed) always obedient, became, as a mistress, sometimes
haughty, and to opposition always insolent. He was sur
prised, but the novelty pleased him. And Miss Milner,
whom he tenderly loved, could put on no change, or ap
pear in no new character, that did not, for the time she
adopted it, seem to become her.

Among the many causes of complaint which she gave
him, want of economy in the disposal of her income was
one. Bills and drafts came upon him without number,

A SIMPLE STORY. 123

while the account, on her part, of money expended,
amounted chiefly to articles of dress that she sometimes
never wore, toys that were out of fashion before they were
paid for, and charities directed by the force of whim.
Another complaint was, as usual, extreme late hours, and
often company that he did not approve.

She was charmed to see his love struggling with his cen
sure, his politeness with his anxiety ; and, by the light,
frivolous, or resentful manner in which she treated his ad
monitions, she triumphed in showing to Miss Woodley,
and, more especially to Mr. Sandford, how much she dared
upon the strength of his affections.

Every thing in preparation for their marriage, which
was to take place at Elm wood House during the summer
months, she resolved, for the short time she had to remain
in London, to let no occasion pass of tasting all those plea
sures that were not likely ever to return, but which, though
eager as she was in their pursuit, she never placed in com
petition with those she hoped would succeed — those more
sedate and superior joys of domestic and conjugal happi
ness. Often, merely to hasten on the tedious hours that
intervened, she varied and diverted them with the many
recreations her intended husband could not approve.

It so happened, and it was unfortunate it did, that a
law-suit concerning some possessions in the West Indies,
and other intricate affairs that came with his title and
estate, frequently kept Lord Elmwood from his house part
of the day ; sometimes the whole evening ; and, when at
home, would often closet him for hours with his lawyers.
But while he was thus off his guard, Sandford never was
so ; and had Miss Milner been the dearest thing on earth
to him, he could not have watched her more vigilantly ; or
had she been the frailest thing on earth, he could not have
been more hard upon her, in all the accounts of her con
duct he gave to her guardian. Lord Elmwood knew, on
the other hand, that Sandford's failing was to think ill of
Miss Milner : he pitied him for it, and he pitied her for
it; and in all the aggravation which his representations
gave to her real follies, affection for them both, in the heart
of Dorriforth, stood between accusation and every other
unfavourable impression.

124 A SIMPLE STORY.

But facts are glaring ; and he, at length, heheld those
faults in their true colours, though previously pointed out
by the prejudice of Mr. Sandford.

As soon as Sandford perceived his friend's confutation
and uneasiness, " There, my Lord ! " cried he, exultingly,
" did I not always say the marriage was an improper one ?
But you would not be ruled — you would not see."

" Can you blame me for not seeing," replied his Lord
ship, (c when you were blind ? Had you been dispassionate,
had you seen Miss Milner's virtues as well as her faults, I
should have believed and been guided by you ; but you saw
her failings only, and therein have been equally deceived
with me, who have only beheld her perfections."

" My observations, however, my Lord, would have been
of most use to you ; for I have seen what to avoid."

(l But mine have been the most gratifying," replied he ;
" for I have seen — what I must always love."

Sandford sighed and lifted up his hands.

" Mr. Sandford," resumed Lord Elmwood, with a voice
and manner such as were usual to him, when not all the
power of Sandford, or of any other, could change his fixed
determination — " Mr. Sandford, my eyes are now open to
every failing, as well as to every accomplishment j to every
vice, as well as to every virtue, of Miss Milner ; nor will
I suffer myself to be again prepossessed in her favour, by
your prejudice against her — for I believe it was compas
sion at your unkind treatment that first gained her my
heart."

" I, my Lord ? " cried Sandford : " do not load me with
the burden — with the mighty burden of your love for her."

" Do not interrupt me. Whatever your meaning has
been, the effect of it is what I have described. Now, I
will no longer," continued he, " have an enemy, such as
you have been, to heighten her charms, which are too
transcendent in their native state. I will hear no more
complaints against her, but I will watch her closely myself;
and if I find her mind and heart (such as my suspicions
have of late whispered) too frivolous for that substantial
happiness I look for with an object so beloved, depend upon
my word, the marriage shall yet be broken off."

A SIMPLE STORY. 125

" I depend upon your word, it will, then/' replied
Sandford, eagerly.

(< You are unjust, sir, in saying so before the trial/'
replied Lord Elmwood ; (C and your injustice shall make
me more cautious, lest I follow your example."

" But, my Lord "

" My mind is made up, Mr. Sandford," returned he,
interrupting him. " I am no longer engaged to Miss
Milner than she shall deserve I should be ; but, in my strict
observations upon her conduct, I will take care not to wrong
her as you have done."

<( My Lord, call my observations wrong, when you have
reflected upon them as a man, and not as a lover : divest
yourself of your passion, and meet me upon equal ground."

" I will meet no one — I will consult no one : my own
judgment shall be the judge, and in a few months shall
marry me to her, or banish me from her for ever."

There was something in these last words, in the tone
and firmness with which they were delivered, that the heart
of Sandford rested upon with content : they bore the symp
toms of a menace that would be executed ; and he parted
from his patron with congratulations upon his wisdom, and
with giving him the warmest assurances of his firm reliance
on his word.

Lord Elmwood, having come to this resolution, was more
composed than he had been for several days before ; while
the horror of domestic wrangles — a family without subor
dination — a house without economy — in a word, a wife
without discretion, had been perpetually present to his
mind.

Mr. Sandford, although he was a man of understanding,
of learning, and a complete casuist, yet all the faults he
committed were entirely — for the want of knowing better.
He constantly reproved faults in others ; and he was most
assuredly too good a man not to have corrected and amended
his own, had they been .known to him — but they were not.
He had been for so long a time the spiritual superior of all
with whom he lived, had been so busied with instructing
others, that he had not once recollected that himself wanted
instruction:— and in such awe did his habitual severity

126' A SIMPLE STORY.

keep all about him, that although he had numerous friends,
not one told him of his failings; except just now Lord
Elmwood, but whom, in this instance, as a man in love, he
would not credit. Was there not then some reason for
him to suppose he had no faults ? His enemies, indeed,
hinted that he had ; but enemies he never hearkened to :
and thus, with all his good sense, wanted the sense to follow
the rule, Believe what your enemies say of you, rather than
what is said by your friends. For could an enemy, to
whom he would have listened, have whispered to Sandford
as he left Lord Elmwood, " Cruel, barbarous man ! you go
away with your heart satisfied, nay, even elated, in the
prospect that Miss Milner's hopes, on which she alone
exists — those hopes which keep her from the deepest
affliction, and cherish her with joy and gladness — will all
be disappointed. You flatter yourself it is for the sake of
your friend, Lord Elmwood, that you rejoice, and because
he has escaped a peril. You wish him well ; but there is
another cause for your exultation, which you will not seek
to know : it is, that in his safety shall dwell the punishment
of his ward. For shame ! for shame ! Forgive her faults,
as this of yours requires to be forgiven."

Had any one said this to Sandford, whom he would have
credited, or had his own heart suggested it, he was a man
of that rectitude and conscientiousness, that he would have
re turned immediately to Lord Elmwood, and have strength
ened all his favourable opinions of his intended wife ; but
having no such monitor, he walked on, highly contented,
and, meeting Miss Woodley, said, with an air of triumph, —

" Where's your friend? Where's Lady Elmwood?"

Miss Woodley smiled, and answered, — She was gone
with such and such ladies to an auction. " But why give
her that title already, Mr. Sandford ? "

" Because," answered he, " I think she will never have
it."

" Bless me, Mr. Sandford," said Miss Woodley, " you
shock me ! "

" I thought I should," replied he, " and therefore I told
it you."

" For Heaven's sake, what has happened ? "

A SIMPLE STORY. 127

ff Nothing new — her indiscretions only."

ef I know she is imprudent," said Miss Woodley ; <f I
can see that her conduct is often exceptionable — but then
Lord Elmwood surely loves her, and love will overlook a
great deal."

" He does love her — but he has understanding and re
solution. He loved his sister too, tenderly loved her, and
yet when he had taken the resolution, and passed his word
that he would never see her again — even upon her death
bed he would not retract it — no entreaties could prevail
upon him. And now, though he maintains, and J dare
say loves, her child, yet you remember, when you brought
him home, that he would not suffer him in his sight."

(( Poor Miss Milner ! " said Miss Woodley, in the most
pitying accents.

" Nay," said Sandford, " Lord Elmwood has not yet
passed his word, that he will never see her more — he has
only threatened to do it; — but I know enough of him to
know, that his threats are generally the same as if they
were performed."

" You are very good," said Miss Woodley, " to acquaint
me of this in time : I may now warn Miss Milner of it,
and she may observe more circumspection."

" By no means," cried Sandford, hastily. " What would
you warn her for? It will do her no good. Besides,"
added he, " I don't know whether Lord Elmwood does
not expect secrecy on my part ; and if he does "

f( But, with all deference to your opinion," said Miss
Woodley (and with all deference did she speak ), " don't
you think, Mr. Sandford, that secrecy upon this occasion
would be criminal ? For consider the anguish that it may
occasion to my friend ; and if by advising her, we can
save her from " She was proceeding.

" You may call it criminal, madam, not to inform her
of what I have hinted at," cried he : " but I call a breach
of confidence — if it was divulged to me in confidence "

He was going to explain ; but Miss Milner entered, and
put an end to the discourse. She had been passing the
whole morning at an auction, and1 had laid out near two
hundred pounds in different things for which she had no

128 A SIMPLE STORY.

one use, but .bought them because they were said to be
cheap. Among the rest was a lot of books upon chemistry,
and some Latin authors.

" Why, madam," cried Sandford, lo'oking over the ca
talogue, where her purchases were marked by a pencil,
' f do you know what you have done ? You can't read a
word of these books."

" Can't I, Mr. Sandford?— But I assure^ou that you
will be very much pleased with them, when you see how
elegantly they are bound."

" My dear," said 'Mrs. Horton, " why have you bought
china ? You and my Lord Elmwood have more now than
you have places to put them in."

' ( Very true, Mrs. Horton ; I forgot that : but, then,
you know, I can give these away."

Lord Elmwood was in the room at the conclusion of
this conversation: he shook his head and sighed.

" My Lord," -said she, " I have had a very agreeable
morning ; but I wished for you : if you had been with me,
I should have bought a great many other things; but
I did not like to appear unreasonable in your absence."

Sandford fixed his inquisitive eyes upon Lord Elmwood,
to observe his countenance: he smiled, but appeared
thoughtful. t

fc And oh ! my Lord, I have bought you a present,"
said she.

" I do not wish for a present, Miss Milner."

" What ! not from me? — Very well."

" If you present me with yourself, it is all that I ask."

Sandford moved upon his chair, as if he sat uneasy.

ee Why, then, Miss Woodley," said Miss Milner, " you
shall have the present. But then it won't suit you — it is
for a gentleman. I'll keep it and give it to my Lord
Frederick the first time I meet with him. I saw him this
morning, and he looked divinely : I longed to speak to
him."

Miss Woodley cast, by stealth, an eye of apprehension
upon Lord Elmwood's face, and trembled at seeing it
flushed with resentment.

Sandford stared with both his eyes full upon him ; then

A SIMPLE STORY. 129

drew himself upright oh his chair, and took a pinch of
snuff upon the strength of the Earl's uneasiness.

A silence ensued.

After a short time — " You all appear melancholy/' said
Miss Milner : ' c I wish I had not come home yet."

Miss Woodley was in agony : she saw Lord Elmwood's
extreme displeasure, and dreaded lest he should express it
by some words he could not recall, or she could not forgive :
therefore, whispering to her she had something particular to
say, she took her out of the room.

The moment she was gone, Mr. Sandford rose nimbly
from his seat, rubbed his hands, walked briskly across the
room, then asked Lord Elmwood, in a cheerful tone,
' ' whether he dined at home to-day ? "

That which had given Sandford cheerfulness had so
depressed Lord Elmwood that he sat dejected and silent.
At length he answered in a faint voice, " No ; I believe I
shall not dine at home."

" Where is your Lordship going to dine ? " asked Mrs.
Horton : " I thought we should have had your company
to-day : Miss Milner dines at home, I believe."

" I have not yet determined where I shall dine," replied
he, taking no notice of the conclusion of her speech.

f( My Lord, if you mean to go to the hotel, I'll go with
you, if you please," cried Sandford officiously.

" With all my heart, Sandford " — and they both went
out together, before Miss Milner returned to the apartment.

CHAPTER XXV. .

Miss WOODLEY, for the first time, disobeyed the will of
Mr. Sandford ; and as soon as Miss Milner and she were
alone, repeated all he had revealed to her ; accompanying
the recital with her usual testimonies of sympathy and
affection. But had the genius of Sandford presided over
this discovery, it could not have influenced the mind cf
Miss Milner to receive the intelligence with a temper more
K

ISO A SIMPLE STORY.

exactly the opposite of that which it was the intention of
the informer to recommend. Instead of shuddering at the
menace Lord Elmwood had uttered, she said, she " dared
him to perform it. He dares not," repeated she.

" Why dares not ?" said Miss Woodley.

" Because he loves me too well — because his own hap
piness is too dear to him."

f< I helieve he loves you," replied Miss Woodley, " and
yet there is a doubt if "

" There shall be no longer a doubt," cried Miss Milner :
" I'll put him to the proof/'

<e For shame, my dear ! you talk inconsiderately : what
can you mean by proof?"

" I mean I will do something that no prudent man ought
to forgive ; and yet, with all his vast share of prudence, he
shall forgive it, and make a sacrifice of just resentment to
partial affection."

" But if you should be disappointed, and he should not
make the sacrifice ?" said Miss Woodley.

" Then I have only lost a man who had no regard for me."

' c He may have a great regard for you, notwithstanding.''

" But for the love I have felt, and do still feel, for my
Lord Elmwood, I will have something more than a great
regard in return."

ce You have his love, I am sure."

"But is it such as mine ? — / could love him if he had
a thousand faults. And yet," said she, recollecting her
self — " and yet I believe his being faultless was the first
cause of my passion."

Thus she talked on — sometimes in anger, sometimes ap
parently in jest — till her servant came to let her know the
dinner was served. Upon entering the dining-room, and
seeing LordElmwood's place at table vacant, she started back.
She was disappointed of the pleasure she expected in dining
with him ; and his sudden absence, so immediately after
the intelligence that she had received from Miss Woodley,
increased her disquietude. She drew her chair, and sat
down with an indifference that predicted she should not
eat ; and as soon as she was seated, she placed her fingers
sullenly upon her lips, nor touched her knife and fork, nor

A SIMPLE STORY. 131

spoke a word in reply to any thing that was said to her
during the whole dinner. Miss Woodley and Mrs. Horton
were both too well acquainted with the good disposition of
her heart, to take offence, or appear to notice this beha
viour. They dined, and said nothing either to provoke or
soothe her. Just as the dinner was going to be removed, a
loud rap came at the door. " Who is that ? " said Mrs.
Horton. One of the servants went to the window, and
answered, " My Lord and Mr. Sandford, madam."
" Come back to dinner, as I live ! " cried Mrs. Horton.
Miss Milner continued her position, and said nothing ;
but at the corners of her mouth, which her fingers did not
entirely conceal, there were discoverable a thousand dimpled
graces like small convulsive fibres, which a restrained smile
upon Lord Elmwood's return had sent there.
Lord Elmwood and Sandford entered.
" I am glad you are returned, my Lord," said Mrs. Hor
ton, " for Miss Milner has not tasted of one thing ! "

" It was only because I had no appetite," returned she,
blushing like crimson.

(t We should not have come back," said Sandford, " but
at the place where we went to dine, all the rooms were
filled with company."

Lord Elmwood put the wing of a fowl on Miss Milner's
plate, but without previously asking if she chose any j yet
she condescended to eat : they spoke to each other, too, in
the course of conversation, but it was with a reserve that
appeared as if they had been quarrelling, and felt so to
themselves, though no such circumstance had happened.

Two weeks passed away in this kind of distant behaviour
on both sides, without either of them venturing a direct
quarrel, and without either of them expressing, except in
advertently, their strong affection for each other.

During this time they were once, however, very near
becoming the dearest friends in expression as well as in sen
timent. This arose from a favour that he granted, in com
pliance with her desire, though that desire had not been
urged, but merely insinuated ; and as it was a favour which
he had refused to the repeated requests of many of his
friends, the value of the obligation was heightened.
K 2

132 A SIMPLE STORY.

She and Miss Woodley had taken an airing to see the
poor child, young Rushbrook. Lord Elmwood enquiring
of the ladies how they had passed their morning, Miss
Milner frankly told him ; and added, what pain it gave her
to leave the child behind, as he had again cried to come
away with her.

te Go, for him, then, to-morrow," said Lord Elmwood,
' ' and bring him home."

f { Home ! " she repeated, with surprise.

" Yes," replied he : " if you desire it, this shall be his
home : you shall be a mother, and I will, henceforward, be
a father to him."

Sandford, who was present, looked unusually sour at this
high token of regard for Miss Milner ; yet, with resent
ment on his face, he wiped a tear of joy from his eye, for
the boy's sake. His frown was the force of prejudice, his
tear the force of nature.

Rushbrook was brought home; and whenever Lord Elm-
wood wished to show a kindness to Miss Milner, without
directing it immediately to her, he took his nephew upon
his knee, talked to him, and told him, he " was glad they
had become acquainted."

In the various, though delicate, struggles for power be
tween Miss Milner and her guardian, there was not one
person a witness to these incidents who did not suppose
that all would at last end in wedlock : for the most common
observer perceived that ardent love was the foundation of
every discontent, as well as of every joy they experienced.
One great incident, however, totally reversed the hope of
all future accommodation.

The fashionable Lady G gave a masked ball.

Tickets were presented to persons of quality and fashion :
among the rest, three were sent to Miss Milner. She had
never been at a masquerade, and received them with ecstasy ;
the more especially as, the mask being at the house
of a woman of fashion, she did not conceive there could
be any objection to her going. She was mistaken : the
moment she mentioned it to Lord Elmwood, he desired her,
somewhat sternly, a not to think of being there." — She
was vexed at the prohibition, but more at the manner in

A SIMPLE STORY. 133

which it was delivered, and boldly said, that " she should
certainly go."

She expected a rebuke for this ; but what alarmed her
much more, he said not a word : but he looked with a
resignation, which foreboded her greater sorrow than the
severest reproaches would have done. She sat for a minute,
reflecting how to rouse him from this composure : she first
thought of attacking him with upbraidings ; then she
thought of soothing him, and at last of laughing at him.
This was the most dangerous method of all, and yet this
she ventured upon.

" I am sure your Lordship," said she, <e with all your
saintliness, can have no objection to my being present at
the masquerade, if I go as a nun."

He made no reply.

" That is a habit," continued she, " which covers a
multitude of faults ; and, for that evening, I may have the
chance of making a conquest even of you — nay, I question
not, if, under that inviting attire, even the pious Mr. Sand-
ford would not ogle me."

"Hush !" said Miss Woodley.

' ' Why hush ? " cried Miss Milner, aloud, though Miss
Woodley had spoken in a whisper. <( I am sure," con
tinued she, " I am only repeating what I have read in
books about nuns and their confessors."

f( Your conduct, Miss Milner," replied Lord Elmwood,
" gives evident proofs of the authors you have read : you
may spare yourself the trouble of quoting them."

Her pride was hurt at this, beyond bearing ; and as she
could not, like him, govern her anger, it flushed in her
face, and almost forced her to tears.

" My Lord," said Miss Woodley, in a tone so soft and
peaceful that it might have calmed the resentment of both,
— ' f my Lord, suppose you were to accompany Miss Mil
ner ? There are tickets for three, and you can then have
no objection."

Miss Milner's brow was immediately smoothed ; and she
fetched a sigh, in anxious expectation that he would consent.

" I go, Miss Woodley ! " he replied, with astonishment.
" Do you imagine I would play the buffoon at a masquerade ?'

K3

134 A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Milner's fate changed to its former appearance.

ee I have seen grave characters there, my Lord," said
Miss Woodley.

" Dear Miss Woodley/' cried Miss Milner, " why per
suade Lord Elmwood to put on a mask, just at the time he
has laid it aside."

His patience was now tempted to its height, and he an
swered, " If you suspect me of inconsistency, madam, you
shall find me changed."

Pleased that she had been able at last to irritate him,
she smiled with a degree of triumph, and in that humour
was going to reply; but before she could speak four words,
and before she thought of it, he abruptly left the room.

She was highly offended at this insult, and declared,
"from that moment she banished him from her heart for
ever." To prove that she set his love and his anger at
equal defiance, she immediately ordered her carriage,
and said, she fc was going to some of her acquaintance,
whom she knew to have tickets, and with whom she
would fix upon the habit she was to appear in at the
masquerade ; for nothing, unless she was locked up, should
alter the resolution she had formed of being there." To
remonstrate at that moment, Miss Woodley knew would
be in vain. Her coach came to the door, and she drove
away.

She did not return to dinner, nor till it was late in the
evening. Lord Elmwood was at home, but he never once
mentioned her name.

She came home, after he had retired, in great spirits ;
and then, for the first time in her whole life, appeared
careless what he might think of her conduct : but her whole
thoughts were occupied upon the business which had em
ployed the chief of her day ; and her dress engrossed aJJ
her conversation, as soon as Miss Woodley and she were
alone. She told her she had been shown the greatest variety
of beautiful and becoming dresses she had ever beheld:
' e and yet," said she, " I have at last fixed upon a very
plain one ; but one I look so well in, that you will hardly
know me, when I have it on."

" You are seriously, then, resolved to go," said Miss

A SIMPLE STORY. 135

Woodley, " if you hear no more on the subject from your
guardian ? "

" Whether I do hear or not,, Miss Woodley, I am equal
ly resolved to go."

" But you know, my dear, he has desired you not ; and
you used always to obey his commands."

" As my guardian I certainly did obey him ; and I could
obey him as a husband ; but as a lover I will not."

"Yet that is the way never to have him for a hus
band."

" As he pleases ; for if he will not submit to be my
lover, I will not submit to be his wife — nor has he the
affection that I require in a husband."

Thus the old sentiments, repeated again and again, pre
vented a separation till towards morning.

Miss Milner, for that night, dreamed less of her guar-r
dian than of the masquerade. On the evening of the next
day it was to be: she was up early, breakfasted in her
dressing-room, and remained there most of the day, busied
in a thousand preparations for the night ; one of them was,
to arrange her hair in falling ringlets. Her next care was,
that her dress should display her fine person to the best
advantage. It did so. Miss Woodley entered as it was
trying on, and was all astonishment at the elegance of the
habit, and its beautiful effect upon her graceful figure ; but,
most of all, she was astonished at her venturing on such a
character; for though it represented the goddess of Chastity,
yet from the buskins, and the petticoat festooned far above
the ankle, it had, on a first glance, the appearance of a
female much less virtuous. Miss Woodley admired this
dress, yet objected to it ; but as she admired first, her ob
jections after had no weight.

"Where is Lord Elmwood?" said Miss Milner: "he
must not see me."

" No, for Heaven's sake," cried Miss Woodley : " I
would not have him see you in such a disguise for the
universe."

" And yet," returned the other, with a sigh, " why am I
then thus pleased with my dress? for I had rather he should
K 4

136 A SIMPLE STORY.

admire me than all the world besides, and yet he alone
must not see me in it."

" But he would not admire you so dressed/' said Miss
Woodley.

" How shall I contrive to avoid him/' said Miss Milner,
"if in the evening he should offer to hand me into my
carriage ? But I believe he will not be in good humour
enough to do that."

" You had better dress at the house of the ladies with
whom you go," said Miss Woodley ; and this was agreed
upon.

At dinner they learnt that Lord Elmwood was to go that
evening to Windsor, in order to be in readiness for the
king's hunt early in the morning. This intelligence having
dispersed Miss Milner's fears, she concluded upon dressing
at home.

Lord Elmwood appeared at dinner, in an even, but not
in a good temper. The subject of the masquerade was
never mentioned, nor indeed was it once in his thoughts ;
for though he was offended at his ward's behaviour on the
occasion, and considered that she committed a fault 'in tell
ing him, f< she would go," yet he never suspected she
meant to do so ; not even at the time she said she did ;
much less that she would persist, coolly and deliberately,
in so direct a contradiction to his will. She, on her part,
flattered herself, that his going to Windsor was intended
in order to give her an opportunity of passing the evening
as she pleased, without his being obliged to know of it,
and consequently to complain. Miss Woodley, who was
willing to hope as she wished, began to be of the same
opinion; and, without reluctance, dressed herself as a
wood-nymph to accompany her friend.

CHAPTER XXVI.

AT half after eleven, Miss Milner's chair and another with
Miss Woodley took them from Lord Elmwood's, to call

A SIMPLE STORY. 13?

upon the party (wood-nymphs and huntresses) who were
to accompany them, and make up the suite of Diana.

They had not left the house two minutes, when a thun
dering rap came at the door : it was Lord Elmwood in a
post-chaise. Upon some occasion the next day's hunt was
deferred : he had been made acquainted with it, and came
from Windsor at that late hour. After he had informed
Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford, who were sitting together,
of the cause of his sudden return, and had some supper
ordered to he brought in for him, he enquired, " what
company had been supping there ? "

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

" Nay," returned he, " I saw two chairs, with several
servants, come out of the door as I drove up, but what
livery I could not discern."

" We have had no creature here," repeated Mrs. Horton.

" Nor has Miss Milner had visiters ? " asked he.

This brought Mrs. Horton to her recollection, and she
cried. " Oh ! now I know;" — and then checked herself,
as if sh6 knew too much.

" What do you know, madam ? " said he, sharply.

"Nothing," said Mrs. Horton, "I know nothing;"
and she lifted up her hands and shook her head.

" So all people say, who know a great deal," cried Sand-
ford ; " and I suspect that is at present your case."

" Then I know more than I wish, I am sure, Mr.
Sandford," returned she, shrugging up her shoulders.

Lord Elmwood was all impatience.

" Explain, madam, explain."

" Dear, my Lord," said she, " if your Lordship will re
collect, you may just have the same knowledge that I
have."

" Recollect what ?" said he, sternly.

" The quarrel you and your ward had about the mas
querade."

" What of that ? She is not gone there ? " he cried.

" I am not sure she is," returned Mrs. Horton. " But
if your Lordship saw two sedan chairs going out of this

138 A SIMPLE STORY.

house, I cannot but suspect it must be Miss Milner and
my niece going to the masquerade."

He made no answer, but rung the bell violently. A
servant entered. " Send Miss Milner' s maid hither/' said
he, " immediately/' The man withdrew.

cc Nay, my Lord/' cried Mrs. Horton, ' ' any of the other
servants could tell you just as well, whether Miss Milner
is at home, or gone out."

" Perhaps not," replied he.

The maid entered.

<e Where is your mistress ? " said Lord Elmwood.

The woman had received no orders to conceal where the
ladies were gone, and yet a secret influence, which governs
the thoughts of all waiting-women and chambermaids,
whispered to her that she ought not to tell the truth.

(s Where is your mistress ? " repeated he, in a louder
voice than before.

" Gone out, my Lord," she replied.

"Where?"

" My lady did not tell me."

" And don't you know ? "

" No, my Lord," she answered, and without blushing.

( c Is this the night of the masquerade ? " said he.

f ' I don't know, my Lord, upon my word ; but I believe,
my Lord, it is not."

Sandford, as soon as Lord Elmwood had asked the last
question, ran hastily to the table, at the other side of the
room, took something from it, and returned to his place
again ; and when the maid said, " It was not the night of
the masquerade," he exclaimed, ff But it is, my Lord, it is,
— yes, it is!" and showing a newspaper in his hand,
pointed to the paragraph which contained the information.

" Leave the room," said Lord Elmwood to the woman :
ce I have done with you." She went away.
- " Yes, yes, here it is," repeated Sandford, with the
paper still in his hand. He then read the paragraph : —

" The masquerade at the Right Honourable Lady G 's

this evening" — ' This evening, my Lord, you find' — " it
is expected will be the most brilliant of any thing of the kind
for these many years past."

A SIMPLE STORY.

139

<c They should not put such things in the papers/' said
Mrs. Horton, " to tempt young women to their ruin." The
word ruin grated upon Lord Elmwood's ear ; and he said
to the servant who came to wait on him while he supped,
" Take the supper away." He had not attempted either
to eat, or even to sit down ; and he now walked backwards
and forwards in the room, lost in thought and care.

A little time after, one of Miss Milner's footmen came
in upon some occasion, and Mr. Sandford said to him,
" Pray did you attend your lady to the masquerade ? "
" Yes, sir," replied the man.

Lord Elmwood stopped himself short in his walk, and
said to the servant, " You did ? "
" Yes, my Lord," replied he.
He walked again.

" I should like to know what she was dressed in," said
Mrs. Horton ; and turning to the servant, " Do you know
what your lady had on ? "

" Yes, madam," replied the man ; " she was in men's
clothes."

" How !" cried Lord Elmwood.

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

" No," cried Sandford, " I am sure he does not ; for
he is an honest good young man, and would not tell a lie
upon any account. Would you, Thomas ?"

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

f( In what dress did your lady go to the masquerade ? "
he asked, and with a look so extremely morose, it seemed
to command the answer in a single word, and that word to
be truth.

A mind, with a spark of sensibility more than this wo
man possessed, could not have equivocated with such an
interrogator ; but her reply was, " She went in her own
dress, my Lord."

" Was it a man's or a woman's ? " asked he, with a look
of the same command.

' ' Ha, ha, my Lord ! " half laughing and half crying ;
" a woman's dress, to be sure, my Lord."

140 A SIMPLE STORY.

On which Sandford cried, —

" Call the footman up, and let him confront her."

He was called ; but Lord Elmwood, now disgusted at
the scene, withdrew to the further end of the room, and
left Sandford to question them.

With all the authority and consequence of a country
magistrate, Sandford, his back to the fire, and the witnesses
before him, began with the footman.

fc In what dress do you say that you saw your lady de
corated, when you attended, and went along with her to
the masquerade ? "

" In men's clothes," replied the man, boldly and firmly
as before.

(f Bless my soul, Thomas, how can you say such a
thing ? " cried the woman.

Cf What dress do you say she went in ? " cried Sandford
to her.

" In women's clothes, indeed, sir."

" This is very odd ! " said Mrs. Horton.

<( Had she on, or had she not on, a coat?" asked Sand-
ford.

fc Yes, sir, a petticoat," replied the woman.

f ' Do you say she had on a petticoat ? " said Sandford to
the man.

" I can't answer exactly for that," replied he ; " but I
know she had boots on."

<( They were not boots," replied the maid, with vehe
mence. " Indeed, sir," turning to Sandford, " they were
only half boots."

" My girl," said Sandford kindly to her, " your own
evidence convicts your mistress ; what has a woman to do
with any boots ? "

Impatient at this mummery, Lord Elmwood rose, or
dered the servants out of the room, and then, looking at
his watch, found it was near one. " At what hour am I
to expect her home ? " said he.

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

" Three ! more likely six," cried Sandford.

A SIMPLE STORY. 141

" I can't wait with patience till that time," answered
Lord Elmwood, with a deep and most anxious sigh.

" You had hetter go to bed, my Lord," said Mrs. Hor-
ton ; " and, by sleeping, the time will pass away unper-
ceived."

" If I could sleep, madam."

" Will you play a game of cards, my Lord ? " said
Sandford ; " for I will not leave you till she comes home :
and though I am not used to sit up all night "

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

" And yet, after going," said Sandford, C( in defiance to
your commands, I should suppose she dared."

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

(t She does not know herself what company she is in,"
replied he.

" How should she," cried Sandford, <c where every one
hides his face ? "

Till five o'clock in the morning, in conversation such as
this, the hours lingered away. Mrs. Horton, indeed, re
tired to her chamber at two, and left the gentlemen to a
more serious discourse ; but a discourse still less advanta
geous to poor Miss Milner.

She, during this time, was at the scene of pleasure she
had painted to herself; and all the pleasure it gave her
was, that she was sure she should never desire to go to a
masquerade again. Its crowd and bustle fatigued her —
its freedom offended her delicacy : and though she per
ceived that she was the first object of admiration in the
place, yet there was one person still wanting to admire ;
and the regret at having transgressed his injunctions for
so trivial an entertainment weighed upon her spirits, and
added to their weariness. She would have come away
sooner than she did : but she could not, with any degree
of good manners, leave the company with whom she went;
and not till half after four were they prevailed on to
return.

Daylight just peeped through the shutters of the room
in which Lord Elmwood and Sandford were sitting, when

142 A SIMPLE STORY,

the sound of her carriage,, and the sudden stop it made at
the door, caused Lord Elmwood to start from his chair.
He trembled extremely, and looked pale. Sandford was
ashamed to seem to notice it, yet he could not help asking
him '< to take a glass of wine." He took it, and for once
evinced he was reduced so low as to be glad of such a re
source.

What exact passion thus agitated Lord Elmwood at this
crisis it is hard to define. Perhaps it was indignation at
Miss Milner's imprudence, and exultation at being on the
point of revenge: perhaps his emotion arose from joy, to
find that she was safe returned: perhaps it was perturb
ation at the grief he felt that he must upbraid her : per
haps it was not one alone of these sensations, but all of
them combined.

She, wearied out with the tedious night's dissipation,
and far less joyous than melancholy, had fallen asleep as
she rode home, and came half asleep out of her carriage.
" Light me to my bedchamber instantly," said she to her
maid, who waited in the hall to receive her. But one of
Lord Elmwood's valets went up to her, and answered,
" Madam, my Lord desires to see you before you retire/'

"" Your Lord \" she cried: <f is he not from town ?"

" No, madam, my Lord has been at home ever since
you went out ; and has been sitting up with Mr. Sandford
waiting for you."

She was wide awake immediately. The he'aviness was
removed from her eyes ; but fear, sorrow, and shame,
seized upon her heart. She leaned against her maid, as if
unable to support herself under those feelings, and said to
Miss Woodley, —

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

Miss Woodley was alarmed at the prospect of going to
him by herself, and thus, perhaps, irritating him still more:
she, therefore, said, " He has sent for you ; for Heaven's
sake do not disobey him a second time."

" No, dear madam, don't," cried her woman; ee for he
is like a lion — he has been scolding me."

' Good God ! " exclaimed Miss Milner, and in a tone

A SIMPLE STORY. 143

.that seemed prophetic ; ' ' then he is not to be my husband,
after all!"

" Yes/' cried Miss Woodley, " if you will only be
humble, and appear sorry. You know your power over
him, and all may yet be well."

She turned her speaking eyes upon her friend, the tears
.startling from them, her lips trembling — tf Do I not ap
pear sorry ? " she cried.

"The bell at that moment rang furiously, and they has
tened their steps to the door of the apartment where Lord
Elmwood was.

" No," replied Miss Woodley to her last question, '' this
shuddering is only fright : say to him you are sorry, and
beg his pardon."

" I cannot," replied she, " if Mr. Sandford be with
him."

The servant opened the door, and she and Miss Wood-
ley went in. Lord Elmwood, by this time, was composed,
and received her with a slight inclination of his head : she
bowed to him in return, and said, with some marks of
humility, —

" I suppose, my Lord, I have done wrong."
" You have, indeed, Miss Milner," answered he ; " but
do not suppose that I mean to upbraid you : I am, on the
contrary, going to release you from any such apprehension
for the future."

v Those last three words he delivered with a countenance
so serious and so determined, with an accent so firm and
so decided, they pierced through her heart. Yet she did
not weep, or even sigh ; but her friend, knowing what she
felt, exclaimed, " Oh !" as if for her.

She herself strove with her anguish, and replied (but
with a faltering voice), " I expected as much, my Lord."
" Then, madam, you perhaps expect all that I intend ? "
" In regard to myself," she replied, " I suppose I do."
" Then," said he, " you may expect that in a few days
we shall part."

" I am prepared for it, my Lord," she answered, and,
while she said so, sunk upon a chair.

" My Lord, what you have to say farther," said Miss

144 A SIMPLE STORY.

Woodley, in tears, tf defer till the morning : — Miss Mil.
ner, you see, is not able to bear it now."

(f I have nothing to nay farther," replied he, coolly :
f( I have now only to act."

tf Lord Elmwood," cried Miss Milner, divided between
grief and anger, " you think to terrify me by your me
naces ; but I can part with you : Heaven knows I can.
Your late behaviour has reconciled me to a separation."

On this he was going out of the room ; but Miss Wood-
ley, catching hold of him, cried, " Oh ! my Lord, do not
leave her in this sorrow : pity her weakness, and forgive
it." She was proceeding ; and he seemed as if inclined
to listen, when Sandford called out in a tone of voice so
harsh, —

" Miss Woodley, what do you mean ? " She gave a
start, and desisted.

Lord Elm wood then turned to Sandford, and said, —
ef Nay, Mr. Sandford, you need entertain no doubts of me:

I have judged, and have deter "

He was going to say determined ; but Miss Milner, who
dreaded the word, interrupted the period, and exclaimed, —
ee Oh ! could my poor father know the days of sorrow I
have experienced since his death, how would he repent his
fatal choice of a protector ! "

This sentence, in which his friend's memory was re
called, with an additional allusion to her long and secret
love for him, affected Lord Elmwood. He was much
moved, but ashamed of being so, and as soon as possible
conquered the propensity to forgive. Yet, for a short in
terval, he did not know whether to go out of the room, or
to remain in it ; whether to speak, or to be silent. At length
he turned towards her, and said, —

" Appeal to your father in some other form : in that
(pointing at her dress), he will not know you. Reflect
upon him, too, in your moments of dissipation, and let his
memory control your indiscretions ; not merely in an
hour of contradiction call peevishly upon his name, only
to wound the dearest friend you have."

There was a degree of truth, and a degree of passionate
feeling, in the conclusion of this speech, that alarmed

A SIMPLE STORY. 145

Sandford : he caught up one of the candles, and, laying
hold of his friend's elbow, drew him out of the room,
crying, « Come, my Lord, come to your bedchamber — it
is very late — it is morning — it is time to rise." And by
a continual repetition of these words, in a very loud voice,
he wilfully drowned whatever Lord Elmwood, or any other
person, might have wished either to have said or to have
heard.

In this manner, Lord Elmwood was forced out of the
apartment, and the evening's vicissitudes ended.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Two whole days passed in the bitterest suspense on the
part of Miss Milner, while neither one word nor look from
Lord Elmwood denoted the most trivial change of the
sentiments he had declared on the night of the masquerade.
Still those sentiments or intentions were not explicitly de
livered : they were more like intimations than solemn de
clarations : — for though he had said, ' ' he would never
reproach her for the future," and that " she might expect
they should part," he had not positively said they should ;
and upon this doubtful meaning of his words, she hung
with the strongest agitation of hope and of fear.

Miss Woodley, seeing the distress of her mind (much as
she endeavoured to Conceal it), entreated, nay implored of
her to permit her to be a mediator ; to suffer her to ask
for a private interview with Lord Elmwood, and, if she
found him inflexible, to behave with a proper spirit in re
turn ; but if he appeared not absolutely averse to a recon
ciliation, to offer it in so cautious a manner, that it might
take place without farther uneasiness on either side. But
Miss Milner peremptorily forbade this, and, acknowledging
to her friend every weakness she felt on the occasion, yet
concluded with solemnly declaring, that " after what had
passed between her and Lord Elmwood, he must be the
L

146 A SIMPLE STORY.

first to make a concession before she herself would conde
scend to be reconciled."

" I believe I know Lord Elmwood's temper/' replied
Miss Woodley j " and I do not think he will be easily in
duced to beg pardon for a fault which he thinks you have
committed."

" Then he does not love me."

" Pshaw ! Miss Milner, this is the old argument. He
may love you too well to spoil you. Consider that he is
your guardian as well as your lover : he means also to be
come your husband ; and he is a man of such nice honour,
that he will not indulge you with any power before mar
riage, to which he does not intend to submit hereafter."

" But tenderness, affection, the politeness due from a
lover to his mistress demands his submission ; and as I
now despair of enticing, I will oblige him to it : at least
I'll make the experiment, and know my fate at once."

" What do you mean to do ?"

" Invite Lord Frederick to the house, and ask my guar
dian's consent for our immediate union : you will then see
what effect that measure will have upon his pride."

" But you will then make it too late for him to be hum
ble. If you resolve on this, my dear Miss Milner, you
are undone at once ; you may thus hurry yourself into a
marriage with a man you do not love, and the misery of
your whole future life may be the result. Or, would you
force Mr. Dorriforth (I mean Lord Elm wood) to another
duel with my Lord Frederick ? "

" No, call him Dorriforth," answered she, with the tears
stealing from her eyes : ' ' I thank you for calling him so ,
for by that name alone is he dear to me."

" Nay, Miss Milner, with what rapture did you not re
ceive his love as Lord Elmwood!"

" But under this title he has been barbarous ; under the
first, he was all friendship and tenderness."

Notwithstanding Miss Milner indulged herself in all
these soft bewailings to her friend, before Lord Elmwood
she maintained a degree of pride and steadiness which
surprised even him, who perhaps thought less of her love
for him than any other person. She now began to fear

A SIMPLE STORY; 147

she had gone too far in discovering her affection, and re
solved to make trial of a contrary method. She determined
to retrieve that haughty character which had inspired so
many of her admirers with passion, and take the chance of
its effect upon this only suitor, to whom she ever acknow
ledged a mutual attachment. But although she resumed
and acted this character well — so well that every one but
Miss Woodley thought her in earnest ; yet, with nice and
attentive anxiety, she watched even the slightest circum
stances that might revive her hopes, or confirm her de
spair. Lord Elmwood's behaviour was calculated only to
produce the latter : he was cold, polite, and perfectly in
different. Yet, whatever his manners now were, they did
not remove from her recollection what they had been. She
recalled, with delight, the ardour with which he had first
declared his passion to her, and the thousand proofs he had
since given of its reality. From the constancy of his dis
position, she depended that sentiments like these were not
totally eradicated ; and from the extreme desire which Mr.
Sandford now, more than ever, discovered of depreciating
her in his patron's esteem : from the now more than com
mon zeal which urged him to take Lord Elmwood from her
company, whenever he had it in his power, she was led to
believe that while his friend entertained such strong fears
of his relapsing into love, she had reason to indulge the
strongest hopes that he would relapse.

But the reserve, and even indifference, that she had so
well assumed for a few days, and which might, perhaps,
have effected her design, she had not the patience to per
severe in, without calling levity to their aid. She visited
repeatedly without saying where, or with whom ; kept
later hours than usual — appeared in the highest spirits;
sung, laughed, and never heaved a sigh, but when she was
alone.

Still Lord Elmwood protracted a resolution, that he was
determined he would never break when taken.

Miss Woodley was excessively uneasy, and with cause.
She saw her friend was providing herself with a weight of
cares, which she might soon find infinitely too much for
her strength to bear. She would have reasoned with her,

148 A SIMPLE STORY.

but all her arguments had long since proved unavailing.
She wished to speak to Lord Elmwood upon the subject,
and (unknown to her) plead her excuse ; but he appre
hended Miss Woodley's intention, and evidently shunned
her. Mr. Sandford was now the only person to whom she
could speak of Miss Milner ; and the delight he took to ex
patiate on her faults was more sorrow to her friend than
not to speak of her at all. She, therefore, sat a silent
spectator, waiting with dread for the time when she, who
now scorned her advice, would fly to her in vain for
comfort.

Sandford had, however, said one thing to Miss Woodley,
which gave her a ray of hope. During their conversation
on the subject (not by way of consolation to her but as a
reproach to Lord Elmwood), he one day angrily exclaimed,
ff And yet, notwithstanding all this provocation, he has not
come to the determination that he will think no more of
her : he lingers and he hesitates. I never saw him so
weak upon any occasion before."

This was joyful hearing to Miss "Woodley : still she
could not but reflect, the longer he was in coming to this
determination the more irrevocable it would be when once
taken ; and every moment that passed she trembled lest it
should be the very moment in which Lord Elmwood should
resolve to banish Miss Milner from his heart.

Amongst her unpardonable indiscretions, during this
trial upon the temper of her guardian, was the frequent
mention of many gentlemen who had been her professed
admirers, and the mention of them with partiality. Teased,
if not tortured, by this, Lord Elmwood still behaved with
a manly evenness of temper, and neither appeared pro
voked on the subject nor insolently careless. In a single
instance, however, this calmness was near deserting him.

Entering the drawing-room, one evening, he started, on
seeing Lord Frederick Lawnley there, in earnest convers
ation with Miss Milner.

Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley were both indeed pre
sent, and Lord Frederick was talking in an audible voice
upon some indifferent subjects ; but with that impressive
manner in which a man never fails to speak to the woman

A SIMPLE STORY. 149

he loves, be the subject what it may. The moment Lord
Elmwood started, which was the moment he entered, Lord
Frederick arose.

" I beg your pardon, my Lord," said Lord Elmwood ;
te I protest I did not know you."

" I ought to entreat your Lordship's pardon," returned
Lord Frederick, " for this intrusion, which an accident alone
has occasioned. Miss Milner has been almost overturned
by the carelessness of a lady's coachman, in whose carriage
she was, and therefore suffered me to bring her home in
mine."

" I hope you are not hurt," said Lord Elmwood to Miss
Milner ; but his voice was so much affected by what he
felt, that he could scarce articulate the words. Not with
the apprehension that she was hurt was he thus agitated ;
for the gaiety of her manners convinced him that could
not be the case,, nor did he indeed suppose any accident of
the kind mentioned had occurred ; but the circumstance
of unexpectedly seeing Lord Frederick had taken him off
his guard ; and being totally unprepared, he could not con
ceal indications of the surprise and of the shock it had
given him.

Lord Frederick, who had heard nothing of his intended
union with his ward, (for it was even kept a secret, at pre
sent, from every servant in the house,) imputed this dis
composure to the personal resentment he might bear him,
in consequence of their duel ; for though Lord Elmwood
had assured the uncle of Lord Frederick (who once waited
upon him on the subject of Miss Milner) that all resent
ment was, on his part, entirely at an end ; and that he was
willing to consent to his ward's marriage with his nephew,
if she would concur j yet Lord Frederick doubted the sin
cerity of this protestation, and would still have had the de
licacy not to have entered Lord Elmwood's house, had he
not been encouraged by Miss Milner, and emboldened by
his love. Personal resentment was therefore the construc
tion he put upon Lord Elmwood's emotion on entering the
room ; but Miss Milner and Miss Woodley knew his agi
tation to arise from a far different cause.

After his entrance, Lord Frederick did not attempt once
L 3

150 A SIMPLE STORY.

to resume his seat ; but having howed most respectfully to
all present, he took his leave, while Miss Milner followed
him as far as the door, and repeated her thanks for his
protection.

Lord Elmwood was hurt beyond measure ; but he had
a second concern, which was, that he had not the power
to conceal how much he was affected. He trembled.
When he attempted to speak, he stammered : he perceived
his face burning with confusion ; and thus one confusion
gave birth to another, till his state was pitiable.

Miss Milner, with all her assumed gaiety and real in
solence, had not, however, the insolence to seem as if she
observed him ; she had only the confidence to observe him
by stealth. And Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley having
opportunely begun a discourse upon some trivial occur
rences, gave him time to recover himself by degrees. Still it
was merely by degrees ; for the impression which this inci
dent had made was deep, and not easily to be erased. The
entrance of Mr. Sandford, who knew nothing of what had
happened, was, however, another relief; for he began a
conversation with him, which they very soon retired into
the library to terminate. Miss Milner, taking Miss Wood-
ley with her, went directly to her own apartment, and there
exclaimed in rapture, —

"He is mine! — he loves me! — and he is mine for
ever ! "

Miss Woodley congratulated her upon believing so, but
confessed she herself ' f had her fears."

" What fears ? " cried Miss Milner. " Don't you per
ceive that he loves me ? "

" I do," said Miss Woodley ; " but that I always be
lieved ; and I think if he loves you now he has yet the
good sense to know that he has reason to hate you."

" What has good sense to do with love ? " returned Miss
Milner. " If a lover of mine suffers his understanding to
get the better of his affection "

The same arguments were going to be repeated; but
Miss Woodley interrupted her, by requiring an explana
tion of her conduct as to Lord Frederick, whom, at least,

A SIMPLE STORY. 151

she was treating with cruelty, if she only made use of his
affection to stimulate that of Lord Elmwood.

" By no means, my dear Miss Woodley," returned she.
" I have, indeed, done with my Lord Frederick from this
day, and he has certainly given me the proof I wanted of
Lord Elmwood's love; but then I did not engage him
to this by the smallest ray of hope. No ; do not suspect
me of such artifice while my heart was another's ; and I
assure you, seriously, that it was from the circumstance we
described he came with me home : yet, I must own, that
if I had not had this design upon Lord Elmwood's jealousy
in idea, I would have walked on foot through the streets,
rather than have suffered his rival's civilities. But he
pressed his services so violently, and my Lady Evans (in
whose coach I was when the accident happened) pressed
me so violently to accept them, that he cannot expect any
farther meaning from this acquiescence than my own con
venience."

Miss Woodley was going to reply, when she resumed, —

" Nay, if you intend to say I have done wrong, still I
am not sorry for it, when it has given me such convincing
proofs of Lord Elmwood's love. Did you see him ? I am
afraid you did not see how he trembled, nor observe how
that manly voice faltered, as mine does sometimes ? His
proud heart was humbled too, as mine is sometimes. Oh !
Miss Woodley, I have been counterfeiting indifference to
him — I now find that all his indifference to me has
been counterfeit also, and that we not only love, but love
equally."

" Suppose this all as you hope, I yet think it highly
necessary that your guardian should be informed, seriously
informed, it was mere accident (for, at present, that plea
seems but as a subterfuge,) which brought Lord Frederick
hither."

' ( No ; that will be destroying the work so successfully
begun. I will not suffer any explanation to take place,
but let my Lord Elmwood act just as his love shall dictate:
and now I have no longer a doubt of its excess, instead of
stooping to him, I wait in the certain expectation of his
submission to me."

L 4

152 A SIMPLE STORY.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN vain, for three long days, did Miss Milner wait im
patiently for this suhmission ; not a sign, not a symptom
appeared. Nay, Lord Elmwood had, since the evening of
Lord Frederick's visit, (which, at the time it took place,
seemed to affect him so exceedingly,) become just the same
man he was before the circumstance occurred : except, in
deed, that he was less thoughtful, and now and then cheer
ful ; but without any appearance that his cheerfulness was
affected. Miss Milner was vexed — she was alarmed, — but
was ashamed to confess those humiliating sensations even
to Miss Woodley. She supported, therefore, when in
company, the vivacity she had so long assumed ; but gave
way, when alone, to a still greater degree of melancholy
than usual. She no longer applauded her scheme of bring
ing Lord Frederick to the house, and was terrified lest, on
some pretence, he should dare to call again. But as these
were feelings which her pride would not suffer her to dis
close even to her friend, who would have condoled with
her, their effects were doubly poignant.

Sitting in her dressing-room one forenoon with Miss
Woodley, and burdened with a load of grief that she
blushed to acknowledge ; while her companion was charged
with apprehensions that she too was loath to disclose, one of
Lord Elmwood's valets tapped gently at the door, and
delivered a letter to Miss Milner. By the person who
brought it, as well as by the address, she knew it came
from Lord Elmwood, and laid it down upon her toilet, as
if she was fearful to unfold it.

" What is that?" said Miss Woodley.

" A letter from Lord Elmwood," replied Miss Milner.

' c Good Heaven ! " exclaimed Miss Woodley.

" Nay," returned she, " it is, I have no doubt, a letter
to beg my pardon." But her reluctance to open it plainly
evinced she did not think so.

" Do not read it yet," said Miss Woodley.

A SIMPLE STORY. 153

" I do not intend it," replied she, trembling extremely.

1 ' Will you dine first ? " said Miss Woodley.

" No : for not knowing its contents, I shall not know
how to conduct myself towards him."

Here a silence followed. Miss Milner took up the letter
— looked earnestly at the hand- writing on the outside —
at the seal — inspected into its folds — and seemed to wish,
by some equivocal method, to guess at the contents, without
having the courage to come at the certain knowledge of
them.

Curiosity, at length, got the better of her fears: she
opened the letter, and, scarcely able to hold it while she
read, she read the following words : —

" Madam,

" While 1 considered you only as my ward, my friend
ship for you was unbounded ; when I looked upon you as
a woman formed to grace a fashionable circle, my ad
miration equalled my friendship ; and when fate permitted
me to behold you in the tender light of my betrothed wife,
my soaring love left those humbler passions at a distance.

" That you have still my friendship, my admiration,
and even my love, I will not attempt to deceive either my
self or you by disavowing : but still, with a firm assurance,,
I declare, that prudence outweighs them all ; and I have
not, from henceforward, the slightest desire to be regarded
by you in any other respect than as one ' who wishes you
well.' That you ever beheld me in the endearing quality
of a destined and an affectionate husband (such as I would
have proved) has been a deception upon my hopes. They
acknowledge the mistake, and are humbled : but I entreat
you to spare their farther trial, and for a single week not
to insult me with the open preference of another. In the
short space of that period I shall have taken my leave of
you — for ever.

" I shall visit Italy, and some other parts of the Con
tinent ; from whence I propose passing to the West Indies,
in order to inspect my possessions there : nor shall I return
to England till after a few years' absence ; in which time
I hope to become once more reconciled to the change of

154 A SIMPLE STORY.

state I am enjoined — a change I now most fervently wish
could be entirely dispensed with.

" The occasion of my remaining here a week longer is
to settle some necessary affairs ; among which the principal
is, that of delivering to a friend, a man of worth and of ten
derness, all those writings which have invested me with
the power of my guardianship. He will, the day after my
departure (without one upbraiding word), resign them to
you in my name ; and even your most respected father,
could he behold the resignation, would concur in its pro
priety.

ff And now, my dear Miss Milner, let not affected re
sentment, contempt, or levity, oppose that serenity, which,
for the week to come, I wish to enjoy. By complying
with this request, give me to believe, that, since you have
been under my care, you think I have, at least, faithfully
discharged some part of my duty. And, wherever I have
been inadequate to your expectations, attribute my de
merits to some infirmity of mind, rather than to a negli
gence of your happiness. Yet, be the cause what it will,
since these faults have existed, I do not attempt to disavow
or extenuate them, and I beg your pardon.

ee However time and a succession of objects may eradi
cate more tender sentiments, I am sure never to lose the
liveliest anxiety for your welfare ; and with all that solici
tude, which cannot be described, I entreat for your own
sake, for mine, when we shall be far asunder, and for the sake
of your dead father's memory, that, upon every important
occasion, you will call your serious judgment to direct you.
" I am, Madam,

" Your sincerest friend,

" ELMWOOD."

After she had read every syllable of this letter carefully,
it dropped from her hands ; but she uttered not a word.
There was, however, a paleness in her face, a deadness in
her eye, and a kind of palsy over her frame, which Miss
Woodley, who had seen her in every stage of her unhap-
piness, never had seen before.

A SIMPLE STORY. 155

" I do not want to read the letter/' said Miss Woodley;
" your looks tell me its contents."

" They will then discover to Lord Elmwood," replied
•she, " what I feel ; but,, Heaven forbid — that would
sink me even lower than I am."

Scarce able to move, she rose, and looked in her glass,
as if to arrange her features, and impose upon him : alas !
it was of no avail — a contented mind could alone effect
what she desired.

" You must endeavour," said Miss Woodley, " to feel
the disposition you wish to make appear."

" I will," replied she : ' ' I will feel a proper pride, and,
consequently, a proper indifference to this treatment."

And so desirous was she to attain the appearance of
these sentiments, that she made the strongest efforts to calm
her thoughts, in order to acquire it.

<( I have but a few days to remain with him," she said
to herself, " and we part for ever. During those few days
it is not only my duty to obey his commands, or rather
comply with his request, but it is also my wish to leave
upon his mind an impression which may not add to the ill
opinion he has formed of me, but, perhaps, serve to di
minish it. If, in every other instance, my conduct has
been blamable, he shall, at least in this, acknowledge its
merit. The fate I have drawn upon myself he shall find
I can be resigned to ; and he shall be convinced that the
woman, of whose weakness he has had so many fatal
proofs, is yet in possession of some fortitude — fortitude
to bid him farewell, without discovering one affected or one
real pang, though her death should be the consequence of
her suppressed sufferings."

Thus she resolved and thus she acted. The severest
judge could not have arraigned her conduct, from the day
she received Lord Elmwood's letter to the day of his de
parture. She had, indeed, involuntary weaknesses, but
none with which she did not struggle, and in general her
struggles were victorious.

The first time she saw him after the receipt of his letter
was on the evening of the same day. She had a little concert
of amateurs of music, and was herself singing and playing

156

A SIMPLE STORY.

when he entered the room : the connoisseurs immediately
perceived she made a false cadence : but Lord Elmwood
was no connoisseur in the art, and he did not observe it.

They occasionally spoke to each other during the even
ing, but the subjects were general ; and though their man
ners, every time they spoke, were perfectly polite, they were
not marked with the smallest degree of familiarity. To
describe his behaviour exactly, it was the same as his letter
— polite, friendly, composed, and resolved. Some of the
company staid supper, which prevented the embarrassment
that must unavoidably have arisen, had the family been by
themselves.

The next morning each breakfasted in his separate apart
ments — more company dined with them : in the evening,
and at supper, Lord Elmwood was from home.

Thus, all passed on as peaceably as he had requested,
and Miss Milner had not betrayed one particle of frailty;
when, the third day at dinner, some gentlemen of his ac
quaintance being at table, one of them said, —

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

This was Friday.

Sandford and he both replied at the same time, " Yes."
And Sandford, but not Lord Elmwood, looked at Miss Mil
ner when he spoke. Her knife and fork gave a sudden
spring in her hand, but no other emotion witnessed what
she felt.

<e Ay, Elmwood," cried another gentleman at table,
" you'll bring home, I am afraid, a foreign wife, and that
I sha'n't forgive."

" It is his errand abroad, I make no doubt," said another
visiter.

Before he could return an answer, Sandford cried, " And
what objection to a foreigner for a wife? Do not crowned
heads all marry foreigners ? And who happier in the mar
ried state than some kings ? "

Lord Elmwood directed his eyes to the side of the table
opposite to that where Miss Milner sat.

" Nay," answered one of the guests, who was a country
gentleman, " what do you say, ladies ? Do you think my

A SIMPLE STORY. 15?

Lord ought to go out of his own nation for a wife ?" and he
looked at Miss Milner for the reply.

Miss Woodley, uneasy at her friend's being thus forced
to give an opinion upon so delicate a subject, endeavoured
to satisfy the gentleman, by answering to the question her
self: " Whoever my Lord Elmwood marries, sir/' said Miss
Woodley, " he, no doubt, will be happy."

" But what say you, madam ? " asked the visiter, still
keeping his eyes on Miss Milner.

" That whoever Lord Elmwood marries, he deserves to
be happy," she returned, with the utmost command of her
voice and looks ; for Miss Woodley, by replying first, had
given her time to collect herself.

The colour flew to Lord Elm wood's face, as she delivered
this short sentence ; and Miss Woodley persuaded herself
she saw a tear start in his eye.

Miss Milner did not look that way.

In an instant he found means to change the topic, but
that of his journey still employed the conversation ; and
what horses, servants, and carriages he took with him, was
minutely asked, and so accurately answered, either by him
self or by Mr. Sandford, that Miss Milner, although she
had known her doom before, till now had received no cir-
cumstvantial account of it; and as circumstances increase
or diminish all we feel, the hearing these things in detail
described increased the bitterness of their truth.

Soon after dinner the ladies retired ; and from that time,
though Miss Milner's behaviour continued the same, yet her
looks and her voice were totally altered. For the world,
she could not have looked cheerfully : for the world, she
could not have spoken with a sprightly accent : she fre
quently began in one, but not three words did she utter,
before her tones sunk into a melody of dejection. Not only
her colour but her features became changed ; her eyes lost
their brilliancy, her lips seemed to hang without the power
of motion, her head drooped, and her dress looked neglected.
Conscious of this appearance, and conscious of the cause
from whence it arose, it was her desire to hide herself from
the fatal object, the source of her despondency. Accord
ingly, she sat alone, or with Miss Woodley in her own

158 A SIMPLE STORY.

apartment, as much as was consistent with that civility
which her guardian had requested, and which forbade her
from totally absenting herself.

Miss Woodley felt so acutely the torments of her friend,
that had not her reason told her, that the inflexible mind
of Lord Elmwood was fixed beyond her power to shake,
she had cast herself at his feet, and implored the return of
his affection and tenderness, as the only means to save his
once-beloved ward from an untimely grave. But her un
derstanding — her knowledge of his firm and immovable
temper, and of all his provocations — her knowledge of his
word, long since given to Sandford, " that if once resolved,
he would not recall his resolution," — the certainty of the
various plans arranged for his travels, all convinced her,
that by any interference, she would only expose Miss MiL
ner's love and delicacy to a contemptuous rejection.

If the conversation, when the family were assembled,
did not every day turn upon the subject of Lord Elm wood's
departure, — a conversation he evidently avoided himself, —
yet, every day, some new preparation for his journey
struck either the ear or the eye of Miss Milner ; and had
she beheld a frightful spectre, she could not have shud
dered with more horror, than when she unexpectedly passed
his large trunks in the hall, nailed and corded, ready to be
sent off to meet him at Venice. At the sight, she flew
from the company that chanced to be with her, and stole
to the first lonely corner of the house to conceal her tears :
she reclined her head upon her hands, and bedewed them
with the sudden anguish that had overcome her. She
heard a footstep advancing towards the spot where she
hoped to have been secreted ; she lifted up her eyes, and
saw Lord Elmwood. Pride was the first emotion his pre
sence inspired ; pride, which arose from the humility into
which she was plunged.

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

He only answered with a bow, which expressed, " I
beg your pardon," and immediately withdrew.

Thus each understood the other's language, without
either having uttered a word.

A SIMPLE STOBY. 159

The just construction she put upon his looks and man
ner upon this occasion kept up her spirits for some little
time ; and she blessed Heaven for the singular favour of
showing to her, clearly, by this accident — his negligence
of her sorrows, his total indifference.

The next day was the eve of that on which he was to
depart — of the day on which she was to bid adieu to Dor-
riforth, to her guardian, to Lord Elmwood; to all her
hopes at once.

The moment she awoke on Monday morning, the re
collection that this was, perhaps, the last day she was ever
again to see him, softened all the resentment his yester
day's conduct had raised ; forgetting his austerity, and all
she had once termed cruelties, she now only remembered
his friendship, his tenderness, and his love. She was im
patient to see him, and promised herself, for this last day,
to neglect no one opportunity of being with him. For
that purpose she did not breakfast in her own room, as she
had done for several mornings before, but went into the
breakfast room, where all the family in general met. She
was rejoiced on hearing his voice as she opened the door ;
yet the mere sound made her tremble so much, that she
could scarcely totter to the table.

Miss Woodley looked at her as she entered, and was
never so shocked at seeing her ; for never had she yet seen
her look so ill. As she approached, she made an inclin
ation of her head to Mrs. Horton — then to her guardian,
as was her custom, when she first saw them in a morning :
he looked in her face as he bowed in return, then fixed his
eyes upon the fire-place, rubbed his forehead, and began
talking with Mr. Sandford.

Sandford, during breakfast, by accident cast a glance
upon Miss Milner : his attention was caught by her death
like countenance, and he looked earnestly. He then turned
to Lord Elmwood, to see if he was observing her appear
ance : he was not— and so much were her thoughts engaged
on him alone, that she did not once perceive Sandford
gazing at her.

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

160 A SIMPLE STORY.

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

Sandford cried, ' f For his part he slept too well to know."
And then (unasked) held a plate with biscuits to Miss
Milner: it was the first civility he had ever in his life
offered her : she smiled at the whimsicality of the circum
stance, hut she took one in return for his attention. He
looked grave beyond his usual gravity, and yet not with his
usual ill temper. She did not eat what she had so politely
taken, but laid it down soon after.

Lord Elmwood was the first who rose from breakfast,
and he did not return to dinner.

At dinner Mrs. Horton said, ee she hoped he would,
however, favour them with his company at supper."

To which Sandford replied, " No doubt, for you will
hardly any of you see him in the morning ; as we shall
be off by six, or soon after."

Sandford was not going abroad with Lord Elmwood,
but was to go with him as far as Dover.

These words of his — ' ' not see Lord Elmwood in the
morning" (which conveyed the sense, never again to see
him after this evening) — were like the knell of death to
Miss Milner. She felt the symptoms of fainting, and hur
ried by the dread of a swoon, snatched from the hand of a
servant a glass of water, which Sandford had just then
called for, and drank it hastily. As she returned the glass
to the servant, she began to apologise to Mr. Sandford —
but before she could utter what she intended, he said,
rather kindly, e( Never mind — you are welcome: I am
glad you took it." She looked at him to observe whether
he had really spoken kindly, or ironically ; but before his
countenance could satisfy her, her thoughts were called
away from that trivial matter, and again fixed upon Lord
Elmwood.

The moments seemed tedious till he came home to sup
per ; and yet, when she reflected how short the remainder
of the evening would be after that time, she wished to de
fer the hour of his return for months. At ten o'clock he
arrived ; and at half after ten the family, without any visiter,
met at supper.

A SIMPLE STORY. l6l

Miss Milner had considered, that the period for her to
counterfeit appearances was diminished now to a most con
tracted one; and she rigorously enjoined herself not to
shrink from the little which remained. The certain end,
that would he, so soon, put to this painful deception, en
couraged her to struggle through it with redoubled zeal ;
and this was but necessary, as her weakness increased. She
therefore listened, she talked, and even smiled with the rest
of the company, nor did their vivacity seem to arise from a
much less compulsive source than her own.

It was past twelve when Lord Elmwood. looked at his
watch, and rising from his chair, went up to Mrs. Horton,
and, taking her hand, said, " Till I see you again, madam,
I sincerely wish you every happiness."

Miss Milner fixed her eyes upon the table before her.

" My Lord," replied Mrs. Horton, " I sincerely wish
you health and happiness likewise."

He then went to Miss Woodley, and, taking her hand,
repeated much the same as he had said to Mrs. Horton.

Miss Milner now trembled beyond all power of conceal
ment.

" My Lord," replied Miss Woodley, a good deal affected,
" I sincerely hope my prayers for your happiness may be
heard."

She and Mrs. Horton were both standing, as well as
Lord Elmwood ; but Miss Milner kept her seat, till his eye
was turned upon her, and he moved slowly towards her :
she then rose ; every one who was present, attentive to
what he would now say, and how she would receive what
he said, here cast their eyes upon them, and listened with
impatience. They were all disappointed : he did not utter
a syllable. Yet he took her hand, and held it closely be
tween his. He then bowed most respectfully, and left her.

No sentence of, " I wish you well," — " I wish you health
and happiness;" — no " prayers for blessings on her;" —
not even the word " farewell " escaped his lips. Perhaps,
to have attempted any of these might have impeded his
utterance.

She had behaved with fortitude the whole evening, and
she continued to do so, till the moment he turned away

M

162 A SIMPLE STORY.

from her. Her eyes then overflowed with tears ; and in
the agony of her mind, not knowing what she did, she laid
her cold hand upon the person next to her : it happened to
be Sandford ; but not observing it was he, she grasped his
hand with violence ; yet he did not snatch it away, nor
look at her with his wonted severity. And thus she stood,
silent and motionless, while Lord Elmwood, now at the
door, bowed once more to all the company, and retired.

Sandford had still Miss Milner' s hand fixed upon his ;
and when the door was shut after Lord Elmwood, he
turned his head to look in her face, and turned it with
some marks of apprehension for the grief he might find
there. She strove to overcome that grief, and, after a
heavy sigh, sat down, as if resigned to the fate to which
she was decreed.

Instead of following Lord Elmwood, as usual, Sandford
poured out a glass of wine, and drank it. A general silence
ensued for near three minutes. At last turning himself
round on his chair towards Miss Milner, who sat like a
statue of despair at his side, " Will you breakfast with us
to-morrow ? " said he.

She made no answer.

" We sha'n't breakfast before half after six," continued
he, " I dare say ; and if you can rise so early — why, do."

"Miss Milner," said Miss Woodley (for she caught
eagerly at the hope of her passing this night in less un-
happiness than she had foreboded), " pray rise at that hour
to breakfast: Mr. Sandford would not invite you, if he
thought it would displease Lord Elmwood."

" Not I," replied Sandford, churlishly.

" Then desire her maid to call her," said Mrs. Horton
to Miss Woodley.

" Nay, she will be awake, I have no doubt," returned
her niece.

" No," replied Miss Milner, " since Lord Elmwood has
thought proper to take his leave of me, without even speak
ing a word, by my own design never will I see him again ;"
and her tears burst forth, as if her heart burst at the same
time.

' ( Why did not you speak to him ? " cried Sandford.

A SIMPLE STORY.

163

" Pray did you bid him farewell ? And I don't see why
one is not as much to be blamed in that respect as the
other."

" I was too weak to say I wished him happy," cried
Miss Milner ; " but Heaven is my witness, I do wish him
so from my soul."

" And do you imagine he does not wish you so ? " cried
Sandford. " You should judge him by your own heart;
and what you feel for him, imagine he feels for you, my
dear."

Though te my dear" is a trivial phrase, yet from certain
people, and upon certain occasions, it is a phrase of infinite
comfort and assurance. Mr. Sandford seldom said " my
dear" to any one — to Miss Milner never ; and upon this oc
casion, and from him, it was an expression most precious.

She turned to him with a look of gratitude : but as she
only looked, and did not speak, he rose up, and soon after
said, with a friendly tone he had seldom used in her pre
sence, " I sincerely wish you a good night."

As soon as he was gone, Miss Milner exclaimed, (e How
ever my fate may have been precipitated by the unkindness
of Mr. Sandford, yet, for that particle of concern which he
has shown for me this evening, I will always be grateful to
him."

<( Ay," cried Mrs. Horton, " good Mr. Sandford may
show his kindness now, without any danger from its con
sequences. Now Lord Elmwood is going away for ever,
he is not afraid of your seeing him once again." And she
thought she praised him by this suggestion.

CHAPTER XXIX.

WHEN Miss Milner retired to her bedchamber, Miss
Woodley went with her, nor would leave her the whole
night ; but in vain did she persuade her to rest, she ab*
solutely refused ; and declared she would never, from that
hour, indulge repose. t( The part I undertook to perform,"
M 2

164 A SIMPLE STORY.

cried she, " is over : I will now, for my whole life, appear
in my own character, and give a loose to the anguish I
endure."

As daylight showed itself — " And yet I might see him
once again/' said she ; " I might see him within these two
hours, if I pleased, for Mr. Sandford invited me."

" If you think, my dear Miss Milner," said Miss
Woodley, " that a second parting from Lord Elmwood
would but give you a second agony, in the name of Heaven
do not see him any more ; hut if you hope your mind
would he easier, were you to bid each other adieu in a more
direct manner than you did last night, let us go down and
breakfast with him. I'll go before, and prepare him for
your reception — you shall not surprise him — and I will
let him know, it is by Mr. Sandford's invitation you are
coming."

She listened with a smile to this proposal, yet objected
to the indelicacy of her wishing to see him, after he had
taken his leave ; but as Miss Woodley perceived that she
was inclined to infringe this delicacy, of which she had so
proper a sense, she easily persuaded her it was impossible
for the most suspicious person (and Lord Elmwood was
far from such a character) to suppose that the paying him
a visit at that period of time could be with the most dis
tant imagination of regaining his heart, or of altering one
resolution he had taken.

But though Miss Milner acquiesced in this opinion, yet
she had not the courage to form the determination that she
would go.

Daylight now no longer peeped, but stared upon them.
Miss Milner went to the looking-glass, breathed upon her
hands and rubbed them on her eyes, smoothed her hair
and adjusted her dress ; yet said, after all, t( I dare not
see him again."

fc You may do as you please," said Miss Woodley, " but
I will. I that have lived for so many years under the same
roof with him, and on the most friendly terms, and he
going away, perhaps, for these ten years, perhaps for ever,
I should think it a disrespect not to see him to the last
moment of his remaining in the house."

A SIMPLE STORY. l65

" Then do you go," said Miss Milner, eagerly ; " and
if he should ask for me, I will gladly come, you know ;
but if he does not ask for me, I will not — and pray don't
deceive me."

Miss Woodley promised her not to deceive her ; and
soon after, as they heard the servants pass about the house,
and the clock had struck six, Miss Woodley went to the
breakfast-room.

She found Lord Elmwood there in his travelling dress,
standing pensively by the fire-place — and, as he did not
dream of seeing her, he started when she entered, and, with
an appearance of alarm, said, " Dear Miss Woodley, what's
the matter?" — She replied " Nothing, my Lord; but I
could not be satisfied without seeing your Lordship once
again, while I had it in my power."

fc I thank you," he returned with a sigh — the heaviest
and most intelligent sigh she ever heard him condescend to
give. She imagined, also, that he looked as if he wished
to ask how Miss Milner did, but would not allow himself
the indulgence. She was half inclined to mention her to
him, and was debating in her mind whether she should or
not, when Mr. Sandford came into the room, saying, as he
entered, —

" For Heaven's sake, my Lord, where did you sleep last
night ? "

' ' Why do you ask ? " said he.

" Because," replied Sandford, " I went into your bed
chamber just now, and I found your bed made. You have
not slept there to-night."

" I have slept nowhere," returned he : "I could not
sleep ; and having some papers to look over, and to set off
early, I thought I might as well not go to bed at all."

Miss Woodley was pleased at the frank manner in which
he made this confession, and could not resist the strong
impulse to say, " You have done just then, my Lord,
like Miss Milner ; for she has not been in bed the whole
night."

Miss Woodley spoke this in a negligent manner, and
yet Lord Elmwood echoed back the words with solicitude,
' ' Has not Miss Milner been in bed the whole night ? "
M 3

166

A SIMPLE STORY.

fc If she is up, why does she not come to take some
coffee ?|" said Sandford, as he began to pour it out.

" If she thought it would be agreeable/' returned Miss
Woodley, " I dare say she would." And she looked at
Lord Elmwood while she spoke, though she did not abso
lutely address him ; but he made no reply.

" Agreeable ! " returned Sandford, angrily : c ' has she
then a quarrel with any body here ? Or does she suppose
any body here bears enmity to her ? Is she not in peace
and charity ? "

" Yes," replied Miss Woodley ; " that I am sure she
is."

" Then bring her hither/' cried Sandford, " directly.
Would she have the wickedness to imagine we are not all
friends with her ? "

Miss Woodley left the room, and found Miss Milner
almost in despair, lest she should hear Lord Elmwood's
carriage drive off before her friend's return.

e ' Did he send for me ? " were the words she uttered as
soon as she saw her.

fe Mr. Sandford did, in his presence," returned Miss
Woodley ; " and you may go with the utmost decorum,
or I would not tell you so."

She required no protestations of this, but readily fol
lowed her beloved adviser, whose kindness never appeared
in so amiable a light as at that moment.

On entering the room, through all the dead white of
her present complexion, she blushed to a crimson. Lord
Elmwood rose from his seat, and brought a chair for her
to sit down.

Sandford looked at her inquisitively, sipped his tea, and
said, <f He never made tea to his own liking."

Miss Milner took a cup, but had scarcely strength to
hold it.

It seemed but a very short time they were at breakfast,
when the carriage, that was to take Lord Elmwood away,
drove to the door. Miss Milner started at the sound : so
did he ; but she had nearly dropped her cup and saucer ;
on which Sandford took them out of her hand, saying, —

" Perhaps you had rather have coffee ? "

A SIMPLE STORY. l67

Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said.

A servant came in, and told Lord Elmwood, " The car.
riage was at the door."

He replied, " Very well." But though he had break
fasted, he did not attempt to move.

At last, rising briskly, as if it was necessary to go in
haste when he did go, he took up his hat, which he had
brought with him into the room, and was turning to Miss
Woodley to take his leave, when Sandford cried, " My
Lord, you are in a great hurry." And then, as if he
wished to give poor Miss Milner every moment he could,
added (looking about), " I don't know where I have laid
my gloves."

Lord Elmwood, after repeating to Miss Woodley his
last night's farewell, now went up to Miss Milner, and
taking one of her hands, again held it between his, but
still without speaking ; while she, unable to suppress her
tears, as heretofore, suffered them to fall in torrents.

ff What is all this ? " cried Sandford, going up to them
in anger.

They neither of them replied, or changed their situa
tion.

" Separate this moment," cried Sandford, " or resolve
to be separated only by — death."

The commanding and awful manner in which he spoke
this sentence, made them both turn to him in amazement,
and, as it were, petrified with the sensation his words had
caused.

He left them for a moment, and going to a small book
case in one corner of the room, took out of it a book, and,
returning with it in his hand, said, —

ff Lord Elmwood, do you love this woman ? "

<f More than my life," he replied, with the most heart
felt accents.

He then turned to Miss Milner: — " Can you say the
same by him ?"

She spread her hands over her eyes, and exclaimed,
"Oh, heavens!"

" I believe you can say so," returned Sandford ; ' ' and
in the name of God, and your own happiness, since this is
M 4

168 A SIMPLE STORY.

the state of you both, let me put it out of your power to
part."

Lord Elmwood gazed at him with wonder, and yet as if
enraptured by the sudden change this conduct gave to his
prospects.

She sighed with a kind of trembling ecstasy ; while
Sandford, with all the dignity of his official character, de
livered these words : —

" My Lord, while I thought my counsel might save you
from the worst of misfortunes, conjugal strife, I impor
tuned you hourly, and set forth your danger in the light it
appeared to me. But though old, and a priest, I can sub
mit to think I have been in an error ; and I now firmly
believe it is for the welfare of you both to become man and
wife. My Lord, take this woman's marriage vows — you
can ask no fairer promises of her reform — she can give
you none half so sacred, half so binding ; and I see by her
looks that she will mean to keep them. And, my dear,"
continued he, addressing himself to her, " act but under
the dominion of those vows towards a husband of sense
and virtue like him, and you will be all that I, himself, or
even Heaven can desire. Now, then, Lord Elmwood, this
moment give her up for ever, or this moment constrain
her with the rites which I shall perform, by such ties from
offending you, as she shall not dare to violate."

Lord Elmwood struck his forehead in doubt and agi
tation ; but, still holding her hand, he cried, ee I cannot
part from her." Then feeling this reply as equivocal, he
fell upon his knees, and said, " Will you pardon my hesi
tation ? And will you, in marriage, show me that tender
love you have not shoxvn me yet ? Will you, in possess
ing all my affections, bear with all my infirmities ? "

She raised him from her feet, and by the expression of
her countenance, by the tears that bathed his hands, gave
him confidence.

He turned to Sandford, then placing her by his own
side, as the form of matrimony requires, gave this for a
sign to Sandford that he should begin the ceremony. On
which he opened his book, and — married them.

With voice and manners so serious, so solemn, and so

A SIMPLE STORY. l(>9

fervent, he performed these holy rites, that every idea of
jest, or even of lightness, was ahsent from the mind of the .
whole party present.

Miss Milner, covered with shame, sunk on the bosom
of Miss Woodley.

When the ring was wanting, Lord Elmwood supplied it
with one from his own hand ; but throughout all the rest
of the ceremony he appeared lost in zealous devotion to
Heaven. Yet no sooner was it finished than his thoughts
descended to this world. He embraced his bride with all
the transport of the fondest, happiest bridegroom, and in
raptures called her by the endearing name of " wife."

" But still, my Lord," cried Sandford, " you are only
married by your own church and conscience, not by your
wife's, or by the law of the land ; and let me advise you
not to defer that marriage long, lest in the time you should
disagree^ and she refuse to become'your legal spouse."

" I think there is danger," returned Lord Elmwood,
fc and therefore our second marriage must take place to
morrow."

To this the ladies objected ; and Sandford was to fix
their second wedding-day, as he had done their first. He,
after consideration, gave them four days.

Miss Woodley then recollected (for every one else had
forgot it) that the carriage was still at the door to convey
Lord Elmwood far away. It was of course dismissed ;
and one of those great incidents of delight which Miss
Milner that morning tasted was to look out of the win
dow, and see this very carriage drive from the door un
occupied.

Never was there a more rapid change from despair to
happiness — to happiness perfect and supreme — than was
that which Miss Milner and Lord Elmwood experienced
in one single hour.

The few days that intervened between this and their
second marriage were passed in the delightful care of pre
paring for that happy day ; yet, with all its delights, in
ferior to the first, when every unexpected joy was doubled
by the once expected sorrow.

Nevertheless, on that first wedding-day, that joyful day,

170 A SIMPLE STORY.

which restored her lost lover to her hopes again; even on that
very day, after the sacred ceremony was over, Miss Milner
(with all the fears, the tremours, the superstition of her
sex,) felt an excruciating shock, when, looking on the
ring Lord 'Elm wood had put upon her finger, in haste,
when he married her, she perceived it was — a mourning
ring.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST.

CHAPTER XXX.

NOT any event throughout life can arrest the reflection of
a thoughtful mind more powerfully, or leave a more last
ing impression, than that of returning to a place after a
few years' absence, and observing an entire alteration, in
respect to all the persons who once formed the neighbour
hood : — to find that many, who but a few years before
were left in their bloom of youth and health, are dead—
to find that children left at school are married and have
children of their own — that some who were left in riches
are reduced to poverty — that others who were in poverty
are become rich ; — to find those once renowned for virtue
now detested for vice — roving husbands grown constant—
— constant husbands become rovers — the firmest friends
changed to the most implacable enemies — beauty faded;
— in a word, every change to demonstrate, that

fc All is transitory on this side the grave."

Guided by a wish that the reflecting reader may ex
perience the sensation which an attention to circumstances
like these must excite, he is desired to imagine seventeen
years elapsed since he has seen or heard of any of those
persons who, in the foregoing part of this narrative, have
been introduced to his acquaintance ; and then, supposing
himself at the period of those seventeen years, follow the
sequel of their history.

To begin with the first female object of this story: — -

A SIMPLE STORY. 1

The beautiful, the beloved Miss Milner — she is no longer
beautiful — no longer beloved — no longer — tremble while
you read it ! — no longer — virtuous.

Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth,
is become a hard-hearted tyrant; — the compassionate, the
feeling, the just Lord Elmwood, an example of implacable
rigour and injustice.

Miss Woodley is grown old, but less with years than
grief.

The boy, Rushbrook, is become a man ; and the appa
rent heir of Lord Elmwood's fortune ; while his own
daughter, his only child by his once-adored Miss Milner,
he refuses ever to see again, in vengeance to her mother's
crimes.

The least wonderful change is, the death of Mrs. Horton.
Except

Sandford, who remains much the same as heretofore.

We left Lady Elmwood at the summit of human happi
ness — a loving and beloved bride. We now find her upon
her death-bed.

At thirty-five, her c< course was run ;" a course full of
perils, of hopes, of fears, of joys, and, at the end, of sor
rows — all exquisite of their kind, for exquisite were the
feelings of her susceptible heart.

At the commencement of this story, her father is de
scribed in the last moments of his life, with all his cares
fixed upon her, his only child. How vain these cares !
how vain every precaution that was taken for her welfare !
She knows, she reflects upon this ; and yet, impelled by
that instinctive power which actuates a parent, Lady Elm-
wood on her dying day has no worldly thoughts, but that of
the future happiness of an only child. To every other
prospect in her view, c ' Thy will be done ! " is her con
tinual exclamation ; but where the misery of her daughter
presents itself, the expiring penitent would there combat
the will of Heaven.

To detail the progression by which vice gains a predomi
nancy in the heart may be a useful lesson ; but it is one
so little to the gratification of most readers, that the degrees
of misconduct by which Lady Elmwood fell are not meant

172 A SIMPLE STORY.

to be related here ; but instead of picturing every occasion
of her fall, to come briefly to the events that followed.

There are, nevertheless, some articles under the former
class, which ought not to be entirely omitted.

Lord Elmwood — after four years' enjoyment of the most
perfect happiness that marriage could give, after becoming
the father of a beautiful daughter, whom he loved with a
tenderness almost equal to his love of her mother — was
under the indispensable necessity of leaving them both for
a time, in order to rescue from the depredation of his own
steward his very large estates in the West Indies. His
voyage was tedious ; his residence there, from various ac
cidents, was prolonged from time to time, till near three
years had at length passed away. Lady Elmwood, at first
only unhappy, became at last provoked ; and giving way to
that irritable disposition which she had so seldom governed,
resolved, in spite of his injunctions, to divert the melan
choly hours caused by his absence, by mixing in the gay
circles of London.

Lord Elmwood at this time, and for many months be
fore, had been detained abroad by a severe and dangerous
illness, which a too cautious fear of her uneasiness had
prompted him to conceal ; and she received his frequent
apologies for not returning with a suspicion and resentment
they were calculated, but not intended, to inspire.

To violent anger succeeded a degree of indifference still
more fatal. Lady Elmwood's heart was not formed for
such a state : there, where all the tumultuous passions har
boured by turns, one among them soon found the means
to occupy all vacancies, — a passion, commencing inno
cently, but terminating in guilt. The dear object of her
fondest, her truest affections, absent, far off; those affec
tions painted the time so irksome that was past, so weari
some that which was still to come, that she flew from the
present tedious solitude to the dangerous society of one
whose mind, depraved by fashionable vices, could not re
pay her for a moment's loss of him whose felicity she
destroyed, whose dishonour she accomplished. Or if the
delirium gave her a moment's recompense, what were her
sufferings, her remorse, when she was awakened from the

A SIMPLE STORY. 1?

fleeting joy, by the arrival of her husband ! Happy, tran
sporting would have been that arrival but a few months
sooner ! As it would then have been unbounded happi
ness, it was now — but language affords no word that can
describe Lady Elmwood's sensations, on being told her
lord was arrived, and that necessity alone had so long de
layed his return.

Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her
shame, were the more excessive. She fled from the place
at his approach ; fled from his house, never again to return
to a habitation where he was the master. She did not,
however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter
herself in the most dreary retreat ; where she partook of
no one comfort from society, or from life, but the still un
remitting friendship of Miss Woodley. Even her infant
daughter she left behind, nor would allow herself the con
solation of her innocent, though reproachful, smiles. She
left her in her father's house, that she might be under his
virtuous protection ; parted with her, as she thought, for
ever, with all the agonies with which mothers part from
their infant children : and yet those agonies were still more
poignant on beholding the child sent after her, as the per
petual outcast of its father.

Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had been extravagant :
the effect of his hate was the same. Beholding himself
separated from her by a barrier not ever to be removed, he
vowed, in the deep torments of his revenge, never to be
reminded of her by one individual object ; much less by
one so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that
child his affections, would be, he imagined, still, in some
sort, to divide them with the mother. Firm in his reso
lution, the beautiful Matilda was, at the age of six years,
sent out of her father's house ; and received by her mother,
twith all the tenderness, but with all the anguish, of those
parents, who behold their offspring visited by the punish
ment due only to their own offences.

While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood's
agents at his command, himself was engaged in an affair
of still weightier importance — that of life or death. He
determined upon his own death, or the death of the man

174 A SIMPLE STORY.

who had wounded his honour and destroyed his happiness.
A duel with his old antagonist was the result of this deter
mination : nor was the Duke of Avon (who before the
decease of his father and eldest brother was Lord Frederick
Lawnley) averse from giving him all the satisfaction he re
quired; for it was no other than he,, whose passion for
Lady Elmwood had still subsisted, and whose address in
gallantry left no means unattempted for the success of his
designs — no other than he (who, next to Lord Elmwood,
had been of all her lovers the most favoured) to whom
Lady Elmwood sacrificed her own and her husband's fu
ture peace, and thus gave to his vanity a prouder triumph
than if she had never bestowed her hand in marriage on
another. This triumph, however, was but short : a month
only, after the return of Lord Elmwood, the Duke was
called upon to answer for his guilt, and was left on the
ground where they met, so defaced with scars, as never
again to endanger the honour of a husband. As Lord
Elmwood was inexorable to all accommodation, their en
gagement had continued for a long space of time ; nor
could any thing but the assurance that his opponent was
slain have at last torn him from the field, though himself
was dangerously wounded.

Yet even during the period of his danger, while for
days he lay in the continual expectation of his own disso
lution, not all the entreaties of his dearest, most intimate,
and most respected friends, could prevail upon him to pro
nounce forgiveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring
his daughter to him for his last blessing.

Lady Elmwood, who was made acquainted with the
minutest circumstance as it passed, appeared to wait the
news of her husband's decease with patience : but upon
her brow and in every lineament of her face was marked,
that his death was an event she would not for a day sur
vive ; and she would have left her child an orphan, in such
a case, to have followed Lord Elmwood to the tomb. She
was prevented the trial : he recovered ; and from the ample
vengeance he had obtained upon the irresistible person of
the Duke, he seemed, in a short time, to regain his tran
quillity.

A SIMPLE STOBY. 175

He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and lan
guished. Possessed of youth to struggle with her woes,
she still lingered on, till near ten years' decline had brought
her to that period, with which the reader is now to be
presented.

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN a lonely country on the borders of Scotland, a single
house, by the side of a dreary lieath, was the residence
of the once gay, volatile Miss Milner. In a large gloomy
apartment of this solitary habitation (the windows of
which scarcely rendered the light accessible) was laid
upon her death-bed the once lovely Lady Elmwood —
pale, half- suffocated from the loss of breath ; yet her
senses perfectly clear and collected, which served but to
sharpen the anguish of dying.

In one corner of the room, by the side of an old-fashioned
settee, kneels Miss Woodley, praying most devoutly for her
still beloved friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray com
posedly : floods of tears pour down her furrowed cheeks,
and frequent sobs of sorrow break through each pious
ejaculation.

Close by her mother's side, one hand supporting her
head, the other drying from her face the cold dew of
death, behold Lady Elm wood's daughter — Lord Elm wood's
daughter too ; yet he is far away, negligent of what either
suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often, and attempts
an embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall mo
tionless. The daughter, perceiving these ineffectual efforts,
has her whole face convulsed with grief: she kisses her
mother; holds her to her bosom; and hangs upon her
neck, as if she wished to cling there, not to be parted even
by the grave.

On the other side of the bed sits Sandford, his hairs
grown white, his face wrinkled with age, his heart the

176 A SIMPLE STORY.

same as ever — the reprover, the enemy of the vain, the
idle, and the wicked, but the friend and comforter of the
forlorn and miserable.

Upon those features where sarcasm, reproach, and anger
dwelt, to threaten and alarm the sinner, mildness, tender
ness, and pity beamed, to support and console the penitent.
Compassion changed his language, and softened all those
harsh tones that used to denounce perdition.

" In the name of God," said he to Lady Elm wood, " of
that God who suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and
pitied all our weaknesses — by Him, who has given his
word to take compassion on the sinners tears., I bid you
hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once
lived, be comforted ; by the sorrows you have known since
your degradation, hope, that in some measure, at least,
you have atoned ; by the sincerity that shone upon your
youthful face when I joined your hand, and those thousand
virtues you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were
not born to die the death of the wicked"

As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling
hand clasped his — her dying eyes darted a ray of bright
ness — but her failing voice endeavoured in vain to articu
late. At length, fixing her looks upon her daughter as
their last dear object, she was just understood to utter the
word, " Father."

" I understand you," replied Sandford ; " and by all
that influence I ever had over him, by my prayers, my
tears," and they flowed as he spoke, " I will implore him
to own his child."

She could now only smile in thanks,

" And if I should fail," continued he, " yet while I live
she shall not want a friend or protector — all an old man,

like me, can answer for " here his grief interrupted

him.

Lady Elm wood was sufficiently sensible of his words
and their import to make a sign as if she wished to embrace
him ; but, finding her life leaving her fast, she reserved
this last token of love for her daughter : with a struggle
she lifted herself from her pillow, clung to her child, and
died in her arms.

A SIMPLE STORY. 177

CHAPTER XXXII.

LORD ELMWOOD was by nature, and more from education,
of a serious, thinking, and philosophic turn of mind. His
religious studies had completely taught him to consider
this world but as a passage to another ; to enjoy with gra
titude what Heaven in its bounty should bestow, and to
bear with submission whatever in its vengeance it might
inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practised
this doctrine : and as soon as the shock which he received
from Lady Elmwood's infidelity was abated, an entire
calmness and resignation ensued ; but still of that sensible
and feeling kind, that could never suffer him to forget the
happiness he had lost : and it was this sensibility which
urged him to fly from its more keen recollection ; and which
he avowed as the reason why he would never permit Lady
Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing.
But this injunction (which all his friends, and even the
servants in the house who attended his person, had re
ceived,) was, by many people, suspected rather to proceed
from his resentment than his tenderness : nor did he deny
that resentment co-operated with his prudence ; for pru
dence he called it, not to remind himself of happiness he
could never taste again, and of ingratitude that might impel
him to hatred : and prudence he called it, not to form an
other attachment near to his heart, more especially so near
as a parent's, which might again expose him to all the tor
ments of ingratitude from an object whom he affectionately
loved.

Upon these principles he adopted the unshaken resolu
tion never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child ; or,
acknowledging her as such, never to see, to hear of, or take
one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death
of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he been so
inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had
solemnly and repeatedly made. She was now destitute of
the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty,

178 A SIMPLE STORY.

at least, to provide her a guardian, if he did not choose to
take that tender title upon himself: hut to mention either
the mother or child to Lord Elmwood was an equal offence,
and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his friends and
household ; and as he was an excellent good master, a sin
cere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his
acquaintance or dependents was hardy enough to incur
his certain displeasure, which was always violent to excess,
hy even the official intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death.

Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the
austere and morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of
late years evinced — Sandford wished, if possible, that
some other would undertake the dangerous task of recalling
to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife.
He advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him
on the subject ; but she reminded him that such a step
would be more perilous to her than to any other person, as
she was the most destitute being on earth, without the be
nevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs.
Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lady
Elmwood, and now her death had left her totally dependent
upon the Earl ; for Lady Elmwood, though she had sepa
rate effects, had long before her demise declared it was not
her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the form of
a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would
wholly submit to Lord Elmwood ; and, if it were even his
will that her child should live in poverty, as well as banish
ment, it should be so. But, perhaps, in this implicit
submission to him, there was a distant hope that the ne
cessitous situation of his daughter might plead more for
cibly than his parental love ; and that knowing her bereft
of every support but through himself, that idea might form
some little tie between them, and be at least a token of the
relationship.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle
upon which she acted should be concealed from his suspi
cion, she included her friend, Miss Woodley, in the same
fate ; and thus the only persons dear to her she left, but at
Lord Elmwood's pleasure, to be preserved from perishing
in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this

A SIMPLE STORY. 179

subject, her friend too disinterested; and at this moment
they were both without the smallest means of subsistence,
except through the justice or compassion of Lord Elm-
wood. Sandford had, indeed, promised his protection to
the daughter ; but his liberality had no other source than
from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except
during part of the winter, when the Earl resided in town :
he then mostly stole a visit to Lady Elmwood. On this
last visit he staid to see her buried.

After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now pre
paring to go to Lord Elmwood, at his house in town, and
there to deliver himself the news that must sooner or later
be told ; and he meant also to venture, at the same time,
to keep the promise he had made to his dying Lady. But
the news reached his Lordship before Sandford arrived : it
was announced in the public papers, and by that means
first came to his knowledge.

He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper
that first gave the intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death
was laid before him. The paragraph contained these
words : —

" On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in
Northumberland, the Right Honourable Countess Elmwood.
This Lady, who has not been heard of for many years in
the fashionable world, was a rich heiress, and of extreme
beauty ; but although she received overtures from many
men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the pre
sent Lord Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all ;
and it is said their marriage was followed by an uncommon
share of felicity, till his Lordship, going abroad, and re
maining there some time, the consequences (to a most cap
tivating young woman left without a protector) were such
as to cause a separation on his return. Her Ladyship has
left one child by the Earl, a daughter, aged fifteen."

Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this
as to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for
several minutes ; nor did he taste his chocolate during this
interval, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his
head upon his hand. He then rose up — walked two or
three times across the room — sat down again — took up
N 2

180 A SIMPLE STORY.

the paper — and read as usual. Nor let the vociferous
mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here complain of his
want of sensibility; but let them remember that Lord
Elm wood was a man- — a man of understanding — of
courage — of fortitude — above all, a man of the nicest
feelings ; and who shall say but that at the time he leaned
his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense
of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elm-
wood did in her last moments ?

Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was
not suspected by any one — yet he passed that day the
same as usual j the next day too, and the day after. On
the morning of the fourth, he sent for his steward to his
study, and after talking of other business, said to him, —

' ' Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead ? "

" It is, my Lord."

His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply
fetched an involuntary sigh.

" Mr. Sandford, my Lord," continued the steward,
" sent me word of the news, but left it to my own discre
tion, whether I would make your Lordship acquainted with
it or not : I let him know I declined."

" Where is Sandford ?" asked Lord Elmwood.

" He was with my Lady," replied the steward.

" When she died ?" asked he.

(f Yes, my Lord."

" I am glad of it : he will see that every thing she de.
sired is done. Sandford is a good man, and would be a
friend to every body."

" He is a very good man, indeed, my Lord."

There was now a silence. — Mr. Giffard then, bowing,
said, " Has your Lordship any further commands ? "

" Write to Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, hesitating
as he spoke, " and tell him to have every thing performed
as she desired. And whoever she may have selected for
the guardian of her child has my consent to act as such ;
nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned,
shall I oppose her will." The tears rushed into his eyes
as he said this, and caused them to start in the steward's :
observing which, he sternly resumed, —

A SIMPLE STORY. 181

" Do not suppose from this conversation that any ef
those resolutions I have long since taken are or will be
changed : they are the same, and shall continue inflexible."
" I understand you, my Lord," replied Mr. Giffard,
" and that your express orders to me, as well as to every
other person, remain just the same as formerly, never to
mention this subject to you again." -
" They do, si ."

" My Lord, I always obeyed you, and I hope I always
shall."

" I hope so too," he replied, in a threatening accent.
" Write to Sandford," continued he, " to let him know my
pleasure, and that is all you have to do."
The steward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford ar
rived in town ; and Mr. Giffard related, word for word,
what had passed between him and his Lord. Upon every
occasion, and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elm-
wood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord
Elmwood as he had ever been ; and as usual (after his in
terview with the steward) went into his apartment without
any previous notice. Lord Elmwo.od shook him by the
hand, as upon all other meetings ; and yet, whether his fear
suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more
cool and reserved with him than formerly.

During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady
Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiously avoided ; and
not till the evening, after Sandford had risen to retire, and
had wished Lord Elmwood good night, did he dare to
mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and

going to the door, turned back and said, ec My Lord "

It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak:
his voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks,
he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no far
ther.

" I thought," said Lord Elmwood, angrily, — "I thought
I had given my orders upon the subject: did not my
steward write them to you ?"

" He did, my Lord," said Sandford, humbly ; ' ' but I
was set out before they arrived."
N 3

182 A SIMPLE STORY.

" Has he not told you my mind,, then ?" cried he, more
angrily still.

"He has," replied Sandford. "But "

"But what, sir?" cried Lord Elm wood.
ff Your Lordship/' continued Sandford, ef was mistaken
in supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will. She left
none."

" No will ! no will at all ! " returned he, surprised.
"No, my Lord," answered Sandford: "she wished
every thing to be as you willed."

" She left me all the trouble, then, you mean ?"
" No great trouble, sir ; for there are but two persons
whom she has left behind her, to hope for your protec
tion."

"And who are those two?" cried he, hastily.
" One, my Lord, I need not name : the other is Miss
Woodley."

There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in
which Sandford delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood
could not resent, and he only returned, —
" Miss Woodley — is she yet living?"
" She is : I left her. at the house I came from."
ffWell, then," answered he, "you must see that my
steward provides for those two persons. That care I leave
to you ; and should there be any complaints, on you they
fall."

Sandford bowed, and was going.

" And now," resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern
voice, "let me never hear again on this subject. You
have here the power to act in regard to the persons you
have mentioned ; and upon you their situation, the care,
the whole management of them depends ; but be sure you
never let them be named before me, from this moment."

" Then," said Sandford, " as this must be the last time
they are mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to

disburden my mind of a charge "

( ( What charge?" cried Lord Elmwood, moros-sly, inter
rupting him.

" Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind
her, she left a request."

A SIMPLE STORY. 183

" A request ! " said he, starting. "If it is for me to see
her daughter, I tell you now, before you ask, that I will
not grant it ; for, by Heaven (and he spoke and looked
most solemnly), though I have no resentment against the
innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see
her. Never, for her mother's sake, suffer my heart again
to be softened by an object I might dote upon. There
fore, sir, if that is the request, it is already answered : my
will is fixed."

f< The request, my Lord," replied Sandford, (and he
took out a pocket-book, from whence he drew several
papers,) "is contained in this letter; nor do I rightly
know what its contents are;" and he held it, timorously,
out to him.

" Is it Lady Elmwood's writing?" asked Lord Elm-
wood, extremely discomposed.

' ' 1 1 is, my Lord : she wrote it a few days before she
died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you with my own
hands."

" I refuse to read it," cried he, putting it from him ,
and trembling while he did so.

" She desired me," said Sandford (still presenting the
letter), "to conjure you to read it — for her fathers
sake."

Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was
in his hand, he seemed distressed to know what he should
do with it — in what place to go and read it — or how to
fortify himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed,
too, that he had been so far prevailed upon ; and said, by
way of excuse, —

" For Mr. Milner's sake I would do much ; nay, any
thing but that to which I have just now sworn never to
consent. For his sake I have borne a great deal : for his
sake alone his daughter died my wife. You know no
other motive than respect for him prevented my divorce.
Pray (and he hesitated), was she buried by him?"

" No, my Lord : she expressed no such desire ; and as
that was the case, I did not think it necessary to carry the
corpse so far."

At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked
N 4

184 A SIMPLE STORY.

shocked beyond measure ; but, recovering himself, said,
"I am sorry for it; — for he loved her sincerely, if she
did not love him — and I wish they had been buried to
gether."

" It is not, then, too late," said Sandford, and was going
on, but the other interrupted him.

" No, no — we will have no disturbing of the dead."

" Read her letter, then," said Sandford, " and bid her
rest in peace."

" If it is in my power," returned he, fc to grant what
she asks, I will ; but if her demand is what I apprehend,
I cannot — I will not — bid her rest by complying. You
know my resolution — my disposition — and take care how
you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very per
son you are seeking to befriend : the very maintenance I
mean to allow her daughter, I can withdraw."

Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with
energy, " My Lord, unless you begin the subject, I never
shall presume to mention it again."

" I take you at your word ; and in consequence of that,
but of that alone, we are friends. Good night, sir."

Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their
separate bed-chambers.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AFTER Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it
was some time before he read the letter Sandford had
given him. He first walked backwards and forwards in
the room ; he then began to take off some part of his
dress, but he did it slowly. At length he dismissed his
valet, and, sitting down, took the letter from his pocket.
He looked at the seal, but not at the direction ; for he
seemed to dread seeing Lady Elm wood's hand- writing.
He then laid it on the table, and began again to undress.
He did not proceed, but, taking up the letter quickly (with

A SIMPLE STORY. 185

a kind of effort in making the resolution), broke it open.
These were its contents : —

" My Lord,

" Who writes this letter I well know — I well know to
whom it is addressed — I feel with the most powerful force
both our situations ; nor should I dare to offer you even
this humble petition, but that, at the time you receive it,
there will be no such person as I am in existence.

" For myself, then, all concern will be over ; but there
is a care that pursues me to the grave, and threatens my
want of repose even there.

" I leave a child : I will not call her mine — that has
undone her: I will not call her yours — that will be of no
avail. I present her before you as the grand-daughter of
Mr. Milner. Oh ! do not refuse an asylum, even in your
own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend — the
last and only remaining branch of his family.

"Receive her into your household, be her condition
there ever so abject. I cannot write distinctly what I
would — my senses are not impaired, but the powers of
expression are. The complaint of the unfortunate child in
the Scriptures (a lesson I have studied), has made this
wish cling so fast to my heart, that, without the distant
hope of its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors
than my weak mind could support.

' ' ' I will go to my father. How many servants live in
my father's house, and are fed with plenty, while I starve
in a foreign land.'

ff I do not ask a parent's festive rejoicing at her ap
proach — I do not even ask her father to behold her ; but
let her live under his protection. For her grandfather's
sake do not refuse this — to the child of his child, whom he
intrusted to your care — do not refuse it.

"Be her host; I remit the tie of being her parent
Never see her — but let her sometimes live under the same
roof with you.

"It is Miss Milner, your ward, to whom you never
refused a request, who supplicates you — not now for your
nephew, Rushbrook, but for one so much more dear that a

186

A SIMPLE STORY.

denial — She dares not suffer her thoughts to glance
that way — she will hope — and in that hope bids you
farewell, with all the love she ever bore you.

"Farewell, Dorriforth. Farewell, Lord Elmwood—
and before you throw this letter from you with contempt
or anger, cast your imagination into the grave where I am
lying. Reflect upon all the days of my past life — the
anxious moments I have known, and what has been their
end. Behold me, also: in my altered face there is no
anxiety — :no joy or sorrow — all is over. — My whole
frame is motionless — my heart beats no more. Look at
my horrid habitation, too, — and ask yourself, whether I
am an object of resentment."

While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in
his hand : he once or twice wiped the tears from his eyes
as he read, and once laid the letter down for a few minutes.
At its conclusion, the tears flowed fast down his face : but
he seemed both ashamed and angry they did, and was
going to throw the paper upon the fire. He, however,
suddenly checked his hand; and, putting it hastily into
his pocket, went to bed.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE next morning, when Lord Elmwood and Sandford
met at breakfast, the latter was pale with fear for the suc
cess of Lady Elmwood's letter : the Earl was pale too, but
there was besides upon his face something which evidently
marked he was displeased. Sandford observed it, and was
all humbleness, both in his words and looks, in order to
soften him.

As soon as the breakfast was removed, Lord Elmwood
drew the letter from his pocket, and, holding it towards
Sandford, said, —

" That may be of more value to you than it is to me ;
therefore I give it you."

A SIMPLE STORY. * 187

Sandford called up a look of surprise, as if he did not
know the letter again.

" 'T is Lady Elmwood's letter," said Lord Elmwood,
<f and I return it to you for two reasons."

Sandford took it, and, putting it up, asked fearfully,
" what those two reasons were."

" First," said he, "because I think it is a relic you
may like to preserve. My second reason is, that you may
show it to her daughter, and let her know why, and on
what conditions, I grant her mother's request."

<c You do then grant it ?" cried Sandford, joyfully : " I
thank you — you are kind — you are considerate."

" Be not hasty in your gratitude : you may have cause
to recall it."

" I know what you have said," replied Sandford : "'you
have said you grant Lady Elmwood's request — you can
not recall these words, nor I my gratitude."

"Do you know what her request is?" returned he.

" Not exactly, my Lord : I told you before I did not ;
but it is, no doubt, something in favour of her child."

" I think not," he replied. " Such as it is, however, I
grant it; but in the strictest sense of the word — no far
ther — and one neglect of my commands releases me from
this promise totally."

"We will take care, sir, not to disobey them."

" Then listen to what they are ; for to you I give the
charge of delivering them again. Lady Elmwood has pe
titioned me, in the name of her father (a name I rever
ence), to give his grandchild the sanction of my protection;
— in the literal sense, to suffer that she may reside at one
of my seats; dispensing, at the same time, with my ever
seeing her."

"And you will comply?"

" I will, till she encroaches on this concession, and
dares to hope for a greater; — I will, while she avoids my
sight, or the giving me any remembrance of her. But if,
whether by design or by accident, I ever see or hear from
her, that moment my compliance to her mother's suppli
cation ceases, and I abandon her once more."
Sandford sighed. Lord Elmwood continued, —

188 A SIMPLE STORY.

" I am glad her request stopped where it did. I would
rather comply with her desires than not ; and I rejoice
they are such as I can grant with ease and honour to my
self. I am seldom now at Elmwood Castle : let her
daughter go there. The few weeks or months I am down
in the summer, she may easily, in that extensive house,
avoid me: while she does, she lives in security — when
she does not— you know my resolution."

Sandford bowed : — the Earl resumed, —

" Nor can it be a hardship to obey this command : she
cannot lament the separation from a parent whom she

never knew " Sandford was going eagerly to prove the

error of that assertion ; but he prevented him, by saying,
" In'a word — without farther argument — if she obeys me
in this, I will provide for her as my daughter during my
life, and leave her a fortune at my death; but if she
dares "

Sandford interrupted the menace prepared for utterance,
saying, " And you still mean, I suppose, to make Mr.
Rushbrook your heir ?"

(( Have you not heard me say so ? And do you imagine
I have changed my determination ? I am not given to alter
my resolutions, Mr. Sandford; and I thought you knew I
was not : besides, will not my title be extinct, whoever I
make my heir ? Could any thing but a son have preserved
my title ? "

tf Then it is yet possible "

"By marrying again, you mean? — No — no — I have
had enough of marriage ; and Henry Rushbrook I shall
leave my heir. Therefore, sir "

" My "Lord, I do not presume "

" Do not, Sandford, and we may still be good friends.
But I am not to be controlled as formerly : my temper is
changed of late — changed to what it was originally, till your
religious precepts reformed it. You may remember how
troublesome it was to conquer my stubborn disposition in
my youth : then, indeed, you did; but in my more ad
vanced age, you will find the task too difficult."

Sandford again repeated, " He should not presume "

To which Lord Elmwood again made answer, ft Do not,

A SIMPLE STORY. 189

Sandford ; " and added, " for I have a sincere regard for
you, and should be loath, at these years, to quarrel with
you seriously."

Sandford turned away his head, to conceal his feelings.

" Nay, if we do quarrel," resumed Lord Elmwood,
ef you know it must be your own fault ; and as this is a
theme the most likely of any, nay, the only one on which
we can have a difference (such as we cannot forgive), take
care never from this day to renew it. Indeed, that of itself
would be an offence I could not pardon. I have been clear
and explicit in all I have said ; there can be no fear of
mistaking my meaning ; therefore, all future explanation
is unnecessary : nor will I permit a word, or a hint on the
subject from any one, without showing my resentment even
to the hour of my death." He was going out of the room.

" But before we bid adieu to the subject for ever, my Lord
— there was another person whom I named to you "

( ' Do you mean Miss Woodley ? Oh, by all means let
her live at Elmwood House too. On consideration, I have
no objection to see Miss Woodley at any time : I shall be
glad to see her. Do not let her be frightened at me : to
her I shall be the same that I have always been."

" She is a good woman, my Lord," cried Sandford, de
lighted.

" You need not tell me that, Mr. Sandford : I know her
worth." And he left the room.

Sandford, to relieve Miss Woodley and her lovely charge
from the suspense in which he had left them, prepared to
set off for their habitation, and meant himself to conduct them
from thence to Elmwood Castle, and appoint some retired
part of it for Lady Matilda, against the annual visit which
her father should pay there. To confirm this caution, be
fore he left London, Giffard, the steward, took an opportu
nity to wait upon him, and let him know that his Lord had
acquainted him with the consent he had given for his
daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Castle, and upon what
restrictions ; that he had farther uttered the severest threats,
should these restrictions ever be infringed. Sandford
thanked Giffard for his friendly information. It served
him as a second warning of the circumspection that was

190 A SIMPLE STORY.

necessary ; and having taken leave of his friend and patron,
under the pretence that " he could not live in the smoke of
London/' he set out for the north.

It is unnecessary to say with what joy Sandford was
received by Miss Woodley and the hapless daughter of
Lady Elmwood, even before he told his errand. They both
loved him sincerely ; more especially Lady Matilda, whose
forlorn state, and innocent sufferings, had ever excited his
compassion, and caused him to treat her with affection,
tenderness, and respect. She knew, too, how much he had
been her mother's friend ; for that she also loved him ; and
for his being honoured with the friendship of her father,
she looked up to him with reverence. For Matilda (with
an excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years,
and having been early accustomed to the private converse
between Lady Elm wood and Miss Woodley,) was perfectly
acquainted with the whole fatal history of her mother ; and
was, by her, taught the esteem and admiration of her father's
virtues which they so justly merited.

Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sandford's presence,
once more to cheer their solitary dwelling, no sooner were
the first kind greetings over than the dread of what he
might have to inform them of possessed poor Matilda and
Miss Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was
changed into affright. Their apprehensions were far more
forcible than their curiosity : they dared not ask a question,
and even began to wish he would continue silent upon the
subject on which they feared to listen. For near two hours
he was so. At length, after a short interval from speaking
(during which they waited with anxiety for what he might
next say), he turned to Lady Matilda, and said, —

" You don't ask for your father, my dear ? "

tc I did not know it was proper," she replied, timidly.

" It is always proper," answered Sandford, " for you to
think of him, though he should never think on you."

She burst into tears, and said that she " did think of him,
but she felt an apprehension of mentioning his name."
And she wept bitterly while she spoke.

" Do not think I reproved you," said Sandford : " I
only told you what was right."

A SIMPLE STORY. 191

[ " Nay/' said Miss Woodley, " she does not weep for
that : she fears her father has not complied with her mo
ther's request ; perhaps, not even read her letter."

" Yes, he has read it," returned Sandford.

" Oh, heavens !" exclaimed Matilda, clasping her hands
together, and the tears falling still faster.

" Do not be so much alarmed, my dear," said Miss
Woodley : ' ( you know we are prepared for the worst ; and
you know you promised your mother, whatever your fate
should be, to submit with patience."

" Yes," replied Matilda ; " and I am prepared for every
thing but my father's refusal to my dear mother."

" Your father has not refused your mother's request,"
replied Sandford.

She was leaping from her seat in ecstasy.

" But," continued he, <e do you know what her request
was ? "

(c Not entirely," replied Matilda ; (( and since it is grant
ed I am careless. But she told me her letter concerned
none but me."

To explain perfectly to Matilda Lady Elmwood's letter,
and that she might perfectly understand upon what terms
she was admitted into Elmwood Castle, Sandford now read
the letter to her; and repeated, as nearly as he could remem
ber, the whole of the conversation that passed between
Lord Elmwood and himself; not even sparing, through an
erroneous delicacy, any of those threats her father had de
nounced, should she dare to transgress the limits he pre
scribed — nor didhe try to soften, in one instance, a word he
uttered. She listened, sometimes with tears, sometimes with
hope, but always with awe, and with terror, to every sentence
in which her father was concerned. Once she called him cruel
— then exclaimed "he was kind ;" but at the end of Sand-
ford's intelligence concluded "that she was happy and grate
ful for the boon bestowed." Even her mother had not a more
exalted idea of Lord Elmwood's worth than his daughter
had formed ; and this little bounty just obtained would not
have been greater in her mother's estimation than it was
now in hers. Miss Woodley, too, smiled at the prospect
before her : she esteemed Lord Elmwood beyond any mor-

192 A SIMPLE STORY.

tal living : she was proud to hear what he had said in her
praise, and overjoyed at the expectation of heing once again
in his company; painting at the same time a thousand
bright hopes, from watching every emotion of his soul, and
catching every proper occasion to excite or increase his
paternal sentiments. Yet she had the prudence to conceal
those vague hopes from his child, lest a disappointment
might prove fatal ; and assuming a behaviour neither too
much elated nor depressed, she advised that they should hope
for the best, but yet, as usual, expect and prepare for the
worst. — After taking measures for quitting their melan
choly abode, within the fortnight they all departed for
Elmwood Castle ; Matilda, Miss Woodley, and even Sand-
ford, first visiting Lady Elmwood's grave, and bedewing it
with their tears.

CHAPTER XXXV.

IT was on a dark evening, in the month of March, that
Lady Matilda, accompanied by Sandford and Miss Wood-
ley, arrived at Elmwood Castle, the magnificent seat of her
father. Sandford chose the evening, rather to steal into
the house privately, than by any appearance of parade to
suffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of their arrival by the
public prints, or by any other accident. Nor would he give
the neighbours or servants reason to suppose the daughter
of their Lord was admitted into his house in any other
situation than that in which she really was permitted to be
there.

As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the car
riage that brought them, Matilda felt an awful and yet
gladsome sensation, which no terms can describe. As she
entered the door of the mansion this sensation increased —
and as she passed along the spacious hall, the splendid
staircase, and many stately apartments, wonder, with a
crowd of the tenderest, yet most afflicting sentiments, rushed

A SIMPLE STORY. 193

to her heart. She gazed with astonishment ! she reflected
with still more.

"And is my father the master of this house ?" she cried
— Cf and was my mother once the mistress of this castle ?"
Here tears relieved her from a part of that burden which,
was before insupportable.

f( Yes," replied Sandford, (e and you are the mistress of
it now till your father arrives."

" Good Heaven ! " exclaimed she, " and will he ever
arrive ? And shall I live to sleep under the same roof with
my father ? "

" My dear," replied Miss Woodley, "have not you been
told so ? "

" Yes," said she ; te but though I heard it with extreme
pleasure, yet the expectation never so forcibly affected me
as at this moment. I now feel, as the reality approaches,
that to be admitted here, is kindness enough : I do not ask
for more — I am now convinced, from what this trial makes
me feel, that to see my father would occasion emotions I
could not perhaps survive."

The next morning gave to Matilda more objects of ad
miration and wonder, as she walked over the extensive gar
dens, groves, and other pleasure grounds belonging to the
house. She, who had never been beyond the dreary, ruin
ous places which her deceased mother had made her resi
dence, was naturally struck with amazement and delight at
the grandeur of a seat which travellers came for miles to
see, nor thought their time mispent.

There was one object, however, among all she saw, which
attracted her attention above the rest, and she would stand
for hours to look at it. This was a whole-length portrait
of Lord Elmwood, esteemed a very capital picture, and a
perfect likeness. To this picture she would sigh and weep ;
though, when it was first pointed out to her, she shrunk
back with fear, and it was some time before she dared ven
ture to cast her eyes completely upon it. In the features
of her father she was proud to discern the exact mould in
which her own appeared to have been modelled ; yet Ma
tilda's person, shape, and complexion were so extremely
like what her mother's once were, that at the first glance she

194* A SIMPLE STORY.

appeared to have a still greater resemblance of her than of her
father : but her mind and manners were all Lord Elm-
wood's ; softened by the delicacy of her sex, the extreme
tenderness of her heart, and the melancholy of her situ
ation.

She was now in her seventeenth year : of the same age,
within a year and a few months, of her mother when she
first became the ward of Dorriforth. She was just three
years old when her father went abroad, and remembered
something of bidding him farewell ; but more of taking
cherries from his hand, as he pulled them from the tree to
give to her.

Educated in the school of adversity, and inured to re
tirement from her infancy, she had acquired a taste for all
those amusements which a recluse life affords. She was
fond of walking and riding ; was accomplished in the arts
of music and drawing, by the most careful instructions of
her mother; and as a scholar, she excelled most of her
sex, from the pains which Sandford had taken with that
part of her education, and the superior abilities he possessed
for the task.

• In devoting certain hours of the day to study with him,
others to music, riding, and such harmless recreations, Ma
tilda's time never appeared tedious at Elmwood Castle,
although she received and paid no one visit: for it was
soon divulged in the neighbourhood upon what stipulation
she resided at her father's, and studiously intimated that
the most prudent and friendly behaviour of her true friends
would be, to take no notice whatever that she lived among
them ; and as Lord Elmwood's will was a law all around,
such was the consequence of that will, known, or merely
supposed.

Neither did Miss Woodley regret the want of visiters,
but found herself far more satisfied in her present situation
than her most sanguine hopes could have formed. She had
a companion whom she loved with an equal fondness with
which she had loved her deceased mother ; and frequently,
in this charming habitation, where she had so often beheld
Lady Elmwood, her imagination represented Matilda as her

A SIMPLE STORY. 1^5

friend risen from the grave, in her former youth, health,
and exquisite beauty.

In peace, in content, though not in happiness, the days
and weeks passed away, till about the middle of August,
when preparations began to be made for the arrival of Lord
Elmwood. The week in which he was to come was at
length fixed, and some part of his retinue was arrived
before him. When this was told Matilda, she started, and
looked just as her mother at her age had often done, when,
in spite of her love, she was conscious that she had
offended him, and was terrified at his approach. Sand-
ford, observing this involuntary emotion, put out his hand,
and, taking hers, shook it kindly ; and bade her (but it
was not in a cheering tone) " not be afraid." This gave
her no confidence: and she began, before her father's
arrival, to seclude herself in the apartments allotted for
her during the time of his stay ; and, in the timorous
expectation of his coming, her appetite declined, and she
lost all her colour. Even Miss Woodley, whose spirits
had been for some time elated with the hopes she had
formed, from his residence at the castle, on drawing near
to the test, found those hopes vanished ; and though she
endeavoured to conceal it, she was full of apprehensions.
Sandford had certainly fewer fears than either ; yet upon
the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he
was evidently cast down.

Lady Matilda once asked him, " Are you certain, Mr.
Sandford, you made no mistake in respect to what Lord
Elmwood said, when he granted my mother's request?
Are you sure he did grant it ? Was there nothing equi
vocal on which he may ground his displeasure, should he
be told that I am here ? Oh, do not let me hazard being
once again turned out of his house ! Oh, save me from
provoking him perhaps to execrate me ! " And here she
clasped her hands together with the most fervent petition,
in the dread of what might happen.

" If you doubt my words or my senses," said Sand-
ford, " call Giffard, who is just arrived, and let him in
form VQU : the same words were repeated to him as to
me." "

o 2

196 A SIMPLE STORY.

Though from her reason, Matilda could not douht of
any mistake from Mr. Sandford, yet her fears suggested a
thousand scruples ; and this reference-to the steward she
received with the utmost satisfaction (though she did not
think it necessary to apply to him), as it perfectly 'con
vinced her of the folly of the suspicions she had enter
tained.

" And yet, Mr. Sandford," said she " if it is so, why
are you less cheerful than you were ? I cannot help think
ing but it must be the expected arrival of Lord Elmwood
which has occasioned this change."

" I don't know," replied Sandford, carelessly ; te but I
believe I am grown afraid of your father. His temper is a
great deal altered from what it once was: he raises his voice,
and uses harsh expressions upon the least provocation : his
eyes flash lightning, and his face is distorted with anger
upon the slightest motives : he turns away his old servants
at a moment's warning, and no concession can make their
peace. In a word, I am more at my ease when I am away
from him ; and I really believe," added he with a smile,
but with a tear at the same time, — "I really believe, I am
more afraid of him in my age, than he was of me when he
was a boy."

Miss Woodley was present : she and Matilda looked at
one another ; and each of them saw the other turn pale
at this description.

The day at length came on which Lord Elmwood was
expected to dinner. It would have been a high gratification
to his daughter to have gone to the topmost window of the
house, and have only beheld his carriage enter the avenue ;
but it was a gratification which her fears, her tremour, her
extreme sensibility, would not permit her to enjoy.

Miss Woodley and she sat down that day to dinner in
their retired apartments, which were detached from the
other part of the house by a gallery : and of the door lead
ing to the gallery they had a key, to impede any one from
passing that way, without first ringing a bell ; to answer
which was the sole employment of a servant, who was
placed there during the Earl's residence, lest by any acci
dent he might chance to come near that unfrequented part

A SIMPLE STORY. 197

of the house : on which occasion the man was to give
immediate notice to his Lady, so as she might avoid his
presence by retiring to an inner room.

Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did
not dine. Sandford dined, as usual, with Lord Elmwood.
When tea was brought, Miss Woodley asked the servant,
who attended, if he had seen his Lord. The man answered,
" Yes, madam ; and he looks vastly well." Matilda wept
with joy to hear it.

About nine in the evening, Sandford rang at the bell,
and was admitted : never had he been so welcome. Ma
tilda hung upon him as if his recent interview with her
father had endeared him to her more than ever; and
staring anxiously in his face, seemed to enquire of him
something about Lord Elmwood, and something that should
not alarm her.

" Well — how do you find yourself?" said he to her.

t( How are you, Mr. Sandford ? " she returned, with a
sigh.
. " Oh, very well," replied he.

" Is my Lord in a good temper ? " asked Miss Woodley.

" Yes, very well," replied Sandford, with indifference.

t( Did he seem glad to see you ? " asked Matilda.

" He shook me by the hand," replied Sandford.

t( That was a sign he was glad to see you — was it not ?"
said Matilda.

" Yes ; but he could not do less."

" Nor more," replied she.

" He looks very well, our servant tells us," said Miss
Woodley.

" Extremely well, indeed," answered Sandford ; " and
to tell the truth, I never saw him in better spirits."

" That is well," said Matilda, and sighed a weight of
fears from her heart.

t( Where is he now, Mr. Sandford ? "

" Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and I stole
here in the mean time."

' ' What was your conversation during dinner ? " asked
Miss Woodley.

" Horses, hay, farming, and politics."
o 3

198 A SIMPLE STORY.

1 { Won't you sup with him ? "
te I shall see him again hefore I go to bed."
" And again to-morrow ? " cried Matilda : ' ' what hap-
pihess!""

" He has visiters to-morrow," said Sandford, " coming
for a week or two."

" Thank Heaven," said Miss Woodley : " he will then
he diverted from thinking on us."

ff Do you know/' returned Sandford, " it is my firm
opinion, that his thinking of ye at present is the cause of
his good spirits."

' ( Oh, heavens ! " cried Matilda, lifting up her hands
with rapture.

cf Nay, do not mistake me," said Sandford : " I would
not have you build a foundation for joy upon this surmise;
for if he is in spirits that you are in this house — so near
him — positively under his protection — yet he will not
allow himself to think it is the cause of his content ; and
the sentiments he has adopted, and which are now become
natural to him, will remain the same as ever : nay, perhaps
with greater force,' should he suspect his weakness, as he
calls it, acting in opposition to them."

"If he does but think of me with tenderness," cried
Matilda, " I am recompensed."

" And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to
you," said Sandford, " were he to turn you out to beg
gary?"

" A great deal — a great deal/' she replied.
" But how are you to know he has these kind thoughts,
if he gives you no proof of them ? "

' e No, Mr. Sandford ; but supposing we could know them
without proof."

" But as that is impossible," answered he, " I shall
suppose, till proof appears, that I have been mistaken in
my conjectures."

Matilda looked deeply concerned that the argument
should conclude in her disappointment ; for to have believed
herself thought of with tenderness by her father, would
have alone constituted her happiness.

When the servant came up with something by way of

A SIMPLE STORY. 199

supper, he told Mr. Sandford that his Lord was returned
from his walk, and had enquired for him. Sandford im
mediately bade his companions good night, and left them.

<e How strange is this ! " cried Matilda, when Miss
Woodley and she were alone. " My father within a few
rooms of me, and yet I am debarred from seeing him !
Only by walking a few paces I could be at his feet, and
perhaps receive his blessing ! "

t( You make me shudder," cried Miss Woodley ; " but
some spirits less timid than mine might perhaps advise you
to the experiment ! "

' ' Not for worlds ! " returned Matilda : f ' no counsel
could tempt me to such temerity ; and yet to entertain the
thought that it is possible I could do this, is a source of
infinite comfort."

This conversation lasted till bedtime, and later ; for they
sat up beyond their usual hour to indulge it.

Miss Woodley slept little, but Matilda less : she awaked
repeatedly during the night, and every time sighed to her
self, " I sleep in the same house with my father ! Blessed
spirit of my mother, look down and rejoice.".

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE next day the whole castle appeared to Lady Matilda
(though she was in some degree retired from it) all tumult
and bustle, as was usually the case while Lord Elmwood
was there. She saw from her windows the servants run
ning across the yards and park ; horses and carriages driv
ing with fury ; all the suite of a nobleman ; and it some
times elated, at other times depressed her.

These impressions, however, and others of fear and
anxiety, which her father's arrival had excited, by degrees
wore off; and after some h'ttle time she was in the same
tranquil state that she enjoyed before he came.

He had visiters, who passed a week or two with him :
he paid visits himself for several days ; and thus the time
o 4

200 A SIMPLE STORY.

stole away, till it was about four weeks from the time that
he had arrived : in which long period Sandford, with all
his penetration, could never clearly discover whether he
had once called to mind that his daughter was living in
the same house. He had not once named her (that was
not extraordinary) ; consequently no one dared name her
to him ; but he had not even mentioned Miss Woodley,
of whom he had so lately spoken in the kindest terms, and
had said, " he should take pleasure in seeing her again."
From these contradictions in Lord Elmwood's behaviour
in respect to her, it was Miss Woodley's plan neither to
throw herself in his way, nor avoid him. She therefore
frequently walked about the house while he was in it, not
indeed entirely without restraint, but at least with the
show of liberty. This freedom, indulged for some time
without peril, became at last less cautious ; and as no ill
consequences had arisen from its practice, her scruples
gradually ceased.

One morning, however, as she was crossing the large
hall, thoughtless of danger, a footstep at a distance alarmed
her almost without knowing why. She stopped for a
moment, thinking to return : the steps approached quicker ;
and before she could retreat, she beheld Lord Elm wood at
the other end of the hall, and perceived that he saw her.
It was too late to hesitate what was to be done : she could
not go back, and had not courage to go on ; she therefore
stood still. Disconcerted, and much affected at his sight,
(their former intimacy coming to her mind with the many
years, and many sad occurrences passed, since she last saw
him,) all her intentions, all her meditated schemes how to
conduct herself on such an occasion, gave way to a sudden
shock ; and to make the meeting yet more distressing,
her very fright, she knew, would serve to recall more
powerfully to his mind the subject she most wished him
to forget. The steward was with him ; and as they came
up close by her side, Giffard observing him look at her
earnestly, said softly, but so as she heard him, " My
Lord, it is Miss Woodley." Lord Elmwood took off his
hat instantly ; and, with an apparent friendly warmth,
laying hold of her hand, he said, " Indeed, Miss Woodley,

A SIMPLE STORY. 201

I did not know you ; I am very glad to see you : " and
while he spoke, shook her hand with a cordiality which
her tender heart could not hear ; and never did she feel
so hard a struggle as to restrain her tears. But the thought
of Matilda's fate : the idea of awakening in his mind a
sentiment that might irritate him against his child, wrought
more forcibly than every other effort ; and though she
could not reply distinctly, she replied without weeping.
Whether he saw her embarrassment, and wished to release
her from it, or was in haste to conceal his own, he left her
almost instantly ; but not till he had entreated she would
dine that very day with him and Mr. Sandford, who
were to dine without other company. She courtesied assent,
and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred. After listen
ing with anxiety and with joy to all she told, Matilda laid
hold of that hand which she said Lord Elmwood had held,
and pressed it to her lips with love and reverence.

When Miss Woodley made her appearance at dinner,
Sandford (who had not seen her since the invitation, and
did not know of it,) looked amazed ; on which Lord Elm-
wood said, ts Do you know, Sandford, I met Miss Woodley
this morning ; and, had it not been for Giffard, I should
have passed her without knowing her. — But, Miss Woodley,
if I am not so much altered but that you knew me, I take
it unkind you did not speak first." She was unable to
speak even now : he saw it, and changed the conversation ;
when Sandford eagerly joined in discourse, which relieved
him from the pain of the former.

As they advanced in their dinner, the embarrassment of
Miss Woodley and of Mr. Sandford diminished ; Lord
Elmwood, in his turn, became, not embarrassed, but absent
and melancholy. He now and then sighed heavily ; and
called for wine much oftener than he was accustomed.

When Miss Woodley took her leave, he invited her to
dine with him and Sandford whenever it was convenient
to her : he said, besides, many things of the same kind, and
all with the utmost civility, yet not with that warmth with
which he had spoken in the morning : into that he had been
surprised ; his coolness was the effect of reflection.

202 A SIMPLE STORY.

When she came to Lady Matilda, and Sandford had
joined them, they talked and deliberated on what had passed.

(f You acknowledge, Mr. Sandford/' said Miss Woodley,
" that you think my presence affected Lord Elmwood, so
as to make him much more thoughtful than usual : if you
imagine these thoughts were upon Lady Elm wood, I will
never intrude again ; but if you suppose that I made him
think upon his daughter, I cannot go too often."

" I don't see how he can divide those two objects in his
mind," replied Sandford ; " therefore you must e'en visit
him on, and take your chance, what reflections you may
cause ; but, be they what they will, time will steal away
from you that power of affecting him."

She concurred in the opinion, and occasionally she walked
into Lord Elmwood's apartments, dined, or took her coffee
with him, as the accident suited ; and observed, according
to Sandford's prediction, that time wore off the impression
her visits first made. Lord Elmwood now became just the
same before her as before others. She easily discerned,
too, through all that politeness which he assumed, that he
was no longer the considerate, the forbearing character he
formerly was ; but haughty, impatient, imperious, and more
than ever wiplacable.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN Lord Elmwood had been at his country seat about
six weeks, Mr. Rushbrook, his nephew, and his adopted
child — that friendless boy whom Lady Elmwood first in
troduced into his uncle's house, and by her kindness pre
served there — arrived from his travels, and was received
by his uncle with all the marks of affection due to the man
he thought worthy to be his heir. Rushbrook had been a
beautiful boy, and was now an extremely handsome young
man : he had made unusual progress in his studies ; had
completed the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned
home with the air and address of a perfect man of fashion.

A SIMPLE STORY. 203

There was, besides, an elegance and persuasion in his man
ner almost irresistible. Yet with all those accomplishments,
when he was introduced to Sandford, and put forth hia
hand to take his, Sandford, with evident reluctance, gave it
to him; and when Lord Elm wood asked him, in the young
man's presence, " If he did not think his nephew greatly
improved?" he looked at him from head to foot, and mut
tered, " He could not say he observed it." The colour
heightened in Mr. Rushbrook's face upon the occasion;
but he was too well bred not to be in perfect good humour.

Sandford saw this young man treated, in the house of
Lord Elmwood, with the same respect and attention as if
he had been his son ; and it was but probable that the old
priest would make a comparison between the situation of
him and of Lady Matilda Elmwood. Before her, it was
Sandford's meaning to have concealed his thoughts upon
the subject, and never to have mentioned it but with com
posure. That was, however, impossible : unused to hide
his feelings, at the name of Rushbrook his countenance
would always change ; and a sarcastic sneer, sometimes a
frown of resentment, would force its way in spite of his
resolution. Miss Woodley, too, with all her boundless
charity and good- will, was, upon this occasion, induced to
limit their excess ; and they did not extend so far as to
reach poor Rushbrook. She even, and in reality, did not
think him handsome or engaging in his manners ; she
thought his gaiety frivolousness, his complaisance affect
ation, and his good-humour impertinence. It was impos
sible to conceal those unfavourable sentiments entirely from
Matilda ; for when the subject arose, as it frequently did,
Miss Woodley's undisguised heart, and Sandford's undis
guised countenance, told them instantly. Matilda had the
understanding to imagine, that she was, perhaps, the object
who had thus deformed Mr. Rushbrook, and frequently
(though he was a stranger to her, and one who had caused
her many a jealous heartach,) frequently she would speak
in his vindication.

" You are very good," said Sandford, one day to her:
" you like him, because you know your father loves him."

This was a hard sentence for the daughter of Lord Elm-

204) A SIMPLE STORY.

wood to hear, to whom her father's love would have heen
more precious than any other blessing; she, however,
checked the assault of envy, and kindly replied, —

<( My mother loved him too, Mr. Sandford."

" Yes," answered Sandford, " he has been a grateful
man to your poor mother. She did not suppose when she
took him into the house — when she entreated your father
to take him — and through her caresses and officious praises
of him first gave him that power which he now possesses
over his uncle ; she little foresaw, at that time, his ingra
titude, and its effects."

" Very true," said Miss Woodley, with a heavy sigh.

" What ingratitude ? " asked Matilda. " Do you sup
pose Mr. Rushbrook is the cause that my father will not
see me ? Oh, do not pay Lord Elmwood's motive so ill a
compliment."

. ff I do not say that he is the absolute cause," returned
Sandford ; ' f but if a parent's heart is void, I would have
it remain so, till its lawful owner is replaced. Usurpers I
detest."

" No one can take Lord Elmwood's heart by force,"
replied his daughter : ' ' it must, I believe, be a free gift
to the possessor ; and, as such, whoever has it has a right
to it."

In this manner she would plead the young man's ex
cuse ; perhaps but to hear what could be said in his dis
favour, for secretly his name was bitter to her : and once
she exclaimed in vexation, on Sandford's saying Lord
Elmwood and Mr. Rushbrook were gone out shooting to
gether,—

fe All that pleasure is eclipsed which I used to take in
listening to the report of my father's gun j for I cannot now
distinguish his from his parasite's."

Sandford (much as he disliked Rushbrook), for this ex
pression, which comprised her father in the reflection,
turned to Matilda in extreme anger : but as he saw the
colour rise into her face, for what, in the strong feelings of
her heart, had escaped her lips, he did not say a word ;
and by her tears that followed, he rejoiced to see how much
she reproved herself.

A SIMPLE STORY. 205

Miss Woodley, vexed to the heart, and provoked every
time she saw Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook together,, and
saw the familiar terms on which this young man lived with
his benefactor,, now made her visits to him very seldom.
If Lord Elmwood observed this, he did not appear to ob
serve it ; and though he received her politely when she did
pay him a visit, it was always very coldly : nor did she
suppose if she never went he would ever ask for her. For
his daughter's sake, however, she thought it right sometimes
to show herself before him ; for she knew it must be im
possible that, with all his apparent indifference, he could
ever see her without thinking for a moment on his child ;
and what one fortunate thought might some time bring
about was an object much too serious for her to overlook.
She, therefore, after remaining confined to her own suite of
rooms near three weeks, (excepting those anxious walks she
and Matilda stole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before
he rose in a morning,) went one forenoon into his apart
ments, where, as usual, she found him with Mr. Sandford

and Mr. Rushbrook. After she had sat about half an hour,

conversing with them all, though but very little with the
latter, Lord Elmwood was called out of the room upon

some business ; presently after, Sandford ; and now, by no

means pleased with the companion with whom she was left,

she rose, and was also retiring, when Rushbrook fixed his

speaking eyes upon her, and cried, —

" Miss Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going

to say ? "

" Certainly, sir ; you can, I am sure, say nothing but

what I must forgive." But she made this reply with a

distance and a reserve very unlike the usual manners of

Miss Woodley.

He looked at her earnestly, and cried, " Ah, Miss

Woodley, you don't behave so kindly to me as you used

to do."

" I do not understand you, sir," she replied very gravely.

" Times are changed, Mr. Rushbrook, since you were last

here : you were then but a child."

" Yet I love all those persons now, that I loved then,"

replied he ; (< and so I shall for ever."

206 A SIMPLE STORY.

" But you mistake, Mr. Rushbrook ; I was not, even
then, so very much the object of your affections ; there
were other ladies you loved better. Perhaps you don't re
member Lady Elm wood."

" Don't I ?" cried he. " Oh !" (clasping his hands
and lifting up his eyes to heaven,) " shall I ever forget
her?"

That moment Lord Elm wood opened the door ; the con
versation, of course, that moment ended ; but- confusion, at
the sudden surprise, was on the face of both parties : he
saw it, and looked at each of them by turns with a stern
ness that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint ; while
Rushbrook, with the most natural and happy laugh that
ever was affected, cried, (( No, don't tell my Lord, pray,
Miss Woodley." She was more confused than before, and
Lord Elmwood turning to him, asked what the subject was.
By this time he had invented one ; and, continuing his
laugh, said, " Miss Woodley, my Lord, will to this day
protest that she saw my apparition when I was a boy ; and
she says it is a sign I shall die young, and is really much
affected at it."

Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous speech
was concluded ; yet so well had it been acted, that he did
not for an instant doubt its truth.

Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved ; and yet so
little is it in the power of those we dislike to do any thing
to please us, that from this very circumstance she formed
a more unfavourable opinion of Mr. Rushbrook than she
had done before. She saw in this little incident the art of
dissimulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring
shape ; and detested the method by which they had each
escaped Lord Elmwood's suspicion, and perhaps anger, the
more, because it was so dexterously managed.

Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns
informed of this trait in Mr. Rushbrook 's character ; and
although Miss Woodley had the best of dispositions, and
upon every occasion spoke the strictest truth, yet, in re
lating this occurrence, she did not speak all the truth ; for
every circumstance that would have told to the young man's
advantage literally had slipped her memory.

A SIMPLE STORY. 207

•

The twenty-ninth of October arrived, on which a dinner,
a hall, and supper, was given by Lord Elm wood to all the
neighbouring gentry : the peasants also dined in the park
off a roasted bullock ; several casks of ale were distributed,
and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who heard and
saw some part of this festivity from her windows, enquired
the cause ; but even the servant who waited upon her had
too much sensibility to tell her, and answered, " He did
not know." Miss Woodley, however, soon learned the
reason, and, groaning with the painful secret, informed her,
" Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age."

" My birthday was last week," replied Matilda ; but
not a word beside.

In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only
soberly, but almost silently ; for to speak upon any subject
that did not engage their thoughts had been difficult, and
to speak upon the only one that did had been afflicting.

Just as they were sitting down to dinner, their bell gently
rung, and in walked Sandford.

: " Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford?"
cried Miss Woodley, with an ironical sneer (the first her
features ever wore). " Pray, were not you invited to dine
with the company ? "

" Yes," replied Sandford ; " but my head ached ; and
so I had rather come and take a bit with you."

Matilda, as if she had seen his heart as he spoke, clung
round his neck and sobbed on his bosom : he put her
peevishly away, crying, " Nonsense, nonsense ; eat your
dinner." But he did not eat himself.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ABOUT a week after this, Lord Elmwood went out two days
for a visit ; consequently Rushbrook was for that time
master of the house. The first morning he went a-shoot-
ing, and returning about noon, enquired of Sandford, who
was sitting in the breaifast-room, if he^ had taken up a

!

A SIMPLE STORY.

volume of plays left upon the table. tc I read no such
things," replied Sandford, and quitted the room abruptly.
Rushbrook then rang for his servant, and desired him to
look for the book, asking him angrily, lc Who had been in
the apartment ? for he was sure he had left it there when
he went out," The servant withdrew to enquire, and pre
sently returned with the volume in his hand, and " Miss
Woodley's compliments : she begs your pardon, sir : she
did not know the book was yours, and hopes you will ex
cuse the liberty she took."

' ' Miss Woodley ! " cried Rushbrook with surprise ; fe she
comes so seldom into these apartments, I did not suppose
it was her who had it. Take it back to her instantly, with
my respects, and I beg she will keep it."

The man went, but returned with the book again, and,
laying it on the table without speaking, was going away ;
when Rushbrook, hurt at receiving no second message,
said, ff I am afraid, sir, you did very wrong when you first
took this book from Miss Woodley."

" It was not from her I took it, sir," replied ^the man :
" it was from Lady Matilda."

Since he had entered the house, Rushbrook had never
before heard the name of Lady Matilda. He was shocked,
confounded more than ever ; and, to conceal what he felt,
instantly ordered the man out of the room.

In the mean time, Miss Woodley and Matilda were
talking over this trifling occurrence ; and, frivolous as it
was, drew from it strong conclusions of Rushbrook's in
solence and power. In spite of her pride, the daughter of
Lord Elmwood even wept at the insult she had received on
this insignificant occasion ; for, the volume being merely
taken from her at Mr. Rushbrook's command, she felt an
insult; arid the manner in which it was done by the
servant might contribute to the offence.

While Miss Woodley and she were upon this con
versation, a note came from Rushbrook to Miss Woodley,
wherein he entreated he might be permitted to see^ her.
She sent a verbal answer, " She was engaged." He sent
again, begging she would name her own time. But sure of
a second denial, he followed the servant who took the

A SIMPLE STORY. 209

last message; and as Miss Woodley came out of her
apartment into the gallery to speak to him,, Rushbrook
presented himself, and told the man to retire.

" Mr. Rushbrook," said Miss Woodley, " this intrusion
is unmannerly ; and destitute as you may think me of the
friendship of Lord Elmwood "

In the ardour with which Rushbrook was waiting to ex
press himself, he interrupted her, and caught hold of her
hand.

She immediately snatched it from him, and withdrew
into her chamber.

He followed, saying, in a low voice, " Dear Miss Woodley,
hear me."

At that juncture Lady Matilda, who was in an inner
apartment, came out of it into Miss Woodley's. Perceiving
a gentleman, she stopped short at the door.

Rushbrook cast his eyes upon her, and stood motionless :
his lips only moved. " Do not depart, madam," said he,
f< without hearing my apology for being here."

Though Matilda had never seen him since her infancy,
there was no occasion to tell her wh© it was that addressed
her : his elegant and youthful person, joined to the incident
which had just occurred, convinced her it was Rushbrook.
She looked at him with an air of surprise, but with still
more of dignity.

" Miss Woodley is severe upon me, madam," continued
he : " she judges me unkindly ; and I am afraid she will
prepossess you with the same unfavourable sentiments."

Still Matilda did not speak, but looked at him with the
same air of dignity.

" If, Lady Matilda," resumed he, " I have offended
you, and must quit you without pardon, I am more unhappy
than I should be with the loss of your father's protection ;
more forlorn than, when an orphan boy, your mother first
took pity on me."

At this last sentence, Matilda turned her eyes on Miss
Woodley, and seemed in doubt what reply she was to give.

Rushbrook immediately fell upon his knees. " Oh,
Lady Matilda," cried he, " if you knew the sensations of
my heart, you would not treat me with this disdain."

210 A SIMPLE STORY.

"We can only judge of those sensations, Mr. Rushbrook,"
said Miss Woodley, " by the effect they have upon your
conduct ; and while you insult Lord and Lady Elmwood's
daughter by an intrusion like this, and then ridicule her
abject state by mockeries like these "

He rose from his knees instantly, and interrupted her,
crying, ' ' What can I do ? What am I say, to make you
change your opinion of me ? While Lord Elm wood has
been at home, I have kept an awful distance ; and though
every moment I breathed was a wish to cast myself at his
daughter's feet, yet as I feared, Miss Woodley, that you
were incensed against me, by what means was I to procure
an interview but by stratagem or force ? This accident has
given a third method, and I had not strength, I had not
courage, to let it pass. Lord Elmwood will soon return,
and we may both of us be hurried to town immediately.
Then how, for a tedious winter, could I endure the re
flection that I was despised, nay, perhaps, considered as an
object of ingratitude, by the only child of my deceased
benefactress ? "

Matilda replied with all her father's haughtiness, " De
pend upon it, sir, if you should ever enter my thoughts, it
will only be as an object of envy."

" Suffer me, then, madam," said he, " as an earnest that
you do not think worse of me than I merit — suffer me to
be sometimes admitted into your presence."

She would scarce permit him to finish the period, before
she replied, ' ' This is the last time, sir, we shall ever meet,
depend upon it; unless, indeed, Lord Elmwood should
delegate to you the control of my actions — his commands
I never dispute." And here she burst into tears.

Rushbrook walked towards the window, and did not
speak for some time ; then turning himself to make a reply,
both Matilda and Miss Woodley were somewhat surprised
to see that he had shed tears himself. Having conquered
them, he said, " I will not offend you, madam, by remain
ing one moment longer; and I give you my honour, that,
upon no pretence whatever, will I presume to intrude here
again. Professions, I find, have no weight ; and only by
this obedience to your orders can I give a proof of that

A SIMPLE STORY. 211

respect which you inspire ; and let the agitation I now feel
convince you, Lady Matilda, that, with all my seeming
good fortune, I am not happier than yourself." — And so
much was he agitated while he delivered this address, that
it was with difficulty he came to the conclusion. When he
did, he bowed with reverence, as if leaving the presence of
a deity, and retired.

Matilda immediately entered the chamber she had left,
without casting a single look at Miss Woodley by which
she might guess of the opinion she had formed of Mr.
Rushbrook's conduct. The next time they met they did
not even mention his name ; for they were ashamed to own
a partiality in his favour, and were too just to bring any
accusation against him.

But Miss Woodley, the day following, communicated
the intelligence of this visit to Mr. Sandford, who, not
having been present and a witness of those marks of
humility and respect which were conspicuous in the de
portment of Mr. Rush brook, was highly offended at his
presumption ; and threatened, if he ever dared to force his
company there again, he would acquaint Lord Elmwood
with his arrogance, whatever might be the event. Miss
Woodley, however, assured him, she believed he would
have no cause for such a complaint, as the young man had
made the most solemn promise never to commit the like
offence ; and she thought it her duty to enjoin Sandford,
till he did repeat it, not to mention the circumstance even
to Rushbrook himself.

Matilda could not but feel a regard for her father's heir,
in return for that which he had so fervently declared for
her: yet the more favourable her opinion of his mind and
manners, the more he became an object of her jealousy
for the affections of Lord Elmwood; and he was now,
consequently, an object of greater sorrow to her than when
she believed him less worthy. These sentiments were
reversed on his part towards her : no jealousy intervened
to bar his admiration and esteem : the beauty of her person,
and grandeur of her mien, not only confirmed, but im
proved, the exalted idea he had formed of her previous to
their meeting, and which his affection to both her parents
p 2

212 A SIMPLE STORY.

had inspired. The next time he saw his benefactor, he
began to feel a new esteem and regard for him, for his
daughter's sake ; as he had at first an esteem for her, on
the foundation of his love for Lord and Lady Elmwood.
He gazed with wonder at his uncle's insensibility to his
own happiness, and would gladly have led him to the jewel
he cast away, though even his own expulsion should have
been the fatal consequence. Such was the youthful, warm,
generous, grateful, but unreflecting mind of Rushbrook.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

AFTER this incident, Miss Woodley left her apartments
less frequently than before. She was afraid, though till
now mistrust had been a stranger to her heart — she was
afraid that duplicity might be concealed under the apparent
friendship of Rushbrook. It did not, indeed, appear so
from any part of his late behaviour, but she was appre
hensive for the fate of Matilda : she disliked him too, and
therefore she suspected him. Near three weeks she had
not now paid a visit to Lord Elmwood ; and though to
herself every visit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight
in hearing of her father, what he said, what he did, what
his attention seemed most employed on, and a thousand
other circumstantial informations, in which Sandford would
scorn to be half so particular, it was a deprivation to her,
that Miss Woodley did not go oftener. Now, too, the
middle of November was come, and it was expected her
father would soon quit his country seat.

Partly, therefore, to indulge her hapless companion, and
partly because it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again
paid Lord Elmwood a morning visit, and staid dinner.
Rushbrook was officiously polite (for that was the epithet
she gave his attention in relating it to Lady Matilda) ; yet
she owned he had not that forward impertinence she had
formerly discovered in him, but appeared much more grave
and sedate.

A SIMPLE STORY. 213

" But tell me of my father," said Matilda.

" I was going, my dear ; but don't be concerned — don't
let it vex you."

" What ? what ? " cried Matilda, frightened by the
preface.

" Why, on my observing that I thought Mr. Rushbrook
looked paler than usual, and appeared not to be in perfect
health (which was really the case), your father expressed
the greatest anxiety imaginable : he said he could not
bear to see him look so ill, begged him, with all the ten
derness of a parent, to take the advice of a physician, and
added a thousand other affectionate things."

" I detest Mr. Rushbrook," said Matilda, with her eyes
flashing indignation.

fe Nay, for shame !" returned Miss .Woodley : " do you
suppose I told you this to make you hate him ? "

ff No, there was no occasion for that," replied Matilda :
{C my sentiments (though I have never before avowed them)
were long ago formed : he was always an object which
added to my unhappiness ; but since his daring intrusion
into my apartments, he has been the object of my hatred."

" But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please
you," cried Miss Woodley.

' f And what is that ? " said Matilda with indifference ;
for the first intelligence had hurt her spirits too much to
suffer her to listen with pleasure to any thing.

" Mr. Rushbrook/' continued Miss Woodley, " replied
to your father, that his indisposition was but a slight nervous
fever, and he would defer a physician's advice till he went
to London ; on which Lord Elmwood said, ' And when do
you expect to be there?' — he replied, ' Within a week or
two, I suppose, my Lord.' But your father answered, ' I
do not mean to go myself till after Christmas.' — ' No,
indeed, my Lord ! ' said Mr. Sandford, with surprise : * you
have not passed your Christmas here these many years.' —
' No,' returned your father; ' but I think I feel myself
more attached to this house at present than ever I did in
my life.' "

" You imagine, then, my father thought of me, when he
said this ? " cried Matilda, eagerly.
p 3

214 A SIMPLE STOBY.

" But I may be mistaken," replied Miss Woodley. " I
leave you to judge. Though I am sure Mr. Sandford
imagined he thought of you, for I saw a smile over his
whole face immediately."

" Did you, Miss Woodley?"

f( Yes : it appeared on every feature except his lips ;
those he kept fast closed, for fear Lord Elmwood should
perceive it."

Miss Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did
not, however, acquaint Matilda, that Rushbrook followed
her to the window when the Earl was out of the room, and
Sandford half asleep at the other end of it, and enquired
respectfully but anxiously for her; adding, "It is my
concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed :
I suffer more than she does ; but I am not permitted to
tell her so : nor can I hope, Miss Woodley, that you will."
She replied, <f You are right, sir." Nor did she reveal
this conversation; while not a sentence that pa'ssed except
that was omitted.

When Christmas arrived, Lord Elmwood had many
convivial days at Elmwood House ; but Matilda was never
mentioned by one of his guests, and most probably was
never thought of. During all those holidays, she was un
usually melancholy, but sunk into the deepest dejection
when she was told the day was fixed, on which her father
was to return to town. On the morning of that day she
wept incessantly ; and all her consolation was, " She would
go to the chamber window that was fronting the door
through which he was to pass to his carriage, and for the
first time, and most probably for the last time, in her life
behold him."

This design was soon forgot in another: — " she would
rush boldly into the apartment where he was, and at his
feet take leave of him for ever : she would lay hold of his
hands, clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her, which
would be joy in comparison to this cruel indifference." In
the bitterness of her grief, she once called upon her mother,
and reproached her memory ; but the moment she recol
lected this offence (which was almost instantaneously), she
became all mildness and resignation. ' ' What have I said ? "

A SIMPLE STORY. 215

cried she. ' ' Dear, dear honoured saint, forgive me ; and
for your sake I will bear all I have to bear with patience :
I will not groan : I will not even sigh again : this task I
set myself, to atone for what I have dared to utter."

While Lady Matilda laboured under this variety of sens
ations, Miss Woodley was occupied in bewailing, and en
deavouring to calm her sorrows ; and Lord Elmwood, with
Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The Earl, however,
loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone. When
at last he got up to depart, Sandford thought he pressed
his hand, and shook it with more warmth than ever he had
done in his life. Encouraged by this supposition, Sand-
ford said, " My Lord, won't you condescend to take your
leave of Miss Woodley ?"—" Certainly, Sandford," re
plied he, and seemed glad of an excuse to sit down again.

Impressed with the pitiable state in which she had left
his only child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord
Elmwood to bid him farewell, was pale, trembling, and in
tears. Sandford, notwithstanding his patron's apparently
kind humour, was alarmed at the construction he must put
upon her appearance, and cried, " What, Miss Woodley,
are you not recovered of your illness yet ? " Lord Elm-
wood, however, took no notice of her looks : but, after
wishing her her health, walked slowly out of the house ;
turning back frequently and speaking to Sandford, or to
some other person who was behind him, as if part of his
thoughts were left behind, and he went with reluctance.

When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was,
Rushbrook, timid before her, as she had been before her
benefactor, went up to her, all humility, and said, " Miss
Woodley, we ought to be friends : our concern, our devo
tion is paid to the same objects, and one common interest
should teach us to be friendly."

She made no reply. " Will you permit me to write to
you when I am away ? " said he. ( ' You may wish to
hear of Lord Elm wood's health, and of what changes may
take place in his resolutions. Will you permit me ? "
— At that moment a servant came and said, " Sir, my
Lord is in the carriage, and waiting for you." He hast-
p 4

216

A SIMPLE STORY.

ened away, and Miss Woodley was relieved from the pain
of giving him a denial.

No sooner was the travelling carriage, with all its at
tendants, out of sight, than Lady Matilda was conducted
by Miss Woodley from her lonely retreat, into that part of
the house from whence her father had just departed ; and
she visited every spot where he had so long resided, with a
pleasing curiosity, that for a while diverted her grief. In
the breakfast and dining rooms, she leaned over those seats,
with a kind of filial piety, on which she was told he had
been accustomed to sit. And, in the library, she took up,
with filial delight, the pen with which he had been writing ;
and looked with the most curious attention into those books
that were laid upon his reading desk. But a hat, lying on
one of the tables, gave her a sensation beyond any other
she experienced on this occasion : in that trifling article of
his dress, she thought she saw himself, and held it in her
hand with pious reverence.

In the mean time, Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were
proceeding on the road, with hearts not less heavy than
those which they had left at Elmwood House ; though
neither of them could so well define the cause of this op
pression, as Matilda could account for the weight which
oppressed hers.

CHAPTER XL.

YOUNG as Lady Matilda was during the life of her mother,
neither her youth, nor the recluse state in which she lived,
had precluded her from the notice and solicitations of a
nobleman who had professed himself her lover. Viscount
Margrave had an estate not far distant from the retreat
Lady Elmwood had chosen ; and being devoted to the
sports of the country, he seldom quitted it for any of those
joys which the town offered. He was a young man, of a
handsome person, and was, what his neighbours called, " a

A SIMPLE STORY. 217

man of spirit." He was an excellent fox-hunter, and as
excellent a companion over his hottle at the end of the
chace : he was prodigal of his fortune, where his pleasures
were concerned, and as those pleasures were chiefly social,
his sporting companions and his mistresses (for these were
also of the plural number) partook largely of his wealth.

Two months previous to Lady Elmwood's death, Miss
Woodley and Lady Matilda were taking their usual walk
in some fields and lanes near to their house, when chance
threw Lord Margrave in their way during a thunder-storm,
in which they were suddenly caught ; and he had the
satisfaction to convey his new acquaintances to their home
in his coach, safe from the fury of the elements. Grateful
for the service he had rendered them, Miss Woodley and
her charge permitted him to enquire occasionally after their
health, and would sometimes see him. The story of Lady
Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave : and as he heheld
her daughter with a passion such as he had been unused to
overcome, he indulged it with the probable hope, that on the
death of the mother, Lord Elmwood would receive his child,
and, perhaps, accept him as his son-in-law. Wedlock was
not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever proposed to
himself for happiness ; but the excess of his love, on this
new occasion, subdued all the resolutions he had formed
against the married state ; and not daring to hope for the
consummation of his wishes by any other means, he suf
fered himself to look forward to marriage as his only re
source. No sooner was the long-expected death of Lady
Elmwood arrived than he waited with impatience to hear
that Lady Matilda was sent for and acknowledged by her
father; for he meant to be the first to lay before Lord
Elmwood his pretensions as a suitor. But those preten
sions were founded on the vague hopes of a lover only ;
and Miss Woodley, to whom he first declared them, said
every thing possible to convince him of their fallacy. As
to the object of his passion, she was not only insensible but
wholly inattentive to all that was said to her on the sub
ject : Lady Elmwood died without ever being disturbed
with it ; for her daughter did not even remember his pro
posals so as to repeat them again, and Miss Woodley

218 A SIMPLE STORY.

thought it prudent to conceal from her friend every new
incident which might give her cause for new anxieties.

When Sandford and the ladies left the North and came
to Elmwood House, so much were their thoughts employed
with other affairs, that Lord Margrave did not occupy a
place ; and during the whole time they had been at their
new abode they had never once heard of him. He had,
nevertheless, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and
had placed spies in the neighbourhood to inform him of
every circumstance relating to her situation. Having im
bibed an aversion to matrimony, he heard with but little
regret that there was no prospect of her ever becoming her
father's heir, while such an information gave him the
hope of obtaining her upon the terms of a mercenary com.
panion.

Lord Elmwood's departure to town forwarded this hope ;
and, flattering himself that the humiliating state in which
Matilda must feel herself in the house of her father might
gladly induce her to take shelter under any other protection,
he boldly advanced, as soon as the Earl was gone, to make
such overture as his wishes and his vanity told him could
not be rejected.

Enquiring for Miss Woodley, he easily gained admit,
tance ; but at the sight of so much modesty and dignity in
the person of Matilda, the appearance of so much good
will, and yet such circumspection in her female friend, and
charmed at the good sense and proper spirit which were
always apparent in Sandford, he fell once more into the
dread of never becoming to Lady Matilda any thing of
more importance to his reputation than a husband.

Even that humble hope was sometimes denied him,
while Sandford set forth the impropriety of troubling Lord
Elmwood on such a subject at present; and while the
Viscount's penetration, small as it was, discovered in his
fair one more to discourage than to favour his wishes.
Plunged, however, too deep in his passion to emerge from
it in haste, he meant still to visit, and to wait for a change
to happier circumstances, when he was peremptorily de
sired by Mr. Sandford to desist from ever coming again.

" And why, Mr. Sandford ? " cried he.

A SIMPLE STORY. 219

" For two reasons, my Lord. In the first place, your
visits might be displeasing to Lord Eimwood : in the next
place, I know they are so to his daughter."

Unaccustomed to be addressed so plainly, particularly in
a case where his heart was interested, he nevertheless sub
mitted with patience ; but, in his own mind, determined
how long this patience should continue — no longer than it
served as the means to prove his obedience, and by that
artifice to secure his better reception at some future period.

On his return home, cheered with the huzzas of his
jovial companions, he began to consult those friends what
scheme was best to be adopted for the accomplishment of
his desires. Some boldly advised application to the father
in defiance to the old priest ; but that was the very last
method his Lordship himself approved, as marriage must
inevitably have followed Lord Eimwood' s consent : besides,
though a peer, Lord Margrave was unused to rank with
peers j and even the formality of an interview with one of
his equals carried along with it a terror, or at least a fatigue,
to a rustic lord. Others of his companions advised se
duction ; but happily the Viscount possessed no arts of this
kind to affect a heart joined with such an understanding as
Matilda's. There were not wanting among his most fa
vourite counsellors some who painted the superior triumph
and gratification of force. Those assured him there was
nothing to apprehend under this head; as, from the be
haviour of Lord Eimwood to his child, it was more than
probable he would be utterly indifferent as to any violence
that might be offered her. This last advice seemed in
spired by the aid of wine ; and no sooner had the wine
freely circulated than this was always the expedient, which
appeared by far the best.

While Lord Margrave alternately cherished his hopes
and his fears in the country, Rushbrook in town gave way
to his fears only. Every day of his life made him more
acquainted with the firm, unshaken temper of Lord Elm-
wood, and every day whispered more forcibly to him, that
pity, gratitude, and friendship, strong and affectionate as
these passions are, were weak and cold to that which had
gained the possession of his heart : he doubted, but he did

220 A SIMPLE STORY.

not long doubt, that which he felt was love. " And yet,"
said he to himself, " it is love of such a kind as, arising
from causes independent of the object itself, can scarcely
deserve that sacred name. Did I not love Lady Matilda
before I beheld her ? For her mother's sake I loved her,
and even for her father's. Should I have felt the same
affection for her had she been the child of other parents ?
— No. Or should I have felt that sympathetic tenderness
which now preys upon my health, had not her misfortunes
excited it? — No." Yet the love which is the result of
gratitude and pity only he thought had little claim to rank
with his ; and, after the most deliberate and deep reflection,
he concluded with this decisive opinion — He should have
loved Lady Matilda in whatever state, in whatever circum
stances; and that the tenderness he felt towards her, and
the anxiety for her happiness before he knew her, extreme
as they were, were yet cool and dispassionate sensations,
compared to those which her person and demeanour had
incited ; and though he acknowledged, that by the pre
ceding sentiments his heart was softened, prepared, and
moulded, as it were, to receive this last impression, yet the
violence of his passion told him that genuine love, if not
the basis on which it was founded, had been the certain
consequence. With a strict scrutiny into his heart he
sought this knowledge, but arrived at it with a regret that
amounted to despair.

To shield him from despondency, he formed in his mind
a thousand visions, displaying the joys of his union with
Lady Matilda ; but her father's implacability confounded
them all. Lord Elmwood was a man who made few re
solutions, but those were the effect of deliberation ; and as
he was not the least capricious or inconstant in his temper,
they were resolutions which no probable event could shake.
Love, which produces wonders, which seduces and subdues
the most determined and rigid spirits, had in two instances
overcome the inflexibility of Lord Elmwood : he married
Lady Elmwood contrary to his determination, because he
loved ; and for the sake of this beloved object he had, con
trary to his resolution, taken under his immediate care
young Rushbrook; but the magic which once enchanted

A SIMPLE STORY. 221

away this spirit of immutability was no more — Lady Elm.
wood was no more, and the charm was broken.

As Miss Woodley was deprived of the opportunity of
desiring Rushbrook not to write, when he asked her the
permission, he passed one whole morning in the gratification
of forming and writing a letter to her, which he thought
might possibly be shown to Matilda. As he dared not
touch upon any of those circumstances in which he was the
most interested, this, joined to the respect he wished to
pay the lady to whom he wrote, limited his letter to about
twenty lines ; yet the studious manner with which these
lines were dictated, the hope that they might, and the fear
that they might not, be seen and regarded by Lady Matilda,
rendered the task an anxiety so pleasing, that he could have
wished it might have lasted for a year ; and in this ten
dency to magnify trifles was discoverable the never-failing
symptom of ardent love.

A reply to this formal address was a reward he wished
for with impatience, but he wished in vain ; and in the
midst of his chagrin at the disappointment, a sorrow little
thought of occurred, and gave him a perturbation of mind
he had never before experienced. Lord Elmwood proposed
a wife to him, and in a way so assured of his acquiescence,
that if Rushbrook's life had depended upon his daring to
dispute his benefactor's will, he would not have had the
courage to have done so. There was, however, in his reply
and his embarrassment something which his uncle distin
guished from a free concurrence ; and, looking steadfastly
at him, he said in that stern manner which he now almost
invariably assumed, —

" You have no engagements, I suppose; have made no
previous promises ? "

" None on earth, my Lord," replied Rushbrook, candidly.

f ' Nor have you disposed of your heart ? "

<f No, my Lord," replied he ; but not candidly, nor with
any appearance of candour : for though he spoke hastily, it
was rather like a man frightened than assured. He hurried
to tell the falsehood he thought himself obliged to tell, that
the pain and shame might be over : but there he was de-

222 A SIMPLE STORY.

ceived ; the lie once told was more troublesome than in the
conception, and added another confusion to the first.

Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sul
len scorn, and, rising from his chair, said, (f Rushbrook, if
you have been so inconsiderate as to give away your heart,
tell me so at once, and tell me the object."

Rushbrook shuddered at the thought.
! " I here," continued the Earl, " tolerate the first untruth
you ever told me, as the false assertion of a lover; and give
you an opportunity of recalling it : but after this moment
it is a lie between man and man — a lie to your friend and
father, and I will not forgive it."

Rushbrook stood silent, confused, alarmed, and bewildered
in his thoughts. Lord Elmwood proceeded, —

" Name the person, if there is any, on whom you have
bestowed your heart; and though I do not give you the
hope that I shall not censure your folly, I will at least not
reproach you for having at first denied it."

To repeat these words in writing, the reader must con
demn the young man that he could hesitate to own he loved,
if he was even afraid to name the object of his passion ; but
his interrogator had made the two answers inseparable, so
that all evasions of the second, Rushbrook knew, would be
fruitless, after having avowed the first ; and how could he
confess the latter ? The absolute orders he received from
the steward on his first return from his travels, were, <c never
to mention his daughter, any more than his late wife, before
Lord Elmwood." The fault of having rudely intruded into
Lady Matilda's presence rushed also upon his mind ; for he
did not even dare to say by what means he had beheld her.
But, more than all, the threatening manner in which this
rational and apparently conciliating speech was uttered, the
menaces, the severity which sat upon the Earl's countenance
while he delivered those moderate words, might have inti
midated a man wholly independent, and less used to fear
him than his nephew had been.

fc You make no answer, sir," said Lord Elmwood, after
waiting a few moments for his reply.

" I have only to say, my Lord," returned Rushbrook,

A SIMPLE STORY. 223

" that although my heart may be totally disengaged, I may
yet be disinclined to marriage."

tf May ! may ! Your heart may be disengaged ! " re
peated he. " Do you dare to reply to me equivocally,
when I have asked a positive answer ? "

te Perhaps I am not positive myself, my Lord ; but I
will enquire into the state of my mind, and make you ac
quainted with it very soon."

As the angry demeanour of his uncle affected Rushbrook
with fear, so that fear, powerfully (but with proper man
liness) expressed, again softened the displeasure of Lord
Elmwood ; and, seeing and pitying his nephew's sensibility,
he now changed his austere voice, and said mildly, but
firmly, —

" I give you a week to consult with yourself: at the
expiration of that time I shall talk with you again ; and I
command you to be then prepared to speak, not only with
out deceit, but without hesitation." He left the room at
these words, and left Rushbrook released from a fate which
his apprehensions had beheld impending that moment.

He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to
weigh every circumstance, and to determine whether im
plicitly to submit to Lord El rn wood's recommendation of a
wife, or to revolt from it, and see another, with more sub
serviency to his will, appointed his heir.

Undetermined how to act upon this trial which was to
decide his future destiny, Rushbrook suffered so poignant
an uncertainty that he became at length ill ; and before the
end of the week that was allotted him for his reply he was
confined to his bed in a high fever. Lord Elmwood was
extremely affected at his indisposition : he gave him every
care he could bestow, and even much of his personal attend
ance. This last favour had a claim upon the young man's
gratitude superior to every other obligation which since
his infancy his benefactor had conferred; and he was at
times so moved by those marks of kindness he received,
that he would form the intention of tearing from his heart
every trace that Lady Matilda had left there, and, as soon
as his health would permit him, obey to the utmost of his
views every wish his uncle had conceived. Yet again, her

224 A SIMPLE STORY.

pitiable situation presented itself to his compassion, and her
beauteous person to his love. Divided between the claims
of obligation to the father and tender attachment to the
daughter, his illness was increased by the tortures of his
mind, and he once sincerely wished for that death of which
he was in danger, to free him from the dilemma in which
his affections had involved him.

At the time his disorder was at the height, and he lay
complaining of the violence of his fever, Lord Elm wood,
taking his hand, asked him " if there was any thing he
could do for him?"

" Yes, yes, my Lord, a great deal," he replied, eagerly.
" What is it, Harry ? "

" Oh, my Lord," replied he, " that is what I must not
tell you."

" Defer it, then, till you are well," said Lord Elmwood,
afraid of being surprised or affected by the state of his
health into any promises which he might hereafter find the
impropriety of granting.

l( And when I recover, my Lord, you give me leave to
reveal to you my wishes, let them be what they will ? "

His uncle hesitated ; but seeing an anxiety for the
answer, by his raising himself upon his elbow in the bed
and staring wildly, Lord Elmwood at last said, " Certainly
— yes, yes," as a child is answered for its quiet.

That Lord Elmwood could have no suspicion what the
real petition was which Rushbrook meant to present him
is certain ; but it is certain he expected he had some re
quest to make with which it might be wrong for him to
comply, and therefore he now avoided hearing what it was :
for great as his compassion for him was in his present state,
it was not of sufficient force to urge him to give a promise
he did not mean to perform. Rushbrook, on his part, was
pleased with the assurance he might speak when he was
restored to health ; but no sooner was his fever abated, and
his senses perfectly recovered from the slight derangement
his malady had occasioned, than the lively remembrance of
what he had hinted alarmed him, and he was abashed to
look his kind but awful relation in the face. Lord Elm-
wood's cheerfulness, however, on his returning health, and

A SIMPLE STORY. 225

his undiminished attention, soon convinced him that he had
nothing to fear. But, alas ! he found, too, that he had
nothing to hope. As his health re-established, his wishes
re-established also, and with his wishes his despair.

Convinced by what had passed that his nephew had
something on his mind which he feared to reveal, the Earl
no longer doubted but that some youthful attachment had
armed him against any marriage he should propose ; but
he had so much pity for his present weak state, as to delay
that further enquiry, which he had threatened before
his illness, to a time when his health should be entirely
restored.

It was the end of May before Rushbrook was able to
partake in the usual routine of the day. The country was
now prescribed him as the means of complete restoration ;
and as Lord Elmwood designed to leave London some time
in June, he advised him to go to Elmwood House a week
or two before him. This advice was received with delight,
and a letter was sent to Mr. Sandford to prepare for Mr.
Rushbrook's arrival.

CHAPTER XLI.

DURING the illness of Rushbrook, news had been sent of his
danger, from the servants in town to those at Elmwood-
House, and Lady Matilda expressed compassion when she
was told of it. She began to conceive, the instant she
thought he would soon die, that his visit to her had merit
rather than impertinence in its design, and that he might
possibly be a more deserving man than she had supposed
him to be. Even Sandford and Miss Woodley began to
recollect qualifications he possessed, which they never had
reflected on before ; and Miss Woodley, in particular, re
proached herself that she had been so severe and inattentive
to him. Notwithstanding the prospects his death pointed
out to her, it was with infinite joy she heaid he was re
covered; nor was Sandford less satisfied; for he had
Q

226 A SIMPLE STORY.

treated the young man too unkindly not to dread lest any
ill should befall him. But although he was glad to hear of
his restored health, when he was informed he was coming
down to Elmwood House for a few weeks in the style of
its master, Sandford, with all his religious and humane
principles, could not help conceiving, that " if the youth
had been properly prepared to die, he had been as well out
of the world as in it."

He was still less his friend when he saw him arrive with
his usual florid complexion. Had he come pale and sickly,
Sandford had been kind to him ; but, in apparently good
health and spirits, he could not form his lips to tell him he
was " glad to see him."

On his arrival, Matilda, who for five months had been
at large, secluded herself as she would have done upon the
arrival of Lord Elmwood, but with far different sensations.
Notwithstanding her restriction on the latter occasion, the
residence of her father in that house had been a source of
pleasure rather than of sorrow to her ; but from the abode
of Rushbrook she derived punishment alone.

When, from enquiries, Rushbrook found that on his
approach Matilda had retired to her own confined apart
ments, the thought was torture to him : it was the hope of
seeing and conversing with her, of being admitted at all
times to her society as the mistress of the house, that had
raised his spirits, and effected his perfect cure beyond any
other cause ; and he was hurt to the greatest degree at this
respect, or rather contempt, shown to him by her retreat.

It was, nevertheless, a subject too delicate for him to
touch upon in any one sense : an invitation for her com
pany, on his part, might carry the appearance of superior
authority, and an affected condescension, which he justly
considered as the worst of all insults. And yet, how could
he support the reflection that his visit had placed the
daughter of his benefactor as a dependent stranger in that
house, where in reality he was the dependent, and she the
lawful heiress. For two or three days he suffered the tor
ment of these meditations, hoping that he should come to
an explanation of all he felt by a fortunate meeting with
Miss Woodley ; but when that meeting occurred, though

A SIMPLE STORY. 227

he observed she talked to him with less reserve than she
had formerly done, and even gave some proofs of the na
tive kindness of her disposition, yet she scrupulously avoided
naming Lady Matilda ; and when he diffidently enquired
of her health, a cold restraint overspread Miss Woodley's
face, and she left him instantly. To Sandford it was still
more difficult for him to apply ; for though frequently to
gether, they were never sociable : and as Sandford seldom
disguised his feelings, to Rushbrook he was always severe,
and sometimes unmannerly.

In this perplexed situation, the country air was rather
of detriment than service to the late invalid ; and had he
not, like a true lover, clung fast to fancied hope, while he
could perceive no reality but despair, he would have re
turned to town, rather than by his stay have placed in a
subordinate state the object of his adoration. Persisting
in his hopes, he one morning met Miss Woodley in the
garden, and, engaging her a longer time than usual in con
versation, at last obtained her promise — " She would that
day dine with him and Mr. Sandford." But no sooner
had she parted from him, than she repented of her consent ;
and upon communicating it, Matilda, for the first time in
her life, darted upon her kind companion a look of the mcst
cutting reproach and haughty resentment. Miss Wood-
ley's own sentiments had upbraided her before ; but she
was not prepared to receive so pointed a mark of disappro
bation from her young friend, till now, duteous and humble
to her as to a mother, and not less affectionate. Her heart
was too susceptible to bear this disrespectful and contume
lious frown, from the object of her long-devoted care and
concern ; the tears instantly covered her face, and she laid
her hands upon her heart, as if she thought it would break.
Matilda was moved ; but she possessed too much of the
manly indignation of her father to discover what she felt
for the first few minutes. Miss Woodley, who had given
so many tears to her sorrows, but never, till now, one to
her anger, had a deeper sense of this indifference than of
the anger itself, and, to conceal what she suffered, left the
room. Matilda, who had been till this time working at
her needle, seemingly composed, now let her work drop
Q 2

228 A SIMPLE STORY.

from her hand, and sat for a while in a deep reverie. At
length she rose up, and followed Miss Woodley to the
other apartment. She entered grave, majestic, and appa
rently serene, while her poor heart fluttered with a thou
sand distressing sensations. She approached Miss Woodley
(who was still in tears) with silence j and, awed by her
manners, the faithful friend of her deceased mother ex
claimed, <f Dear Lady Matilda, think no more on what I
have done; do not resent it any longer, and I'll beg your
pardon." Miss Woodley rose as she uttered these last
words ; but Matilda laid fast hold of her to prevent the
posture she offered to take, and instantly assumed it her
self: Cf Oh, let this be my atonement !" she cried, with the
most earnest supplication.

They interchanged forgiveness ; and as this reconcilia
tion was sincere, they each, without reserve, gave their
opinion upon the subject that had caused the misunderstand
ing ; and it was agreed an apology should be sent to Mr.
Rushbrook, ( ' That Miss Woodley had been suddenly indis
posed :" nor could this be said to differ from the truth, for
since what had passed she was unfit to pay a visit.

Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with
the advance he supposed he had made in that lady's favour,
was highly disappointed, vexed, and angry, when this apo
logy was delivered ; nor did he, nor perhaps could he, con
ceal what he felt, although his unkind observer, Mr. Sand-
ford, was present.

( ' I am a very unfortunate man ! " said he, as soon as
the servant was gone who brought the message.

Sandford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise
and contempt.

" A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sandford," re
peated he, " although you treat my complaint contemptu
ously."

Sandford made no reply, and seemed above making
one.

They sat down to dinner. Rushbrook ate scarcely any
thing, but drank frequently : Sandford took no notice of
either, but had a book (which was his custom when he
dined with persons whose conversation was not interesting

A SIMPLE STORY. 229

to him) laid by the side of his plate, which he occasion
ally looked into, as the dishes were removing, or other
opportunities served.

Rushbrook, just now more hopeless than ever of form
ing an acquaintance with Lady Matilda, began to give way
to symptoms of impatience ; and they made their first at
tack, by urging him to treat on the same level of fami
liarity that he himself was treated, Mr. Sandford, to whom
he had, till now, ever behaved with the most profound
tokens of respect.

ce Come," said he to him, as soon as the dinner was re
moved, " lay aside your book and be good company."

Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him — stared in his
face — and cast them on the book again.

" Pshaw," continued Rushbrook, " I want a companion ;
and as Miss Woodley has disappointed me, I must have
your company."

Sandford now laid his book down upon the table ; but,
still holding his fingers in the pages he was reading, said,
" And why are you disappointed of Miss Woodley's com
pany ? When people expect what they have no right to
hope, 'tis impertinent assurance to complain they are dis
appointed."

<f I had a right to hope she would come," answered
Rushbrook, " for she promised she would."

" But what right had you to ask her ? "

" The right every one has to make his time pass as
agreeably as he can."

" But not at the expense of another."

ff I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expense
to you to see me happy : I believe it would cost you even
your own happiness."

(t That is a price I have not now to give," replied Sand-
ford, and began reading again.

" What ! you have already paid it away ? No wondei
that at your time of life it should be gone. But what do
you think of my having already squandered mine ? "

" I don't think about you," returned Sandford, without
taking his eyes from the book.

" Can you look me in the face and say triat, Mr. Sand-
Q 3

230

A SIMPLE STORY.

ford? — No, you cannot; for you know you do think of
me, and you know you hate me." Here he drank two
glasses of wine, one after another. e( And I can tell you
why you hate me," continued he : ' ' it is from a cause for
which I often hate myself."

Sandford read on.

fs It is on Lady Matilda's account you hate me, and use
me thus."

Sandford put down the book hastily, and put both his
hands by his side.

f( Yes," resumed Rushbrook, " you think I am wrong
ing her."

" I think you insult her," exclaimed Sandford, ' ( by this
rude mention of her name ; and I command you at your
peril to desist."

' ' At my peril ! Mr Sandford ? Do you assume the
authority of my Lord Elmwood ? "

(C I do on this occasion ; and if you dare to give your
tongue a freedom "

Rushbrook interrupted him — " Why then I boldly say
(and as her friend you ought rather to applaud than resent
it) — I boldly say, that my heart suffers so much for her
situation that I am regardless of my own. I love her fa
ther — I loved her mother more — but I love her beyond
either."

" Hold your licentious tongue," cried Sandford, " or
quit the room."

" Licentious ! Oh, the pure thoughts that dwell in her
innocent mind are not less sensual than mine towards her.
Do you upbraid me with my respect, my pity for her ?
They are the sensations which impel me to speak thus un
disguised, even to you, my open — no, even worse — my
secret enemy ! "

" Insult me as you please, Mr. Rushbrook ; but beware
how you mention Lord Elmwood's daughter."

' ' Can it be to her dishonour that I pity her ; that I
would quit the house this moment never to return, so that
she supplied the place which I withhold from her ? "

" Go, then," cried Sandford.

" It would be of no use to her, or I would. But come,

A SIMPLE STCKY. 231

Mr. Sandford, I will dare do as much as you. Only second
me, and I will entreat Lord Elmwood to be reconciled —
to see and own her."

sf Your vanity would be equal to your temerity — you
entreat ? She must greatly esteem those paternal favours
which your entreaties gained her ! Do you forget, young
man, how short a time it is since you were entreated
for?"

" I prove that I do not, while this anxiety for Lady
Matilda arises from what I feel on that very account."

ff Remove your anxiety, then, from her to yourself;
for were I to let Lord Elmwood know what has now
passed "

fc It is for your own sake, not for mine, if you do not."

" You shall not dare me to it, Mr. Rushbrook." And
he rose from his seat. " You shall not dare me to do you
an injury. But, to avoid the temptation, I will never
again come into your company, unless my friend, Lord
Elmwood, be present to protect me and his child from your
insults."

Rushbrook rose in yet more warmth than Sandford.
" Have you the injustice to say that I have insulted Lady
Matilda?"

" To speak of her at all is, in you, an insult. But you
have done more : you have dared to visit her ; to force into
her presence, and shock her with your offers of services
which she scorns ; and with your compassion, which she
is above."

(t Did she complain to you ? "

" She or her friend did."

(( I rather suppose, Mr. Sandford, that you have bribed
some of the servants to reveal this circumstance."

" The suspicion becomes Lord Elmwood's heir."

ff It becomes the man who lives in a house with you."

" I thank you, Mr. Rushbrook, for what has passed this
day : it has taken a weight off my mind. I thought my
disinclination to you might perhaps arise from prejudice :
this conversation has relieved me from those fears, and I
thank you." Saying this, he calmly walked out of the room,
and left Rushbrook to reflect on what he had been doing.
Q 4

232 A SIMPLE STORY.

Heated with the wine he had drank,, (and which Sand-
ford, engaged on his book, had not observed,) no sooner
was he alone, than he became by degrees cool and re
pentant. ff What had he done ? " was the first question to
himself. " He had offended Sandford." The man whom
reason as well as prudence had ever taught him to respect,
and even to revere. He had grossly offended the firm
friend of Lady Matilda, by the unreserved and wanton use
of her name. All the retorts he had uttered came now to
his memory ; with a total forgetfulness of all that Sandford
Jiad said to provoke them.

He once thought to follow him and beg his pardon ; but
the contempt with which he had been treated, more than
all the anger, withheld him.

As he sat forming plans how to retrieve the opinion, ill
as it was, which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he
received a letter from Lord Elm wood, kindly enquiring
after his health, and saying that he should be down early
in the following week. Never were the friendly expres
sions of his uncle half so welcome to him ; for they served
to soothe his imagination, racked with Sandford' s wrath and
his own displeasure.

CHAPTER XLII.

WHEN Sandford acted deliberately, he always acted up to
his duty : it was his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did
so ; but he had declared he would never ff be again in his
company unless Lord Elm wood was present;" and with
all his forgiveness he found an unforgiving gratification in
the duty of being obliged to keep his word.

The next day Rushbrook dined alone, while Sandford
gave his company to the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud
to seek to conciliate Sandford by abject concessions ; but he
endeavoured to meet him as by accident, and meant to try
what, in such a case, a submissive apology might effect.
For two days all the schemes he formed on that head
proved fruitless : he could never procure even a sight of

A SIMPLE STORY. 233

him. But on the evening of the third day, taking a lonely
walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and saw, in the very
path he was going, Sandford accompanied by Miss Wood-
ley; and, what agitated him infinitely more, Lady Ma
tilda was with them. He knew not whether to proceed, or
to quit the path and palpably shun them. To one who
seemed to put an unkind construction upon all he said and
did, he knew that to do either would be to do wrong. In
spite of the propensity he felt to pass so near to Matilda,
could he have known what conduct would have been
deemed the most respectful, to that he would have sub
mitted, whatever painful denial it had cost him. But un
determined whether to go forward, or to cross to another
path, he still walked on till he came too nigh to recede:
he then, with a diffidence not affected, but most powerfully
felt, pulled off his hat ; and, without bowing, stood re
spectfully silent while the company passed. Sandford
walked on some paces before, and took no farther notice
as he went by him, than just touching the fore part of his
hat with his finger. Miss Woodley courtesied as she fol
lowed ; but Lady Matilda made a full stop, and said, in
the gentlest accents, " I hope, Mr. Rushbrook, you are
perfectly recovered."

It was the sweetest music he had ever listened to ; and
he replied, with the most reverential bow, " I am better a
great deal, ma'am : " then instantly pursued his way, as if
he did not dare to utter, or wait, for another syllable.

Sandford seldom found fault with Lady Matilda; not
because he loved her. but because she seldom did wrong.
Upon this occasion, however, he was half inclined to re
primand her : but yet he did not know what to say ; — —
the subsequent humility of Rushbrook had taken from the
indiscretion of her speaking to him, and the event could
by no means justify his censure. On hearing her begin to
speak, Sandford had stopped ; and as Rushbrook, after
replying, walked away, Sandford called to her crossly,
" Come, come along;" but at the same time he put out
his elbow for her to take hold of his arm.

She hastened her steps, and did so : then, turning to
Miss Woodley, she said, " I expected you would have
spoken to Mr. Rushbrook : it might have prevented me."

234 A SIMPLE STORY.

Miss Woodley replied, (( I was at a loss what to do :
when we met formerly, he always spoke first."

ie And he ought now/' cried Sandford, angrily; and
then added, with a sarcastic smile, " It is certainly proper
that the superior should be the first who speaks."

" He did not look as if he thought himself our superior,"
replied Matilda.

" No," returned Sandford ; e( some people can put on
what looks they please."

'/ Then while he looks so pale," replied Matilda, " and
so dejected, I can never forbear speaking to him when we
meet, whatever he may think of it."

" And were he and I to meet a hundred, nay, a thou
sand times," returned Sandford, " I don't think I should
ever speak to him again."

' ' Bless me ! what for, Mr. Sandford ? " cried Matilda ;
for Sandford, who was not a man that repeated little incidents,
had never mentioned the circumstance of their quarrel.

" I have taken such a resolution," answered he ; " yet
I bear him no enmity."

As this short reply indicated that he meant to say no
more, no more was asked ; and the subject was dropped.

In the mean time, Rushbrook, happier than he had been
for months, intoxicated with delight at that voluntary mark
of civility he had received from Lady Matilda, felt his
heart so joyous, and so free from every particle of malice,
that he resolved, in the humblest manner, to make atone
ment for the violation of decorum he had lately committed
against Mr. Sandford.

Too happy, at this time, to suffer a mortification from
any indignities he might receive, he sent his servant to him
into his study, as soon as he was returned home, to beg to
know " if he might be permitted to wait upon him, with a
message he had to deliver from Lord Elm wood."

The servant returned — " Mr. Sandford desired he
would send the message by him or the house-steward."
This was highly affronting ; but Rushbrook was not in a
humour to be offended, and he sent again, begging he would
admit him ; but the answer was, " he was busy."

Thus wholly defeated in his hopes of reconciliation, his

A SIMPLE STORY. 235

new transports felt an alloy; and the few days that re
mained before Lord Elmwood came,, he passed in solitary
musing, and ineffectual walks and looks towards that path
in which he had met Matilda : she came that way no
more ; indeed, scarce quitted her apartment, in the practice
of that confinement she was to experience on the arrival of
her father.

All her former agitations now returned. On the day he
arrived she wept ; all the night she did not sleep ; and the
name of Rushbrook again became hateful to her. The Earl
came in extremely good health and spirits, but appeared
concerned to find Rushbrook less well than when he went
from town. Sandford was now under the necessity of being
in Rushbrook's company; yet he would never speak to him
but when he was absolutely compelled, or look at him but
when he could not help it. Lord Elmwood observed this
conduct, yet he neither wondered nor was offended by it.
He had perceived what little esteem Sandford had showed
his nephew from his first return : but he forgave, in Sand-
ford's humour, a thousand faults he would not forgive in
any other ; nor did he deem this one of his greatest faults,
knowing the demand upon his partiality from another
object.

Miss Woodley waited on Lord Elmwood as formerly;
dined with him, and related, as heretofore, to the attentive
Matilda, all that passed.

About this time Lord Margrave, deprived by the season
of sail the sports of the field, felt his love for Matilda
(which had been violent, even though divided with the
love of hunting,) now too strong to be subdued ; and he
resolved, though reluctantly, to apply to her father for his
consent to their union ; but writing to Sandford this reso
lution, he was once more repulsed, and charged, as a man
of honour, to forbear to disturb the tranquillity of the
family by any application of the kind. To this, Sandford
received no answer; for the peer, highly incensed at his
mistress's repugnance to him, determined more firmly than
ever to consult his own happiness alone ; and as that de
pended merely upon his obtaining her, he cared not by
what method it was effected.

236

A SIMPLE STORY.

About a fortnight after Lord Elmwood came into the
country, as he was riding one morning, his horse fell with
him and crushed his leg in so unfortunate a manner as to
be at first pronounced of dangerous consequence. He was
brought home in a post-chaise ; and Matilda heard of the
accident with more grief than would, perhaps, on such an
occasion, have appertained to the most fondled child.

In consequence of the pain he suffered, his fever was
one night very high ; and Sandford, who seldom quitted
his apartment, went frequently to his bedside, every time
with the secret hope he should hear him ask to see his
daughter : he was every time disappointed; yet he saw him
shake, with a cordial friendship, the hand of Rushbrook, as
if he delighted in seeing those he loved.

The danger in which Lord Elmwood was supposed to be
was but of short duration, and his sudden recovery suc
ceeded. Matilda, who had wept, moaned, and watched
during the crisis of his illness, when she heard he was
amending, exclaimed (with a kind of surprise at the novelty
of the sensation) — " And this is joy that I feel ! Oh, I
never till now knew what those persons felt who experi
enced joy ! "

Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miss Wood-
ley, at her father's inattention to her during his malady ;
for she did not hope like them — she did not hope he
would behold her, even in dying.

But, notwithstanding his seeming indifference, while his
indisposition continued, no sooner was he recovered so as
to receive the congratulations of his friends, than there
was no one person he evidently showed so much satisfaction
at seeing as Miss Woodley. She waited upon him timor
ously, and with more than ordinary distaste at his late
conduct, when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth
to receive her, drew her to him, saluted her (an honour he
had never in his life conferred before), and with signs of
the sincerest friendship and affection. Sandford was pre
sent ; and, ever associating the idea of Matilda with Miss
Woodley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had not
enjoyed for many a day.

Matilda listened with delight to the recital Miss Wood-

A SIMPLE STORY. 23?

ley gave on her return, and, many times while it lasted,
exclaimed, " she was happy." But poor Matilda's sudden
transports of joy, which she termed happiness, were not
made for long continuance ; and if she ever found cause
for gladness, she far oftener had motives for grief.

As Mr. Sandford was sitting with her and Miss Woodley
one evening, about a week after, a person rang at the bell,
and enquired for him. On being told of it by the servant,
he went to the door of the apartment, and cried, s< Oh,
is it you ? Come in." An elderly man entered, who had
been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood House
— a man of honesty and sobriety, and with an indigent
family of aged parents, children, and other relations, who
subsisted wholly on the income arising from his place. The
ladies, as well as Sandford, knew him well ; and they all,
almost at once, asked, " what was the matter ? " for his
looks told them something distressful had befallen him.

" Oh, sir," said he to Sandford, " I come to entreat
your interest."

" In what, Edwards ? " said Sandford, with a mild
voice ; for, when his assistance was supplicated in distress,
his rough tones always took a plaintive key.

" My Lord has discharged me from his service," re
turned Edwards, trembling, and the tears starting in his
eyes. " I am undone, Mr. Sandford, unless you plead for
me."

" I will," said Sandford, " I will."

<( And yet I am almost afraid of your success," replied
the man ; " for my Lord has ordered me out of his house
this moment ; and though I knelt down to him to be
heard, he had no pity."

Matilda sighed from the bottom of her heart, and yet she
envied this poor man who had been kneeling to her father.

" What was your offence ? " cried Sandford.

The man hesitated; then, looking at Matilda, said, " I'll
tell you, sir, some other time."

" Did you name me before Lord Elmwood ? " cried she,
eagerly, and terrified.

" No, madam," replied he ; " but I unthinkingly spoke
of my poor Lady who is dead and gone."

238 A SIMPLE STORY.

Matilda burst into tears.

" How came you to do so mad a thing ? " cried Sandford;
and the encouragement which his looks had once given him
now fled from his face.

fe It was unthinkingly," repeated Edwards : fc I was
showing my Lord some plans for the new walks, and told
him, among other things, that her Ladyship had many
years ago approved of them. — ' Who?' cried he. — Still
I did not call to mind, but said, c Lady Elmwood, sir, while
you were abroad.' — As soon as these words were delivered,
I saw my doom in his looks, and he commanded me to
quit his house and service that instant."

" I am afraid/' said Sandford, shaking his head, " I
can do nothing for you."

" Yes, sir, you know you have more power over my
Lord than any body ; and, perhaps, you may be able to
save me and all mine from misery."

" I would, if I could," replied Sandford, quickly.

" You can but try, sir."

Matilda was all this while bathed in tears ; nor was
Miss Woodley much less affected. Lady Elmwood was
before their eyes ; Matilda beheld her in her dying mo
ments ; Miss Woodley saw her as the gay ward of Dorri-
forth.

" Ask Mr. Rushbrook," said Sandforth : " prevail on
him to speak for you : he has more power than I have."

f( He has not enough, then," replied Edwards ; " for he
was in the room with my Lord when what I have told you
happened."

" And did he say nothing ? " asked Sandford.

" Yes, sir ; he offered to speak in my behalf, but my
Lord interrupted him, and ordered him out of the room :
he instantly went."

Sandford, now observing the effect which this narration
had on the two ladies, led the man to his own apartments,
and there assured him he dared not undertake his cause ;
but that if time or chance should happily make an alter
ation in his Lord's disposition, he would be the first who
would endeavour to replace him. Edwards was obliged to
submit ; and before the next day at noon, his pleasant

A SIMPLE STORY. 239

house by the side of the park, his garden, and his orchard,
which he had occupied above twenty years, were cleared of
their old inhabitant, and all his wretched family.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THIS melancholy incident, perhaps, affected Matilda, and
all the friends of the deceased Lady Elmwood, beyond any
other that had occurred since her death. A few days after
this circumstance, Miss Woodley, in order to divert the dis
consolate mind of Lady Matilda (and in the hope of bring
ing her some little anecdotes to console her for that which
had given her so much pain), waited upon Lord Elmwood
in his library, and borrowed some books out of it. He was
now perfectly well from his fall, and received her with his
usual politeness, but, of course, not with that peculiar
warmth which he had discovered when he received her just
after his illness. Rushbrook was in the library at the same
time : he showed her several beautiful prints which Lord
Elmwood had just received from London, and appeared
anxious to entertain and give tokens of his esteem and re
spect for her. But what gave her pleasure beyond any
other attention was, that after she had taken (by the aid
of Rushwood) about a dozen volumes from different shelves,
and had laid them together, saying she would send her ser
vant to fetch them, Lord Elmwood went carefully to the
place where they were, and, taking up each book, ex
amined minutely what it was. One author he complained
was too light, another too depressing, and put them on the
shelves again ; another was erroneous, and he changed it
for a better. Thus, he warned her against some, and se
lected other authors, as the most cautious preceptor culls
for his pupil, or a fond father for his darling child. She
thanked him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked
him for his attention to his daughter : for as she had her
self never received such a proof of his care since all their

240 A SIMPLE STORY.

long acquaintance, she reasonably supposed that Matilda's
reading, and not hers, was the object of his solicitude.

Having in these books store of comfort for poor Matilda,
she eagerly returned with them j and in reciting every
particular circumstance, made her consider the volumes
almost like presents from her father.

The month of September was now arrived ; and Lord
Elmwood, accompanied by Rushbrook, went to a small
shooting seat, near twenty miles distant from Elmwood
Castle, for a week's particular sport. Matilda was once
more at large; and one beautiful morning, about eleven
o'clock, seeing Miss Woodley walking on the lawn before
the house, she hastily -took her hat to join her; and not
waiting to put it on, went nimbly down the great staircase
with it hanging on her arm. When she had descended a
few stairs, she heard a footstep proceeding slowly up ; and
(from what emotion she could not tell) she stopped short,
half resolved to return back. She hesitated a single in
stant whether she should or not — then went a few steps
further, till she came to the second landing-place ; when, by
the sudden winding of the staircase, Lord Elmwood was
immediately before her !

She had felt something like affright before she saw him ;
but her reason told her she had nothing to fear, as he was
away. But now, the appearance of a stranger whom she
had never before seen ; the authority in his looks, as well
as in the sound of his steps ; a resemblance to the portrait
she had been shown of him ; a start of astonishment which
he gave on beholding her ; but above all, her fears con
firmed her that it was him. She gave a scream of terror ;
put out her trembling hands to catch the balustrades for
support — missed them — and fell motionless into her
father's arms.

He caught her, as, by the same impulse, he would have
caught any other person falling for want of aid. Yet when
he found her in his arms, he still held her there, gazed on
her attentively, and once pressed her to his bosom.

At length trying to escape the snare into which he had
been led, he was going to leave her on the spot where she
fell, when her eyes opened, and she uttered, " Save me ! "

A SIMPLE STORY. 241

Her voice unmanned him. His long-restrained tears now
burst forth, and seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he
cried out eagerly to recall her. Her name did not, how
ever, come to his recollection — nor any name but this:
" Miss Milner — dear Miss Milner ! "

That sound did not awaken her; and now again he
wished to leave her in this senseless state, that, not re
membering what had passed, she might escape the punish
ment.

But at this instant Giffard, with another servant, passed
by the foot of the stairs ; on which Lord Elmwood called
to them, and into Giffard's hands delivered his apparently
dead child, without one command respecting her, or one
word of any kind ; while his face was agitated with shame,
with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderness.

As Giffard stood trembling, while he relieved his Lord
from this hapless burden, her father had to unloose her
hand from the side of his coat, which she had caught fast
hold of as she fell, and grasped so closely, it was with dif
ficulty removed. On attempting to take the hand away he
trembled, faltered, then bade Giffard do it.

" Who ? I, my Lord ! I separate you ! " cried he. But
recollecting himself, " My Lord, I will obey your com
mands whatever they are." And seizing her hand, pulled
it with violence : it fell, and her father went away.

Matilda was carried to her own apartments, laid upon
the bed ; and Miss Woodley hasted to attend her, after
listening to the recital of what had passed.

When Lady Elmwood's old and affectionate friend en
tered the room, and saw her youthful charge lying pale and
speechless, yet no father by to comfort or soothe her, she
lifted up her hands to Heaven, exclaiming, with a burst of
tears, tf And is this the end of thee, my poor child ? Is
this the end of all our hopes — of thy own fearful hopes —
and of thy mother's supplications ? Oh, Lord Elmwood !
Lord Elmwood!"

At that name Matilda started, and cried, " Where is
he ? Is it a dream, or have I seen him ? "

" It is all a dream, my dear/' said Miss Woodley.

242 A SI3IPLE STORY.

/

et And yet I thought he held me in his arms/' she re
plied : (e I thought I felt his hands press mine. Let me
sleep and dream again."

Now thinking it best to undeceive her, " It is no dream,
my dear," returned Miss Woodley.

" Is it not?" cried she,, rising up, and leaning on her
elbow. ff Then I suppose I must go away — go for ever
away."

Sandford now entered. Having been told the news, he
came to condole ; but at the sight of him Matilda was ter
rified, and cried, " Do not reproach me, do not upbraid
me ; I know I have done wrong — I know I had but one
command from my father, and that I have disobeyed."

Sandford could not reproach her, for he could not speak:
he therefore only walked to the window and .concealed his
tears.

That whole day and night was passed in sympathetic
grief, in alarm at every sound, lest it should be a messenger
to pronounce Matilda's destiny..

Lord Elm wood 'did' not stay upon this visit above three
hours at Elmwood House : he then set off again for the
seat he had left, where Rushbrook still remained, and from
whence his Lordship had merely come by accident to look
over some writings which he wanted immediately despatched
to town.

During his short continuance here Sandford cautiously
avoided his presence ; for he thought, in a case like this,
what nature would not of herself effect, no art, no argu
ments of his could accomplish : to nature, then, and Pro
vidence, he left the whole. What' these two powerful
principles brought about, the reader will be informed, when
he peruses the following letter, received early the next
morning by Miss Woodley.

A SIMPLE STORY, 243

CHAPTER XLIV.

A Letter from Giffard, Lord Elmwood's House Steward,
to Miss Woodley.

<! MADAM,

{< MY LORD, above a twelvemonth ago, acquainted me he
had permitted his daughter to reside in his house ; but at
the same time he informed me, the grant was under a cer
tain restriction, which, if ever broken, I was to see his
then determination (of which he also acquainted me) put
in execution. In consequence of Lady Matilda's indispo
sition, madam, I have ventured to delay this notice till
morning. I need not say with what concern I now give
it, or mention to you, I believe, what is forfeited. My
Lord staid but a few hours yesterday, after the unhappy
circumstance on which I write took place ; nor did I see
him after, till he was in his carriage : he then sent for me
to the carriage door, and told me he should be back in two
days' time, and added, ' Remember your duty.' That
duty, I hope, madam, you will not require me to explain
in more direct terms. As soon as my Lord returns, I have
no doubt but he will ask me if it is fulfilled ; and I shall
be under the greatest apprehension, should his commands
not be obeyed.

" If there is any thing wanting for the convenience of
your and Lady Matilda's departure, you have but to order
it, and it is at your service : I mean, likewise, any cash
you may have occasion for. I should presume to add my
opinion where you might best take up your abode ; but
with such advice as you will have from Mr. Sandford, mine
would be but assuming.

" I would also have waited upon you, madam, and have
delivered myself the substance of this letter ; but I am an
old man, and the changes I have been witness to in my
Lord's house, since I first lived in it, have added, I think,
to my age many a year ; and I have not the strength tq
R 2

244 A SIMPLE STORY.

see you upon this occasion. I loved my Lady — I love my
Lord — and I love their child : nay, so I am sure does my
Lord himself; but there is no accounting for his resolu
tions, or for the alteration his disposition has lately under
gone.

ff I beg pardon, madam, for this long intrusion, and am,
and ever will be (while you and my Lord's daughter are so),
your afflicted humble servant,

" ROBERT GIFFARD.
" Elmwcod House, Sept. 12."

When this letter was brought to Miss Woodley, she
knew what it contained before she opened it, and therefore
took it with an air of resignation : yet though she guessed
the momentous part of its contents, she dreaded in what
words it might be related; and having now no essential
good to expect, hope, that will never totally expire, clung
at this crisis to little circumstances ; and she hoped most
fervently the terms of the letter might not be harsh, but
that Lord Elm wood had delivered his final sentence in
gentle language. The event proved he had ; and, lost to
every important comfort, she felt grateful to him for this
small one.

Matilda, too, was cheered by this letter; for she ex
pected something worse ; and one of the last lines, in which
Giffard said he knew " his Lordship loved her," she thought
repaid her for the purport of the other part.

Sandford was not so easily resigned or comforted. He
walked about the room when the letter was shown to him —
called it cruel — stifled his tears, and wished to show his
resentment only ; but the former burst through all his en
deavours, and he sunk into grief.

Nor was the fortitude of Matilda, which came to her
assistance on the first onset of this trial, sufficient to arm
her, when the moment came she was to quit the house —
her father's house — never to see that or him again.

When word was brought that the carriage was at the
door, which was to convey her from all she held so dear,
and she saw before her the prospect of a long youthful and
healthful life, in which misery and despair were all she

A SIMPLE STORY. 245

could discern, that despair seized her at once, and gaining
courage from her sufferings, she cried, —

" What have I to fear, if I disobey my father's com
mands once more ? He cannot use me worse. I '11 stay
here till he returns — again throw myself in his way, and
then I will not faint, but plead for mercy. Perhaps, were
I to kneel to him — kneel, like other children to their pa
rents — and beg his blessing, he would not refuse it me."

" You must not try," said Sandford, mildly.

" Who," cried she, " shall prevent my flying to my
father ? Have I another friend on earth ? Have I one
relation in the world but him ? This is the second time I
have been turned from his house. In my infant state my
cruel father turned me out; but then he sent me to a
mother : now I have none ; and I will stay with him."

Again the steward sent to let them know the coach was
waiting.

Sandford, now, with a determined countenance, went
coolly up to Lady Matilda, and taking her hand, seemed
resolved to lead her to the carriage.

Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she
yet resisted this, and cried, ff Would you be the minister
of my father's cruelty ? "

" Then," said Sandford solemnly to her, ' e farewell —
from this moment you and I part. I will take my leave,
and do you remain where you are — at least till you are
forced away. But I '11 not stay to be driven hence ; for it
is impossible your father will suffer any friend of yours to
continue here after this disobedience. Adieu."
<e I '11 go this moment," said she, and rose hastily.

Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her im
mediately out of the room.

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

When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had
met her father, she started back, and scarce knew how to
pass it. When she had — "There he held me in his
arms," said she ; " and I thought I felt him press me to
his heart ; but I now find I was mistaken."

As Sandford came forward to hand her into the coach —
a 3

246 A SIMPLE STORY.

' ' Now you behave well/' said he : " by this behaviour, you
do not entirely close all prospect of recon ciliation with your
father/'

£( Do you think it is not yet impossible ? " cried she>
clasping his hand. " Giffard says he loves me/' continued
she ; (( and do you think he might yet be brought to for.
give me ? "

ff Forgive you ! " cried Sandford.

" Suppose I was to write to him, and entreat his for
giveness ? "

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

The carriage drove off; and as it went, Matilda leaned
her head from the window, to survey Elmwood House from
the roof to the foundation. She cast her eyes upon the
gardens, too — upon the fish-ponds — even the coach-houses
and all the offices adjoining — which, as objects that she should
never see again, she contemplated as objects of importance.

CHAPTER XLV.

RUSHBROOK, who, at twenty miles' distance, could have no
conjecture what had passed at Elmwood House during the
short visit Lord Elmwood made there, went that way with
his dogs and gun, in order to meet him on his return, and
accompany him in the chaise back. He did so: and getting
into the carriage, told him eagerly the sport he had had
during the day / laughed at an accident that had befallen
one of his dogs ; and for some time did not perceive but
that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At length, observing
he answered more negligently than usual to what he said,
Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him, and cried, -*-

f ' My Lord, are you not well ? "

<c Yes ; perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook," — and
he leaned back against the carriage.

" I thought, sir," returned Rushbrook, " you spoke
languidly — I beg your pardon."

A SIMPLE sxony. 247

<l I have the headach a little/' answered he : then
taking off his hat, brushed the dust from it ; and, as he
put it on again, fetched a most heavy sigh, which no
sooner had escaped him, than, to drown its sound, he said
briskly, —

" And so you tell me you have had good sport to
day?"

" No, my Lord ; I said hut indifferent."

cc True ; so you did. Bid the man drive faster : it will
be dark before we get home."

" You will shoot to-morrow, my Lord ? "

" Certainly."

f ' How does Mr. Sandford do, sir ? "

" I did not see him."

" Not see Mr. Sandford, my Lord ! But he was out, I
suppose ; for they did not expect you at Elm wood House."

' ' No, they did not."

In such conversation Rushbrook and his uncle continued
to the end of their journey. Dinner was then immediate
ly served ; and Lord Elm wood appeared much in his usual
spirits ; at least, not suspecting any cause for their abate
ment, Rushbrook did not observe any alteration.

Lord Elm wood went, however, earlier to bed than ordi
nary, or rather to his bed-chamber ; for though he retired
some time before his nephew, when Rushbrook passed his
chamber-door it was open, and he not in bed, but sitting
in a musing posture, as if he had forgot to shut it.

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

" I suppose, sir, you do not know what has happened at
the castle."

" For Heaven's sake, what?" cried Rushbrook.

<( My Lord has met Lady Matilda," replied the man.

(f How ? Where? What's the consequence ?"

f< We don't know yet, sir; but all the servants suppose
her Ladyship will not be suffered to remain there any
longer."

" They all suppose wrong," returned Rushbrook, hastily :
"my Lord loves her, I am certain, and this event may be
n 4

248 A SIMPLE STORY.

the happy means of his treating her as his child from this
day."

The servant smiled, and shook his head.

' £ Why, what more do you know ? "

" Nothing more than 1 have told you, sir, except that
his Lordship took no kind of notice of her Ladyship that
appeared like love."

Rushbrook was all uneasiness and anxiety to know the
particulars of what had passed ; and now Lord Elmwood's
inquietude, which he had but slightly noticed before, came
full to his observation. He was going to ask more ques
tions ; but he recollected that Lady Matilda's misfortunes
were too sacred to be talked of thus familiarly by the ser
vants of the family : besides, it was evident this man
thought, and but naturally, it might not be for his master's
interest the father and the daughter should be united ; and
therefore would give to all he said the opposite colouring.

In spite of his prudence, however, and his delicacy to
wards Matilda, Rushbrook could not let his valet leave him
till he had enquired, and learned all the circumstantial ac
count of what had happened; except, indeed, the order
received by Giffard, which being given after Lord Elm-
wood was in his carriage, and in concise terms, the domes
tics who attended him (and from whom this man had gain
ed his intelligence) were unacquainted with it.

When the servant had left Rushbrook alone, the pertur
bation of his mind was so great, that he was at length un
determined whether to go to bed, or to rush into his uncle's
apartment, and at his feet beg for that compassion upon
his daughter which he feared he had denied her. But then,
to what peril would he not expose himself by such a step ?
Nay, he might, perhaps, even injure her whom he wished
to serve ; for if his uncle was at present unresolved whether
to forgive or to resent this disobedience to his commands,
another's interference might enrage and precipitate him on
the latter resolution.

This consideration was so weighty it resigned Rushbrook
to the suspense he was compelled to endure till the morning,
when he flattered himself that by watching every look and

A SIMPLE STORY. 24$

motion of Lord Elmwood his penetration would be able to
discover the state of his heart, and how he meant to act.

But the morning came, and he found all his prying curi
osity was of no avail : Lord Elmwood did not drop one
word, give one look, or use one action that was not custo
mary.

On first seeing him, Rushbrook blushed at the secret with
which he was intrusted : then, as he gazed on the Earl,
contemplated the joy he ought to have known in clasping
in his arms a child like Matilda, whose tenderness,, rever
ence, and duty had deprived her of all sensation at his
sight ; which was, in Rushbrook's mind, an honour that
rendered him superior to what he was before.

They were in the fields all the day as usual : Lord Elm-
wood now cheerful, and complaining no more of the head-
ach. Yet once being separated from his nephew, Rush-
brook crossed over a stile into another field, and found him
sitting by the side of a bank, his gun lying by him, and
himself lost in thought. He rose on seeing him, and pro.
ceeded to the sport as before.

At dinner, he said he should not go to Elmwood House
the next day, as he had appointed, but stay where he was
three or four days longer. From these two small occur
rences, Rushbrook would fain have extracted something by
which to judge the state of his mind ; but upon the test
that was impossible : he had caught him so musing many
a time before; and as to his prolonging his stay, that
might arise from the sport : or, indeed, had any thing more
material swayed him, who could penetrate whether it was
the effect of the lenity, or the severity, he had dealt towards
his child ; whether his continuance there was to shun her,
or to shun the house from whence he had banished her?

The three or four days for their temporary abode being
passed, they both returned together to Elmwood House.
Rushbrook thought he saw his uncle's countenance change
as they entered the avenue ; yet he did not appear less in
spirits ; and when Sandford joined them at dinner, the Earl
went with his usual attention to him, and (as was his custom
after any separation) put out his hand cheerfully to take his.
Sandford said, " How do you do, my Lord?" cheerfully

§50 A SIMPLE STORY.

in return; but put both his hands into his bosom, and
walked to the other side of the room. Lord Elmwood did
not seem to observe this affront ; nor was it done as an
affront : it was merely what poor Sandford could not help ;
for he felt that he could not shake hands with him.

Rushbrook soon learned the news that Matilda was gone ;
and Elmwood House was to him a desert — he saw there
no real friend of hers, except poor Sandford, and to him
Rushbrook knew himself now more displeasing than ever :
and all his overtures of atonement he, at this time, found
more and more ineffectual. Matilda was exiled ; and her
supposed triumphant rival was, to Sandford, odious beyond
what he had ever been.

In alleviation of their banishment, Miss Woodley, with
her charge, had not returned to their old retreat ; but were
gone to a farm-house, not farther than thirty miles from Lord
Elmwood's. Here Sandford, with little inconvenience,
visited them ; nor did his patron ever take notice of his oc
casional absence : for as he had before given his daughter,
in some measure, to his charge, so honour, delicacy, and the
common ties of duty, made him approve, rather than con
demn, his attention to her.

Though Sandford's frequent visits soothed Matilda, they
could not comfort her ; for he had no consolation to bestow
that was suited to her mind ; her father having given no
one token of regret for what he had done. He had even
enquired sternly of Giffard, on his returning home, —

" If Miss Woodley had left the house."

The steward, guessing the whole of his meaning, answer
ed, "Yes, my Lord; and all your commands in that re
spect have been obeyed."

He replied, " I am satisfied;" and, to the grief of the
old man, he appeared really so.

To the farm-house, the place of Matilda's residence,
there came, besides Sandford, another visiter far less wel
come — Viscount Margrave. He had heard with surprise,
and still greater joy, that Lord Elmwood had once more
closed his doors against his daughter. In this her discarded
state, he no longer burdened his lively imagination with

A SIMPLE STORY.

251

the dull thoughts of marriage,, but once more formed the
barbarous design of making her his mistress.

Ignorant of a certain decorum which attended all Lord
Elmwood's actions, he suspected that his child might be in
want ; and an acquaintance with the worst part of her sex
informed him, that relief from poverty was the sure bargain
for his success. With these hopes he again paid Miss
Woodley and her a visit; but the coldness of the former A
and the haughtiness of the latter, still kept him at a dis
tance, and again made him fea? to give one allusion to his
purpose : but he returned home, resolved to write what he
durst not speak. He did so — he offered his services, his
purse, his house : they were rejected with disdain, and a
stronger prohibition than ever given to his visits.

CHAPTER XLVI.

LORD ELMWOOD had now allowed Rushbrook a long vaca
tion, in respect to his answer upon the subject of marriage;
and the young man vainly imagined his intentions upon that
subject were entirely given up. One morning, however, as
he was with him in the library, —

" Henry," said his uncle, with a pause at the begin
ning of his speech_, which indicated that he was going to say
something of importance, — "Henry — you have not forgot
the discourse I had with you a little time previous to your
illness ? "

Henry paused too — for he wished to have forgotten it —
but it was too strongly impressed upon his memory. Lord
Elm wood resumed, —

" What ! equivocating again, sir ? Do you remember it,
or do you not ? "

" Yes, my Lord, I do."

f ' And are you prepared to give me an answer ? "

Rushbrook paused again.

" In our former conversation," continued the Earl, " I

252 A SIMPLE STORY.

gave you but a week to determine : there has, I think,
elapsed since that time half a year."

" About as much, sir."

" Then surely you have now made up your mind ?"

" I had done that at first, my Lord, if it had met with
your concurrence."

" You wished to lead a bachelor's life, I think you
said?"

Rushbrook bowed.

ff Contrary to my will ? "

" No, my Lord, I wished to have your approbation."

fc And you wished for my approbation of the very oppo
site thing to that which I proposed ? But I am not sur
prised : such is the gratitude of the world ; and such is
yours."

" My Lord, if you doubt mygratitude "

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

" Upon every other subject but this, my Lord, Heaven is
my witness that your desires "

Lord Elmwood interrupted him : " I understand you :
upon every other subject, but the only one which my con
tent requires, you are ready to obey me. I thank you."

" My Lord, do not torture me with this suspicion : it is
so contrary to my deserts, that I cannot bear it."

" Suspicion of your ingratitude ! you judge too favour
ably of my opinion — it amounts to certainty."

" Then to convince you, sir, I am not ungrateful — tell
me who the lady is you have chosen for me, and here I give
you my word, I will sacrifice all my future prospects of
happiness — all, for which I would wish to live — and be
come her husband as soon as you shall appoint."

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

te And while you obey me, you take care to let me know
it will cost you your future peace. This is, I suppose, to
enhance the merit of the obligation — but I shall not accept
your acquiescence on these terms."

ec Then, in dispensing with it, I hope for your pardon."

A SIMPLE STORY. 253

" Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence,
the sole foundation of which arises from a spirit of diso
bedience ? for you have declared to me your affections are
disengaged. In our last conversation did you not say so?"

" At first I did, my Lord : but you permitted me to
consult my heart more closely ; and I have since found that
I was mistaken."

<e You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and
yet have all this time kept me in suspense without confess
ing it."

" I waited, my Lord, till you should enquire "

" You have then, sir, waited too long," and the fire
flashed from his eyes.

Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state that
admitted of no medium of resentment, but by Buch das
tardly conduct on his part as would wound both his truth
and courage ; and thus, animated by his danger, he was
resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his
patron's anger.

" My Lord," said he (but he did not undertake this task
without sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his whole
frame), — " My Lord — waving for a moment the subject
of my marriage — permit me to remind you, that when I
was upon my sick bed you promised, that on my recovery
you would listen to a petition I should offer to you."

" Let me recollect," replied he. " Yes; I do remember
something of it. But I said nothing to warrant any im-i
proper petition."
. "Its impropriety was not named, my Lord."

" No matter, — that you must judge of, and answer lor
the consequences."

" I would answer with my life, willingly ; but I own
that I shrink from your displeasure."

" Then do not provoke it."

•{ I have already gone too far to recede ; and you would
of course demand an explanation, if I attempted to stop
here."

" I should."

" Then, my Lord, I am bound to speak ; but do not

254 A SIMPLE STORY.

interrupt me : hear me out, before you banish me from your
presence for ever."

(( I will, sir/' replied he, prepared to hear something that
would excite his resentment, and yet determined to hear
with patience to the conclusion.

" Then, my Lord," cried Rushbrook, in the greatest

agitation of mind and body, " your daughter "

The resolution Lord Elmwood had taken (and on which
he had given his word to his nephew not to interrupt him)
immediately gave way. The colour rose in his face, his
eye darted lightning, and his hand was lifted up with the
emotion that word had created.

' ( You promised to hear me, my Lord," cried Rushbrook,
(f and I claim your promise/'

He now suddenly overcame his violence of passion, and
stood silent and resigned to hear him ; but with a determined
look, expressive of the vengeance that should ensue.
. " Lady Matilda," resumed Rushbrook, " is an object
that wrests from me the enjoyment of every blessing your
kindness bestows. I cannot but feel myself as her adver
sary — as one who has supplanted her in your affections
— who supplies her place while she is exiled, a wanderer,
and an orphan."

The Earl took his eyes from Rushbrook during this last
sentence, and cast them on the floor.

(( If I feel gratitude towards you, my Lord,"^ continued
ke, " gratitude is innate in my heart ; and I must also feel
it towards her who first introduced me to your protection."
Again the colour flew to Lord Elmwood' s face, and again
he could hardly restrain himself from uttering his indig
nation.

C( It was the mother of Lady Matilda," continued Rush-
brook, te who was this friend to me ; nor will I ever think
of marriage, or any other joyful prospect, while you abandon
the only child of my beloved patroness, and load me with
rights which belong to her."

Here Rushbrook stopped : Lord Elmwood was silent too,
for near half a minute j but still his countenance continued
fixed with his unvaried resolves.

After this long pause, the Earl said with composure,

A SIMPLE STORY. 255

which denoted firmness, " Have you finished, Mr. Rush-
brook ? "

( ' All that I dare to utter, my Lord ; and I fear I have
already said too much."

Rushbrook now trembled more than ever, and looked
pale as death; for the ardour of speaking being over, he
waited his sentence with less constancy of mind than he
expected he should.

" You disapprove my conduct, it seems," said Lord Elm-
wood ; " and in that you are but like the rest of the world ;
and yet, among all my acquaintance, you are the only one
who has dared to insult me with your opinion. And this
you have not done inadvertently, but willingly and de
liberately. But as it has been my fate to be used ill, and
severed from all those persons to whom my soul has been
most attached, with less regret I can part from you than if
this were my first trial."

There was a truth and a pathetic sound in the utterance
of these words that struck Rushbrook to the heart ; and he
beheld himself as a barbarian, who had treated his bene
volent and only friend with insufferable liberty — void of
respect for those corroding sorrows which had embittered
so many years of his life, and in open violation of his most
peremptory commands. He felt that he deserved all he
was going to suffer, and he fell upon his knees ; not so much
to deprecate the doom he saw impending, as thus humbly
to acknowledge it was his due.

Lord Elmwood, irritated by this posture, as a sign of the
presumptuous hope that he might be forgiven, suffered now
his anger to burst all bounds ; and, raising his voice, he
exclaimed with rage, —

" Leave my house, sir. Leave my house instantly, and
seek some other home."

Just as these words were begun, Sandford opened the
library door, was witness to them, and to the imploring
situation of Rushbrook. He stood silent with amazement.

Rushbrook arose, and feeling in his mind a presage that
he might never from that hour behold his benefactor more,
as he bowed jin token of obedience to his commands, a shower
of tears covered his face ; but Lord Elmwood, unmoved,

256* A SIMPLE STORY.

fixed his eyes upon him, which pursued him with enraged
looks to the end of the room. Here he had to pass Sand-
ford ; who, for the first time in his life, took hold of him
by the hand, and said to Lord Elmwood, ' ' My Lord, what 's
the matter?"

ff That ungrateful villain," cried he, <( has dared to in
sult me. Leave my house this moment, sir."

Rushbrook made an effort to go, but Sandford still held
his hand ; and meekly said to Lord Elmwood, —

<f He is but a boy, my Lord, and do not give him the
punishment of a man."

Rushbrook now snatched his hand from Sandford's, and
threw it with himself upon his neck, where he indeed sobbed
like a boy.

" You are both in league," exclaimed Lord Elmwood.

tc Do you suspect me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook ? "
said Sandford, advancing nearer to the Earl.

Rushbrook had now gained the point of remaining in the
room ; but the hope that privilege inspired (while he still
harboured all the just apprehensions for his fate) gave birth,
perhaps, to a more exquisite sensation of pain than despair
would have done. He stood silent — confounded; — hoping
that he was forgiven — fearing that he was not.

As Sandford approached still nearer to Lord Elmwood,
he continued, ' ' No, my Lord ; I know you do not suspect
me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook. Has any part of my
behaviour ever discovered it ? "

" You now, then, only interfere to irritate me."

" If that were the case," returned Sandford, " there
have been occasions when I might have done it more effec
tually ; — when my own heart-strings were breaking, be
cause I would not irritate, or add to what you suffered."

" I am obliged to you, Mr. Sandford," he returned
mildly and thankfully.

" And if, my Lord, I have proved any merit in a late
forbearance, reward me for it now ; and take this young
man from the depth of sorrow in which I see he is sunk,
and say you pardon him."

Lord Elmwood made no answer ; and Rushbrook, draw
ing strong inferences of hope from his silence, lifted up his

A SIMPLE STORY. 257

eyes from the ground, and ventured to look in his face : he
found it serene to what it had been, but still strongly marked
with agitation. He cast his eyes away again, in shame
and confusion.

On which his uncle said to him, " I shall postpone the
exacting of your obedience to my late orders, till you think
fit once more to provoke them ; and then, not even Sand-
ford shall dare to plead your excuse."

Rushbrook bowed.

" Go, leave the room, sir." i

He instantly obeyed.

Then Sandford, turning to Lord Elmwood, shook him
by the hand, and cried, " My Lord, I thank you — I thank
you very kindly, my Lord : I shall now begin to think I
have some weight with you."

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

" What was his offence, my Lord ? "

" Such as I would not have forgiven you, or any earthly
being besides himself ; but while you were speaking in his
behalf, I recollected there was a gratitude so extraordinary
in the hazards he ran, that almost made him pardonable."

" I guess the subject, then," cried Sandford ; " and yet
I could not have supposed "

" It is a subject we cannot speak on, Sandford ; there
fore let us drop it."

At these words the discourse concluded.

CHAPTER XLVII.

To the relief of Rushbrook, Lord Elmwood that day dined
from home, and he had not the confusion to see him again
till the evening. Previous to this, Sandford and he met at
dinner ; but as the attendants were present, nothing passed
on either side respecting the incident in the morning.
Rushbrook, from the peril which had so lately threatened
him, was now in his perfectly cool and dispassionate senses;

258 A SIMPLE STORY.

and notwithstanding the real tenderness which he bore to
the daughter of his benefactor, he was not insensible to the
comfort of finding himself once more in the possession of
all those enjoyments he had forfeited,, and for a moment
lost.

As he reflected on this, to Sandford he felt the first tie
of acknowledgment ; but for his compassion, he knew he
should have been, at that very time of their meeting at
dinner, away from Elmwood House for ever, and bearing
on his mind a still more painful recollection, — the burden
of his kind patron's continual displeasure. Filled with these
thoughts, all the time of dinner, he could scarce look at his
companion without tears of gratitude; and whenever he
attempted to speak to him, gratitude choked his utterance.

Sandford, on his part, behaved just the same as ever ;
and to show he did not wish to remind Rushbrook of what
he had done, he was just as uncivil as ever.

Among other things, he said, " He did not know Lord
Elmwood dined from home ; for if he had, he should have
dined in his own apartment."

Rushbrook was still more obliged to him for all this ; and
the weight of obligations with which he was oppressed
made him long for an opportunity to relieve himself by ex
pressions. As soon, therefore, as the servants were all
withdrawn, he began, —

" Mr. Sandford, whatever has been your opinion of me,
I take pride to myself, that in my sentiments towards you
I have always distinguished you for that humane, disin
terested character, you have this day proved."

te Humane and disinterested," replied Sandford, " are
flattering epithets, indeed, for an old man going out of the
world, and who can have no temptation to be otherwise."

" Then suffer me to call your actions generous and com
passionate, for they have saved me "

" I know, young man," cried Sandford, interrupting
him, " you are glad at what I have done, and that you find
a gratification in telling me you are ; but it is a gratification
I will not indulge you with : therefore, say another sentence
on the subject, and" (rising from his seat) " I'll leave the

A SIMPLE STORY. 259

room, and never come into your company again, whatever
your uncle may say to it."

Rushbrook saw by the solemnity of his countenance
he was serious, and positively assured him he would never
thank him more ; on which Sandford took his seat again,
but he still frowned, and it was many minutes before he
conquered his ill-humour. As his countenance became less
sour, Rushbrook fell from some general topics he had ea
gerly started in order to appease him, and said, —

f{ How hard is it to restrain conversation from the sub
ject of our thoughts ! And yet amidst our dearest friends,
and among persons who have the same dispositions and
sentiments as our own, their minds, too, fixed upon the
self-same objects, this constraint is practised • and thus
society, which was meant for one of our greatest blessings,
becomes insipid, nay, often more wearisome than solitude."

" I think, young man," replied Sandford, " you have
made pretty free with your speech to-day, and ought not to
complain of the want of toleration on that score."

" I do complain," replied Rushbrook ; (( for if toleration
were more frequent, the favour of obtaining it would be
less."

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

{< Never from those I esteem ; and to convince you of it,
I wish this moment to request a favour of you."

<e I dare say I shall refuse it. However, what is it ? "

" Permit me to speak to you upon the subject of Lady
Matilda."

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

" For her sake — as I suppose Lord Elm wood may have
told you — I this morning rashly threw myself into the
predicament from whence you released me : for her sake I
have suffered much ; for her sake I have hazarded a
great deal, and am still ready to hazard more."

" But for your own sake, do not," returned Sandford
dryly.

" You may laugh at these sentiments as romantic, Mr.
Sandford ; but if they are, to me they are nevertheless
natural."

s 2

260 A SIMPLE STORY. ,

tf But of what service are they to be either to her or to
yourself?"

" To me they are painful, and to her would be but im
pertinent, were she to know them."

f f I sha'n't inform her of them ; so do not trouble your
self to caution me against it."

" I was not going — you know I was not — but I was
going to say, that from no one so well as from you could
she be told my sentiments without the danger of receiving
offence."

" And what impression do you wish to give her, from
her becoming acquainted with them ? "

ee The impression, that she has one sincere friend ; that
upon every occurrence in life there is a heart so devoted to
all she feels, that she never can suffer without the sympathy
of another ; or can ever command him and all his fortunes,
to unite for her welfare, without his ready, his immediate
compliance."

" And do you imagine that any of your professions, or
any of her necessities, would ever prevail upon her to put
you to the trial ? "

" Perhaps not."

"' What, then, are the motives which induce you to wish
her to be told of this ? "

Rushbrook hesitated.

" Do you think," continued Sandford, " the intelligence
will give her any satisfaction ? "

" Perhaps not."

" Will it be of any to yourself ? "

" The highest in the world."

(< And so all you have been urging upon this occasion is,
at last, only to please yourself."

" You wrong my meaning : it is her merit which inspires
me with the desire of being known to her : it is her suf
ferings, her innocence, her beauty "

Sandford stared; Rushbrook proceeded: « It is her "

" Nay, stop where you are," cried Sandford : " you are
arrived at the zenith of perfection in a woman, and to add
one qualification more would be an anti-climax."

A SIMPLE STORY* 26 1

" Oh," cried Rushbrook with warmth, " I loved her
before I ever beheld her."

" Loved her!" cried Sandford, with marks of astonish
ment : " you are talking of what you did not intend."

" I am, indeed," returned he in confusion : " I fell by
accident on the word love."

" And by the same accident stumbled on the word beauty;
and thus by accident am I come to the truth of all your
professions."

Rushbrook knew that he loved ; and though his affection
had sprung from the most laudable motives, yet was he
ashamed of it as of a vice : he rose, he walked about the
room, and he did not look Sandford in the face for a quarter
of an hour. Sandford, satisfied that he had judged rightly,
and yet unwilling to be too hard upon a passion which he
readily believed must have had many noble virtues for its
foundation, now got up and went away, without saying a
word in censure, though not a word in approbation.

It was in the month of October, and just dark at the
time Rushbrook was left alone, yet in the agitation of his mind,
arising from the subject on which he had been talking, he
found it impossible to remain in the house, and therefore
walked into the fields. But there was another instigation
more powerful than the necessity of walking : it was the
allurement of passing along that path where he had last
seen Lady Matilda ; and where, for the only time, she had
condescended to speak to him divested of haughtiness, and
with a gentleness that dwelt upon his memory beyond all
her other endowments.

Here he retraced his own steps repeatedly, his whole
imagination engrossed with her idea, till the sound of her
father's carriage returning from his visit roused him from
the delusion of his trance, to the dread of the embarrass
ment he should endure on next meeting him. He hoped
Sandford might be present ; and yet he was now almost
as much ashamed of seeing him as his uncle, whom he had
so lately offended.

Loath to leave the spot where he was, as to enter the
house, he remained there, till he considered it would be ill
manners, in his present humiliated situation, not to show
s 3

262 A SIMPLE STORY.

himself at the usual supper hour, which was now nearly
arrived.

As he laid his hand upon the door of the apartment to
open it, he was sorry to hear by Lord Elmwood's voice he
was in the room before him ; for there was something
much more conspicuously distressing in entering where he
already was, than had his uncle come in after him. He
found himself, however, re-assured, by overhearing the Earl
laugh and speak in a tone expressive of the utmost good
humour to Sandford, who was with him.

Yet again, he felt all the awkwardness of his own situa
tion ; but, making one courageous effort, opened the door and
entered. Lord Elmwood had been away half the day, had
dined abroad, and it was necessary to take some notice of
his return. Rushbrook, therefore, bowed humbly; and,
what was more to his advantage, he looked humbly. His
uncle made a slight return to the salutation, but continued
the recital he had begun to Sandford ; then sat down to the
supper-table — supped — and passed the whole evening with
out saying a syllable, or even casting a look, in remem
brance of what had passed in the morning. Or, if there was
any token that showed he remembered the circumstance at
all, it was the putting his glass to his nephew's, when Rush-
brook called for wine, and drinking at the time he did.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE repulse Lord Margrave received did not diminish the
ardour of his pursuit ; for as he was no longer afraid of
resentment from the Earl, whatever treatment his daughter
might receive, he was determined the anger of Lady
Matilda, or of her female friend, should not impede his
pretensions.

Having taken this resolution, he laid the plan of an open
violation of laws both human and divine ; and he deter
mined to bear away that prize by force, which no art was

A SIMPLE STORY. 2,63

likely to procure. He concerted with two of his favourite
companions ; but their advice was, " One struggle more of
fair means." This was totally against his inclination ; for
he had much rather have encountered the piercing cries of
a female in the last agonies of distress than the fatigue of
her sentimental harangues, or elegant reproofs, such as he
had the sense to understand, but not the capacity to
answer.

Stimulated, however, by his friends to one more trial, in
spite of the formal dismission he had twice received, he
intruded another visit on Lady Matilda at the farm. Pro
voked beyond bearing at such unfeeling assurance, Matilda
refused to come into the room where he was, and Miss
Woodley alone received him, and expressed her surprise at
the little attention he had paid to her explicit desire.

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

et I do not the least doubt it, my Lord," replied Miss
Woodley : " nor ought you to doubt the truth of what I
advance, when I assure you, that you have not the smallest
reason to hope your love will be returned; for Lady
Matilda is resolved never to listen to your passion."

" That man," he replied, t( is to blame, who can re
linquish his hopes upon the mere resolution of a lady."

" And that lady would be wrong," replied Miss Woodley,
" who should intrust her happiness in the care of a man
who can think thus meanly of her and of her sex."

' ' I think highly of them all," he replied ; " and to con
vince you in how high an estimation I hold her in par
ticular, my whole fortune is at her command."

" Your entire absence from this house, my Lord, she
would consider as a much greater mark of your respect."

A long conversation, as uninteresting as the foregoing,
ensued, when the unexpected arrival of Mr. Sandford put
an end to it. He started at the sight of Lord Margrave ;
but the Viscount was much more affected at the sight of
him.

" My Lord," said Sandford boldly to him, " have you
received any encouragement from Lady Matilda to au
thorise this visit ? "

264

A SIMPLE STORY.

" None, upon my honour, Mr. Sandford ; but I hope
you know how to pardon a lover ! "

" A rational one I do ; but you, my Lord, are not of
that class while you persecute the pretended object of your
affection."

cc Do you call it persecution that I once offered her a
share of my title and fortune ; and even now, declare my
fortune to be at her disposal ? "

Sandford was uncertain whether he understood his mean
ing ; but Lord Margrave, provoked at his ill reception, felt
a triumph in removing his doubts, and proceeded thus : —

<f For the discarded daughter of Lord Elmwood cannot
expect the same proposals which I made, while she was
acknowledged and under the protection of her father."

" What proposals, then, my Lord ? " asked Sandford
hastily.

" Such/' replied he, (( as the Duke of Avon made to her
mother.'*

Miss Woodley quitted the room that instant. But
Sandford, who never felt resentment but against those in
whom he saw some virtue, calmly replied, —

ce My Lord, the Duke of Avon was a gentleman, a man
of elegance and breeding ; and what have you to offer in
recompense for your defects in qualities like these ? "

" My wealth," replied he, " opposed to her indigence."

Sandford smiled, and answered, —

" Do you suppose that wealth can be esteemed, which
has not been able to make you respectable ? What is it
makes wealth valuable ? Is it the pleasures of the table ;
the pleasure of living in a fine house, or of wearing fine
clothes ? These are pleasures a lord enjoys but in common
with his valet. It is the pleasure of being conspicuous
which makes riches desirable ; but if we are conspicuous
only for our vice and folly, had we not better remain in
poverty ? "

ff You are beneath my notice."

f ' I trust I shall continue so ; and that your Lordship
will never again condescend to come where I am."

fc A man of rank condescends to mix with any society,
when a pretty woman is the object."

SIMPLE STORY.

265

" My Lord, I have a book here in my pocket, which I
am eager to read : it is an author who speaks sense and
reason. Will you pardon the impatience I feel for such
company, and permit me to call your carriage ? "

Saying this, he went hastily and beckoned to the coach
man. The carriage drove up, the door was opened, and
Lord Margrave, ashamed to be exposed before his attendants,
and convinced of the inutility of remaining any longer
where he was, departed.

Sandford was soon joined by the ladies ; and the con
versation falling, of course, upon the nobleman who had
just taken his leave, Sandford unwarily exclaimed,, " I
wish Rushbrook had been here."

" Who?" cried Lady Matilda.

" I do believe," said Miss Woodley, " that young man
has some good qualities."

" A great many," returned Sandford, mutteringly.

" Happy young man !" cried Matilda : " he is beloved
by all those whose affection it would be my choice to pos
sess, beyond any other blessing this world could bestow."

" And yet I question if Rushbrook be happy," said
Sandford.

" He cannot be otherwise," returned Matilda, " if he is
a man of understanding."

fe He does not want understanding neither," replied
Sandford, " although he has certainly many indiscretions."

" But which Lord Elmwood, I suppose," said Matilda,
" looks upon with tenderness."

" Not upon all his faults," answered Sandford ; " for I
have seen him in very dangerous circumstances with your
father."

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

" And I believe," said Miss Woodley, " that from his
heart he compassionates you. Now, Mr. Sandford," con
tinued she, " though this is the first time I ever heard you
speak in his favour (and I once thought as indifferently of
Mr. Rushbrook as you can do), yet now I will venture to
ask you, whether you do not think he wishes Lady Matilda
much happier than she is ? "

" I have heard him say so," answered Sandford.

266 A SIMPLE STORY.

ff It is a subject," returned Lady Matilda, " which I did
not imagine you, Mr. Sandford, would have permitted him
to have mentioned lightly in your presence."

' c Lightly ! Do you suppose, my dear, we turned your
situation into ridicule ? "

" No, sir ; but there is a sort of humiliation in the grief
to which I am doomed that ought surely to be treated with
the highest degree of delicacy by my friends."

(f I don't know on what point you fix real delicacy ; but
if it consists in sorrow, the young man gives a proof he
possesses it, for he shed tears when I last heard him mention
your name."

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

" Perhaps so ; but let me tell you, Lady Matilda, that
your father might have preferred a more unworthy object/'

" Still had he been to me," she cried, et an object of
envy. And as I frankly confess my envy of Mr. Rush-
brook, I hope you will pardon my malice, which is, you
know, but a consequent crime."

The subject now turned again upon Lord Margrave;
and all of them being firmly persuaded this last reception
would put an end to every further intrusion from him, they
treated his pretensions, and himself, with the contempt
they inspired, but not with the caution that was requisite.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE next morning, early, Mr. Sandford returned to Elm-
wood House, but with his spirits depressed, and his heart
overcharged with sorrow. He had seen Lady Matilda, the
object of his visit; but he had beheld her considerably
altered in her looks and in her health. She was become
very thin ; and instead of the vivid bloom that used to
adorn her cheeks, her whole complexion was of a deadly
pale ; her countenance no longer expressed hope or fear,
but a fixed melancholy : she shed no tears, but was all

A SIMPLE STORY. 26?

sadness. He had beheld this, and he had heard her in
sulted by the licentious proposals of a nobleman, from
whom there was no satisfaction to be demanded, because
she had no friend to vindicate her honour.

Rushbrook, who suspected where Sandford was gone,
and imagined he would return on the following day, took
his morning's ride, so as to meet him on the road, at the
distance of a few miles from the castle ; for, since his
perilous situation with Lord Elrnwood, he was so fully
convinced of the general philanthropy of Sandford's cha
racter, that in spite of his churlish manners he now ad
dressed him, free from that reserve to which his rough
behaviour had formerly given birth. And Sandford, on
his part, believing he had formed an illiberal opinion of
Lord Elm wood's heir, though he took no pains to let him
know that his opinion was changed, yet resolved to make
him restitution upon every occasion that offered.

Their mutual greetings, when they met, were uncere
monious, but cordial ; and Rushbrook turned his horse and
rode back with Sandford: yet intimidated by his respect
and tenderness for Lady Matilda, rather than by fear of
the rebuffs of his companion, he had not the courage to
name her, till the ride was just finished, and they came
within a few yards of the house. Incited then by the
apprehension he might not soon again enjoy so fit an
opportunity, he said, —

" Pardon me, Mr. Sandford, if I guess where you have
been, and if my curiosity forces me to enquire for Miss
Woodley's and Lady Matilda's health/'

He named Miss Woodley first, to prolong the time
before he mentioned Matilda ; for though to name her gave
him extreme pleasure, yet it was a pleasure accompanied
by confusion and pain.

" They are both very well," replied Sandford : ' < at least
they did not complain they were sick."

tf They are not in spirits, I suppose ? " said Rushbrook.

" No, indeed," replied Sandford, shaking his head.

" No new misfortune has happened, I hope ? " cried
Rushbrook ; for it was plain to see Sandford's spirits were
unusually cast down.

268 A SIMPLE STORY.

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

" What nobleman ? " cried Rushbrook.

" A lover of Lady Matilda's," replied Sandford.

Rushbrook was petrified. "Who? what lover, Mr. Sand-
ford ? Explain."

They were now arrived at the house; and Sandford, without
making any reply to this question, said to the servant who
took his horse, f She has come a long way this morning :
take care of her."

This interruption was torture to Rushbrook, who kept
close to his side, in order to obtain a further explanation ;
but Sandford, without attending to him, walked negligently
into the hall, and, before they advanced many steps, they
were met by Lord Elmwood.

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

" How do you do, Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, with
extreme kindness, as if he thanked him for the journey
which, it was likely, he suspected he had been taking.

" I am indifferently well, my Lord," replied he, with a
face of deep concern, and a tear in his eye, partly in gra
titude for his patron's civility, and partly in reproach for
his cruelty.

It was not now till the evening that Rushbrook had an
opportunity of renewing the conversation which had been
so painfully interrupted.

In the evening, no longer able to support the suspense
into which he was thrown, without fear or shame, he fol
lowed Sandford into his chamber at the time of his re
tiring, and entreated of him, with all the anxiety he suffered,
to explain his allusion when he talked of a lover, and of
insolence to Lady Matilda.

Sandford, seeing his emotion, was angry with himself
that he had inadvertently mentioned the circumstance ;
and putting on an air of surly importance, desired, if he
had any business with him, that he would call in the
morning.

Exasperated at so unexpected a reception, and at the
pain of his disappointment, Rushbrook replied, " He treated

A SIMPLE STORY. 269

him cruelly ; nor would he stir out of his room, till he
had received a satisfactory answer to his question.''

" Then bring your bed/' replied Sandford, " for you
must pass your whole night here."

He found it vain to think of obtaining any intelligence by
threats: he therefore said in a timid and persuasive manner,, —

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

" Yes," replied Sandford, a little better reconciled to
him.

" Did you tell her what I- lately declared to you ? " he
asked, with still more diffidence.

" No," replied Sandford.

" It is very well, sir," returned he, vexed to the heart,
yet again wishing to soothe him.

<e You certainly, Mr. Sandford, know what is for the
best : yet I entreat you will give me some further account
of the nobleman you named."

" I know what is for the best," replied Sandford, " and
I won't."

Rushbrook bowed, and immediately left the room. He
went apparently submissive: but the moment he showed
this submission, he took the resolution of paying a visit
himself to the farm at which Lady Matilda resided ; and
of learning, either from Miss Woodley, the people of the
house, the neighbours, or perhaps from Lady Matilda's own
lips, the secret which the obstinacy of Sandford had with
held.

He saw all the dangers of this undertaking ; but none
appeared so great as the danger of losing her he loved, by
the influence of a rival ; and though Sandford had named
<{ insolence," he was in doubt whether what had appeared
so to him was so in reality, or would be so considered by
her.

To prevent the cause of his absence being suspected by
Lord Elmwood, he immediately called his groom, ordered
his horse, and giving those servants concerned a strict charge
of secrecy, with some frivolous pretence to apologise for his
not being present at breakfast (resolving to be back by din-

2?0 A SIMPLE STORY.

ner), he set off that night, and arrived at an inn about a mile
from the farm at break of day.

The joy he felt when he found himself so near to the
beloved object of his journey made him thank Sandford in
his heart for the unkindness which had sent him thither.
But new difficulties arose, how to accomplish the end for
which he came. He learned from the people of the inn,
that a lord, with a fine equipage, had visited at the farm ;
but who he was, or for what purpose he went, no one could
inform him.

Dreading to return with his doubts unsatisfied, and yet
afraid of proceeding to extremities that might be construed
into presumption, he walked disconsolately (almost distract
edly) across the fields, looking repeatedly at his watch, and
wishing the time would stand still till he was ready to go
back with his errand completed.

Every field he passed brought him nearer to the house
on which his imagination was fixed ; but how, without for
feiting every appearance of that respect which he so power
fully felt, could he attempt to enter it ? He saw the inde
corum, resolved not to be guilty of it, and yet walked on
till he was within but a small orchard of the door. Could
he then retreat ? He wished he could ; but he found that
he had proceeded too far to be any longer master of him
self. The time was urgent : he must either behold her,
and venture her displeasure, or by diffidence during one
moment give up all his hopes, perhaps, for ever.

With that same disregard to consequences which actuated
him when he dared to supplicate Lord Elmwood in his
daughter's behalf, he at length went eagerly to the door and
rapped.

A servant came : he asked to " speak with Miss Wood*
ley, if she was quite alone."

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

She started when she beheld who it was ; but as he did
not see a frown upon her face, he caught hold of her hand,
and said persuasively, —

c< Do not be offended with me. If I mean to offend you,
may I forfeit my life in atonement."

A SIMPLE STORY.

Poor Miss Woodley, glad in her solitude to see any one
from Elmwood House, forgot his visit was an offence, till
he put her in mind of it : she then said, with some reserve, —

" Tell me the purport of your coming, sir, and perhaps
I may have no reason to complain."

"It was to see Lady Matilda," he replied, '* or to hear
of her health. It was to offer her my services — it was,
Miss Woodley, to convince her, if possible, of my esteem."

" Had you no other method, sir?" said Miss Woodley,
with the same reserve.

" None," replied he, " or with joy I should have em
braced it ; and if you can inform me of any other, tell me,
I beseech you, instantly, and I will immediately be gone,
and pursue your directions."

Miss Woodley hesitated.

' ; You know of no other means, Miss Woodley ? " he
cried.

" And yet I cannot commend this," said she.

<e Nor do I. Do not imagine, because you see me here,
that I approve of my visit; but, reduced to this necessity,
pity the motives that have urged it."

Miss Woodley did pity them ; but as she would not own
that she did, she could think of nothing else to say.

At this instant a bell rung from the chamber above.

" That is Lady Matilda's bell," said Miss Woodley :
" she is coming to take a short walk. Do you wish to see
her ? "

Though it was the first wish of his heart, he paused, and
said, " Will you plead my excuse?"

As the flight of stairs was but short, which Matilda had
to come down, she was in the room with Miss Woodley and
Mr. Rushbrook just as that sentence ended.

She had stepped beyond the door of the apartment, when,
perceiving a visiter, she hastily withdrew.

Rushbrook, animated, though trembling at her presence,
cried, " Lady Matilda, do not avoid me, till you know that
I deserve such a punishment^'

She immediately saw who it was, and returned back with
a proper pride, and yet a proper politeness in her manner.

" I beg your pardon, sir," said she : ' ' I did not know

272 A SIMPLE STORY.

you. I was afraid I intruded upon Miss Woodley and a
stranger." »

" You do not then consider me as a stranger, Lady Ma
tilda ? And that you do not, requires my warmest acknow
ledgments."

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

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

ff No, madam," replied he, with confusion ; ' ' not unless
Lady Matilda gives me permission."

She smiled, and pointed to a chair ; and all the kindness
which Rushbrook during his whole life had received from
Lord Elm wood never inspired half the gratitude which this
one instance of civility from his daughter excited.

He sat down with the confession of the obligation upon
every feature of his face.

" I am not well, Mr. Rushbrook," said Matilda, lan
guidly ; " and you must excuse any want of etiquette at
this house."

" While you excuse me, madam, what can I have to
complain of?"

She appeared absent while he was speaking, and turning
to Miss Woodley, said, " Do you think I had better walk
to day ? "

<f No, my dear," answered Miss Woodley : (f the ground
is damp, and the air cold."

" You are not well, indeed, Lady Matilda," said Rush-
brook, gazing upon her with the most tender respect.

She shook her head ; and the tears, without any effort
either to impel or to restrain them, ran down her face.

Rushbrook rose from his seat, and, with an accent and
manner the most expressive, said, " We are cousins. Lady
Matilda : in our infancy we were brought up together : we
were beloved by the same mother ; fostered by the same
father "

" Oh, oh ! " cried she, interrupting him with a tone
which indicated the bitterest anguish.

<e Nay, do not let me add to your uneasiness," he re
sumed, " while I am attempting to alleviate it. Instruct
me what I can do to show my esteem and respect, rather

A SIMPLE STORY. 273

than permit me, thus unguided, to rush upon what you
may construe into insult and arrogance."

Miss Woodley went to Matilda, took her hand, then
wiped the tears from her eyes, while Matilda reclined
against her, entirely regardless of Rushbrook's presence.

" If I have been in the least instrumental to this sor
row" said Rushbrook, with a face as much agitated as

his mind.

" No," said Miss Woodley, in a low voice, " you have
not — she is often thus."

" Yes," said Matilda, raising her head ; <( I am fre
quently so weak, that I cannot resist the smallest incite
ment to grief. But do not make your visit long, Mr.
Rushbrook," she continued ; " for I was just then think
ing, that should Lord Elmwood hear of this attention you
have paid me, it might be fatal to you." Here she wept
again, as bitterly as before.

" There is no probability of his hearing of it, madam,"
Rushbrook replied ; " or if there was, I am persuaded that
he would not resent it ; for yesterday, when I am confident
he knew that Mr. Sandford had been to see you, he re
ceived him on his return with unusual marks of kindness."

" Did he ? " said she ; and again she lifted up her head,
her eyes for a moment beaming with hope and joy.
- " There is something which we cannot yet define," said
Rushbrook, " that Lord Elmwood struggles with ; but
when time shall have eradicated "

Before he could proceed further, Matilda was once more
sunk into despondency, and scarcely attended to what he
was saying.

Miss Woodley, observing this, said, " Mr. Rushbrook,,
let it be a token we shall be glad to see you hereafter, that
I now use the freedom to beg you will put an end to your
visit."

" You send me away, madam," returned he, " with the
warmest thanks for the reception you have given me ; and
this last assurance of your kindness is beyond any other
favour you could have bestowed. Lady Matilda," added
he, " suffer me to take your hand at parting, and let it be
a testimony that you acknowledge me for a relation."
T

274 A SIMPLE STORY.

She put out her hand,, which he knelt to receive, but did
not raise it to his lips. He held the boon too sacred ; and
looking earnestly upon it, as it lay pale and wan in his, he
breathed one sigh over it, and withdrew.

CHAPTER L.

SORROWFUL and affecting as this interview had been, Rush-
brook, as he rode home, reflected upon it with the most in
ordinate delight ; and had he not seen decline of health in
the looks and behaviour of Lady Matilda his felicity had
been unbounded. Entranced in the happiness of her so
ciety, the thought of his rival never came once to his mind
while he was with her : a want of recollection, however, he
by no means regretted, as her whole appearance contradicted
every suspicion he could possibly entertain, that she favoured
the addresses of any man living ; and had he remembered,
he would not have dared to name the subject.

The time ran so swiftly while he was away, that it was
beyond the dinner hour at Elmwood House when he re
turned. Heated, his dress and his hair disordered, he en
tered the dining-room just as the dessert was put upon the
table. He was confounded at his own appearance, and at
the falsehoods he should be obliged to fabricate in his ex
cuse : there was yet that which engaged his attention,
beyond any circumstance relating to himself — the features
of Lord Elmwood — of which bis daughter's, whom he had
just beheld, had the most striking resemblance ; though hers
were softened by sorrow, while his were made austere by
the self-same cause.

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

" A chase my lord — I beg your pardon — but a pack of
dogs I unexpectedly met." For in the hackneyed art of
lying without injury to any one, Rushbrook, to his shame,
was proficient.

His excuses were received, and the subject ceased.

A SIMPLE STORY. 2?5

During his absence that day, Lord Elmwood had called
Sandford apart, and said to him, that as the malevolence
which he once observed between him and Rushbrook had,
he perceived, subsided, he advised him, if he was a well-
wisher to the young man, to sound his heart, and counsel
him not to act against the will of his nearest relation and
friend. " I myself am too hasty," continued Lord Elm-
wood ; <e and, unhappily, too much determined upon what
I have once (though, perhaps, rashly) said, to speak upon
a topic where it is probable I shall meet with opposition.
You, Sandford, can reason with moderation. For after all
that I have done for my nephew, it would be a pity to for
sake him at last ; and yet, that is but too likely, if he should
provoke me to it."

" Sir," replied Sandford, " I will speak to him."

lf Yet," added Lord Elmwood sternly, " do not urge
what you say for my sake, but for his own : I can part
from him with ease, but he may then repent ; and, you
know, repentance always comes too late with me."

" My Lord, I will exert all the efforts in my power for
his welfare. But what is the subject on which he has re
fused to comply with your desires ? "

" Matrimony — have not I told you?"

" Not a word."

" I wish him to marry, that I may then conclude the
deeds in respect to my estate ; and the only child of Sir
William Winterton (a rich heiress) was the wife I meant
to propose ; but from his indifference to all I have said on
the occasion, I have not yet mentioned her name to him —
you may."

" I will, my Lord, and use all my persuasion to engage
his obedience ; and you shah1 have, at least, a faithful ac
count of what he says."

Sandford the next morning sought an opportunity of
being alone with Rushbrook. He then plainly repeated to
him what Lord Elmwood had said, and saw him listen to
it all, and heard him answer to it all with the most tran
quil resolution, " That he would do any thing to preserve
the friendship and patronage of his uncle — but marry."
T 2

276 A SIMPLE STOBY.

f ' What can be your reason ? " asked Sandford, though
he guessed.

" A reason I cannot give to Lord Elmwood."

" Then do not give it to me, for I have promised to tell
him every thing you shall say to me."

' ' And every thing I have said ? " asked Rushbrook,
hastily.

" As to what you have said, I don't know whether it
has made impression enough on my memory to enable me
to repeat it."

tf I am glad it has not."

Cf And my answer to your uncle is to be, simply, that
you will not obey him."

' ' I should hope, Mr. Sandford, that you would express it
in better terms."

" Tell me the terms, and I will be exact."

Rushbrook struck his forehead, and walked about the
room.

" Am I to give him any reason for your disobeying
him ? "

" I tell you again that I dare not name the cause."

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

" I am not ashamed — I glory in it. Are you ashamed
of your esteem for Lady Matilda ? "

" Oh ! if she is the cause of your disobedience, be
assured I shall not mention it ; for I am forbid to name
her."

" And, surely, as that is the case, I need not fear to
speak plainly to you. I love Lady Matilda ; or, perhaps,
unacquainted with love, what I feel may be only pity ; and
if so, pity is the most pleasing passion that ever possessed
a human heart, and I would not change it for all her fa
ther's estates."

" Pity, then,, gives rise to very different sensations ; for
I pity you, and that sensation I would gladly exchange for
approbation."

"If you really feel compassion for me, and I believe
you do, contrive some means by your answers to Lord
Elmwood to pacify him, without involving me in ruin.

A SIMPLE STORY. 277

Hint at my affections being engaged, but not to whom ;
tnd add, that I have given my word, if he will allow me
a short time, a year or two only, I will, during that period,
try to disengage them, and use all my power to render my
self worthy of the union for which he designs me."

" And this is not only your solemn promise, but your
fixed determination."

" Nay, why will you search my heart to the bottom,
when the surface ought to content you ? "

" If you cannot resolve on what you have proposed, why
do you ask this time of your uncle ? For should he allow
it you, your disobedience at the expiration will be less par
donable than it is now."

" Within a year, Mr. Sandford, who can tell what strange
events may not occur to change all our prospects ? Even
my passion may decline."

" In that expectation, then, the failure of which your
self must answer for, I will repeat as much of this discourse
as shall be proper."

Here Rushbrook communicated his having been to see
Lady Matilda ; for which Sandford reproved him, but in
less rigorous terms than he generally used in his reproofs ;
and Rushbrook, by his entreaties, now gained the intelli
gence who the nobleman was who addressed Matilda, and
on what views ; but was restrained to patience by Sand-
ford's arguments and threats.

Upon the subject of this marriage Sandford met his
patron, without having determined exactly what to say,
but rested on the temper in which he should find him.

At the commencement of the conversation he told him,
" Rushbrook begged for time."

" I have given him time — have I not?" cried Lord
Elmwood : ' ( what can be the meaning of his thus trifling
with me ? "

Sandford replied, " My Lord, young men are frequently
romantic in their notions of love, and think it impossible
to have a sincere affection where their own inclinations do
not first point out the choice."

, " If he is in love/' answered Lord Elmwood, " let him

take the object, and leave my house and me for ever. Nor

T 3

278 A SIMPLE STORY.

under this destiny can he have any claim to pity ; for ge
nuine love will make him happy in banishment, in poverty,
or in sickness : it makes the poor man happy as the rich,
the fool blest as the wise." The sincerity with which Lord
Elmwood had loved was expressed, as he said this, more
than in words.

" Your Lordship is talking," replied Sandford, " of the
passion in its most refined and predominant sense, while I
may possibly be speaking of a mere phantom that has led
this young man astray."

" Whatever it be," returned Lord Elmwood, " let him
and his friends weigh the case well, and act for the best —
so shall I."

" His friends, my Lord ! What friends, or what friend
has he upon earth but you?"

ec Then why will he not submit to my advice, or him
self give me a proper reason why he cannot ?"

" Because there may be friendship without familiarity ;
and so it is between him and you."

ec That cannot be ; for I have condescended to talk to
him in the most familiar terms."

" To condescend, my Lord, is not to be familiar."

" Then come, sir, let us be on an equal footing through
you. And now speak out his thoughts freely, and hear
mine in return."

" Why, then, he begs a respite for a year or two."

cc On what pretence ?"

" To me, it was preference of a single life : but I suspect
it is, what he imagines to be, love, and for some object
whom he thinks your Lordship would disapprove."

(( He has not, then, actually confessed this to you ?"

" If he has, it was drawn from him by such means, that
I am not warranted to say it in direct words."

ff I have entered into no contract, no agreement on his
account, with the friends of the lady I have pointed out,"
said Lord Elmwood : " nothing beyond implications have
passed betwixt her family and myself at present ; and if
the person on whom he has fixed his affections should not
be in a situation absolutely contrary to my wishes, I may,
perhaps, confirm his choice."

A SIMPLE STORY. 279

That moment Sandford's courage prompted him to name
Lady Matilda, but his discretion opposed. However, in
the various changes of his countenance from the conflict, it
was plain to discern that he wished to say more than he
dared.

On which Lord Elm wood cried, —
" Speak on, Sandford; what are you afraid of?"
" Of you, my Lord."
He started.

Sandford went on : " I know no tie, no bond, no in
nocence, that is a protection when you feel resentment."
" You are right," he replied, significantly.
" Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to speak
on, when that which I perhaps should say might offend
you to hear ?"

" To what, and whither are you changing our subject?"
cried Lord Elmwood. " But, sir, if you know my resent
ful and relentless temper, you surely know how to shun it."
" Not, and speak plainly."
" Then dissemble."

" No, I'll not do that; but I'll be silent."
(< A new parade of submission. You are more torment
ing to me than any one I have about me ; constantly on
the verge of disobeying my orders, that you may recede,
and gain my good- will by your forbearance. But know,
Mr. Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If
you choose in every conversation we have together (though
the most remote from such a topic) to think of my daugh
ter, you must either banish your thoughts, or conceal
them ; nor by one sign, one item, remind me of her."

" Your daughter, did you call her ? Can you call your,
self her father ?"

" I do, sir: but I was likewise the husband of her

mother; and, as that husband, I solemnly swear " He

was proceeding with violence.

" Oh, my Lord," cried Sandford, interrupting him,
with his hands clasped in the most fervent supplication —
" oh, do not let me draw upon her one oath more of your
eternal displeasure. I'll kneel to beg that you will drop
the subject."

T 4

280 A SIMPLE STORY.

The inclination he made, with his knees bent towards
the ground, stopped Lord Elmwood instantly. But though
it broke in upon his words it did not alter one angry look :
his eyes darted, and his lips trembled with indignation.

Sandford, in order to appease him, bowed and offered to
withdraw, hoping to be recalled. He wished in vain:
Lord Elmwood's eyes followed him to the door, expressive
of the joy he should receive from his absence.

CHAPTER LI.

THE companions and counsellors of Lord Margrave, who
had so prudently advised gentle methods in the pursuit of
his passion, while there was left any hope of their success,
now, convinced there was none, as strenuously recom
mended open violence ; — and sheltered under the consi
deration that their depredations were to be practised upon
a defenceless woman, who had not one protector, except an
old priest, the subject of their ridicule ; — assured, likewise,
from the influence of Lord Margrave's wealth, that all
inferior consequences could be overborne, they saw no room
for fears on any side ; and what they wished to execute,
they with care and skill premeditated.

When their scheme was mature for performance, three
of his chosen companions, and three servants, trained in
all the villanous exploits of their masters, set off for the
habitation of poor Matilda, and arrived there about the
twilight of the evening.

Near four hours after that time (just as the family were
going to bed), they came up to the doors of the house, and,
rapping violently, gave the alarm of fire, conjuring all the
inhabitants to make their way out immediately, as they
would save their lives.

The family consisted of few persons, all of whom ran
instantly to the doors, and opened them ; on which two men
rushed in, and, with the plea of saving Lady Matilda from

A SIMPLE STORY. 281

the pretended flames, caught her in their arms,, and carried
her off; while all the deceived people of the house, run
ning eagerly to save themselves, paid no regard to her ;
till, looking for the cause for which they had been terrified,
they perceived the stratagem, and the fatal consequences.

Amidst the complaints, the sorrow, and the affright of
the people of the farm, Miss Woodley's sensations wanted
a name. Terror and anguish give but a faint description
of what she suffered : something like the approach of death
stole over her senses, and she sat like one petrified with
horror. She had no doubt who was the perpetrator of
this wickedness; but how was she to follow — how effect
a rescue ?

The circumstances of this event, as soon as the people
had time to call up their recollection, were sent to a neigh
bouring magistrate ; but little could be hoped from that.
Who was to swear to the robber ? Who undertake to find
him out ? Miss Woodley thought of Rushbrook — of Sand-
ford — of Lord Elmwood; but what could she hope from
the want of power in the two former? — what from the
latter, for the want of will ? Now stupified, and now dis
tracted, she walked about the house incessantly, begging
for instructions how to act, or how to forget her misery.

A tenant of Lord Elmwood's, who occupied a little farm
near to that where Lady Matilda lived, and who was well
acquainted with the whole history of her and her mother's
misfortunes, was returning from a neighbouring fair just as
this inhuman plan was put in execution. He heard the
cries of a woman in distress, and followed the sound, till
he arrived at a chaise in waiting, and saw Matilda placed
in it, by the side of two men, who presented pistols to him
as he offered to approach and expostulate.

The farmer, though uncertain who this female was, yet
went to the house she had been taken from (as the nearest)
with the tale of what he had seen ; and there being in
formed it was Lady Matilda whom he had beheld, this in
telligence, joined to the powerful effect her screams had on
him, made him resolve to take horse immediately, and,
with some friends, follow the carriage till they should trace
the place to which she was conveyed.

282 A SIMPLE STORY.

The anxiety, the firmness discovered in determining
upon this undertaking, somewhat alleviated the agony Miss
Woodley endured ; and she began to hope timely assistance
might yet be given to her beloved charge.

The man set out, meaning at all events to attempt her
release ; but before he had proceeded far, the few friends
that accompanied him began to reflect on the improbability
of their success, against a nobleman, surrounded by ser
vants, with other attendants likewise, and, perhaps, even
countenanced by the father of the lady, whom they pre
sumed to take from him : or if not, while Lord Elmwood
beheld the offence with indifference, that indifference gave
it a sanction they might in vain oppose. These cool re
flections tending to their safety, had their weight with the
companions of the farmer : they all rode back, rejoicing at
their second thoughts, and left him to pursue his journey,
and prove his valour by himself.

CHAPTER LII.

IT was not with Sandford as it had lately been with Rush-
brook, under the displeasure of Lord Elmwood : to the
latter he behaved, as soon as their dissension was past, as
if it had never happened. But to Sandford it was other
wise : the resentment which he had repressed at the time
of the offence lurked in his heart, and dwelt upon his
mind for several days ; during which he carefully avoided
exchanging a word with him, and gave other demon
strations of being still in enmity.

Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingra
titude of the world, yet could not, without difficulty, brook
this severity, this contumely, from a man for whose wel
fare, ever since his infancy, he had laboured ; and whose
happiness was more dear to him, in spite of all his faults,
than that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was
not so dear to Sandford as her father ; and he loved her

A SIMPLE STORY.

283

more that she was Lord Elm wood's child, than for any
other cause.

Sometimes the old priest, incensed beyond bearing, was
on the point of saying to his patron, " How, in my age,
dare you thus treat the man whom, in his youth, you
respected and revered?"

Sometimes, instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was
ashamed to own, steal to his eye, and even fall down his
cheek. Sometimes he left the room half determined to
leave the house: but these were all half determinations,
for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well not
to know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger ;
and that should he once rashly quit his house, the doors,
most probably, would be shut against him for ever after.'

In this humiliating state (for even the domestics could
not but observe their Lord's displeasure) Sandford passed
three days, and was beginning the fourth, when sitting
with Lord Elm wood and Rushbrook just after breakfast, a
servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to some
body who followed, " You must wait till you have my
Lord's permission."

This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly
dressed walked in, following close to the servant.

The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the per
son to retire, but in vain : he rushed forward, regardless
of his opposer, and, in great agitation, said, —

" My Lord, if you please, J have business with you,
provided you will choose to be alone."

Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder's earnestness,
bade the servant leave the room, and then said to the
stranger, —

" You may speak before these gentlemen."

The man instantly turned pale, and trembled — then, to
prolong the time before he spoke, went to the door to see
if it was shut — returned — yet, still trembling, seemed
unwilling to say his errand.

/'What have you done," cried Lord Elmwood, "that
you are in this terror ? What have you done, man ?"

" Nothing, my Lord," replied he ; " but I am afraid I
am going to offend you."

284 A SIMPLE STORY.

fc Well, no matter," he answered carelessly ; fc only go
on, and let me know your business."

The man's distress increased ; and he replied, in a voice
of grief and affright, " Your child, my Lord "

Rushbrook and Sandford started ; and, looking at Lord
Elmwood, saw him turn white as death. In a tremulous
voice he instantly cried, —

Cf What of her ?" and rose from his seat.

Encouraged by the question, and the agitation of him
who asked it, the poor man gave way to his feelings, and
answered with every sign of sorrow, —

e( I saw her, my Lord, taken away by force : two ruf
fians seized and carried her away, while she screamed in
vain to me for help, and looked like one in distraction."

" Man, what do you mean ?" cried the Earl.

Cf Lord Margrave," replied the stranger, " we have no
doubt, has formed this plot : he has for some time past
beset the house where she lived ; and, when his visits were
refused, he threatened this. Besides, one of his servants
attended the carriage : I saw, and knew him."

Lord Elmwood listened to the last part of this account
with seeming composure : then, turning hastily to Rush-
brook, he said, —

" Where are my pistols, Harry?"

Sandford forgot, at this instant, all the anger that had
passed between him and the Earl : he rushed towards him,
and, grasping his hand, cried, " Will you then prove your
self a father?"

Lord Elmwood only answered, " Yes," and left the
room.

Rushbrook followed, and begged, with all the earnest
ness he felt, to be permitted to accompany his uncle : —
While Sandford shook hands with the farmer a thousand
times ; and he, in his turn, rejoiced, as if he had already
seen Lady Matilda restored to liberty.

Rushbrook in vain entreated Lord Elmwood : he laid his
commands upon him not to go a step from the castle;
while the agitation of his own mind was too great to ob
serve the rigour of this sentence on his nephew.

During hasty preparations for the Earl's departure, Sand-

A SIMPLE STORY. 285

ford received from Miss Woodley the sad intelligence of
what had occurred ; but he returned an answer to re
compense her for all she had suffered on the sad occasion.

Within a short hour Lord Elmwood set off, accompanied
by his guide, the farmer, and other attendants, furnished
with every requisite to ascertain the success of their enter
prise; while poor Matilda little thought of a deliverer nigh,
much less that her deliverer should prove her father.

CHAPTER LIII.

LORD MARGRAVE, black as this incident of his life must
make him appear to the reader, still nursed in his con
science a reserve of specious virtue, to keep him in peace
with himself. It was his design to plead, to argue, to im
plore, nay even to threaten, long before he put his threats
in force ; — and with this and the following reflection, he
reconciled — as most bad men can — what he had done,
not only to the laws of humanity, but to the laws of ho
nour : —

" I have stolen a woman certainly," said he to himself,
" but I will make her happier than she was in that humble
state from which I have taken her. I will even," said he,
<( now that she is in my power, win her affections ; and
when, in fondness, hereafter she hangs upon me, how will
she thank me for this little trial, through which I shall
have conducted her to happiness ! "

Thus did he hush his remorse, while he waited impa
tiently at home, in expectation of his prize.

Half expiring with her sufferings, of body as well as of
mind, about twelve o'clock the next night, after she was
borne away, Matilda arrived, — and felt her spirits revive by
the superior sufferings that awaited her; — for her increas
ing terrors roused her from the deathlike weakness brought
on by extreme fatigue.

Lord Margrave's house, to which he had gone previous
to this occasion, was situated in the lonely part of a well-

286

A SIMPLE STORY.

known forest, not more than twenty miles distant from
London. This was an estate he rarely visited ; and as he
had hut few servants here, it was a spot which he supposed
would be less the object of suspicion in the present case
than any other of his seats. To this, then, Lady Matilda
was conveyed — a superb apartment allotted her — and
one of his confidential females placed to attend upon her
person, with all respect and assurances of safety.

Matilda looked in this woman's face, and seeing she bore
the features of her sex, while her own knowledge reached
none of those worthless characters of which this creature
was a specimen, she imagined that none of those could look
as she did, and therefore found consolation in her seeming
tenderness. She was even prevailed upon (by her promises
to sit by her side and watch) to throw herself on a bed,
and suffer sleep for a few minutes — for sleep to her was
suffering; her fears giving birth to dreams terrifying as
her waking thoughts.

More wearied than refreshed with her sleep, she rose at
break of day ; and, refusing to admit of the change of an
article in her dress, she persisted to wear the torn, disordered
habiliment in which she had been dragged away; nor
would she taste a morsel of all the delicacies that were pre
pared for her.

Her attendant for some time observed the most reveren
tial awe ; but rinding this humility had not the effect of
gaining compliance with her advice, she varied her man
ners, and began by less submissive means to attempt an
influence. She said her orders were to be obedient, while
she herself was obeyed — at least in circumstances so ma
terial as the lady's health, of which she had the charge as
a physician, and expected equal compliance from her pa
tient. Food and fresh apparel she prescribed as the only
means to prevent death ; and even threatened her invalid
with something worse, a visit from Lord Margrave, if she
continued obstinate.

Now loathing her for the deception she had practised,
more than had she received her thus at first, Matilda hid
her eyes from the sight of her ; and, when she was obliged
to look, she shuddered.

A SIMPLE STORY. 28?

This female at length thought it her duty to wait upon
her worthy employer, and inform him the young lady (iiv
her trust would certainly die, unless there were means em
ployed to oblige her to take some nourishment.

Lord Margrave, glad of an opportunity that might apo
logise for his intrusion upon Lady Matilda, went with
eagerness to her apartment ; and, throwing himself at her
feet, conjured her, if she would save his life, as well as her
own, to submit to be consoled.

The extreme aversion, the horror which his presence
inspired, caused Matilda for a moment to forget all her
want of power, her want of health, her weakness ; and
rising from the place where she sat, she cried, with her
voice elevated, —

" Leave me, my Lord, or I '11 die in spite of all your
care. I'll instantly expire with grief, if you do not leave
me."

Accustomed to the tears and reproaches of the sex, though
not of those like her, he treated with indifference these
menaces of anger, and, seizing her hand, carried it to his
lips.

Enraged, and overwhelmed with terror at the affront,
she exclaimed (forgetting every other friend she had),
" Oh, my dear Miss Woodley, why are you not here to
protect me ? "

" Nay," returned Lord Margrave, stifling a propensity
to laugh, " 1 should think the old priest would be as good
a champion as the lady."

The remembrance of Sandford, with all his kindness,
now rushed so forcibly on Matilda's mind, that she shed
tears, from the certainty how much he felt, and would con
tinue to feel, for her situation. Once she thought on
Rushbrook, and thought even he would be sorry for ter.
Of her father she did not think — she dared not: one
single moment, indeed, that thought had intruded ; but she
hurried it away — it was too bitter.

It was now again quite night, and near to that hour
when she came first to the house. Lord Margrave, though
at some distance from her, remained still in her apartment,
while her female companion had stolen away. His insen-

288 A SIMPLE STORY.

sibility to her lamentations — the agitated looks he some
times cast upon her — her weak and defenceless state — all
conspired to fill her mind with increasing horror.

He saw her apprehensions in her distracted face, dishe
velled hair, and the whole of her forlorn appearance;
yet, in spite of his former resolutions, he did not resist the
wish of fulfilling all her dreadful expectations.

He once again approached her, and again was going to
seize her hand ; when the report of a pistol, and a con*
fused noise of persons assembling towards the door of the
apartment, caused him to desist.

He started — but looked more surprised than alarmed —
her alarm was augmented ; for she supposed this tumult
was some experiment to intimidate her into submission.
She wrung her hands, and lifted up her eyes to Heaven, in
the last agony of despair, when one of Lord Margrave's
servants entered hastily, and announced —

" Lord Elm wood!"

That moment her father entered — and, with all the
unrestrained fondness of a parent, folded her in his arms.'

Her extreme, her excess of joy on such a meeting, and
from such anguish rescued, was, in part, repressed by his
awful presence. The apprehensions to which she had been
accustomed kept her timid and doubtful : she feared to
speak, or clasp him in return for his embrace, but, falling
on her knees, clung round his legs, and bathed his feet
with her tears. These were the happiest moments that
she had ever known — perhaps the happiest he had ever
known.

Lord Margrave, on whom Lord Elmwood had not even
cast a look, now left the room ; but, as he quitted it, called
out, —

(f My Lord Elmwood, if you have any demands on
me "

The Earl interrupted him : " Would you make me an
executioner ? The law shall be your only antagonist."

Matilda, quite exhausted, yet upheld by the sudden
transport she had felt, was led by her father out of this
wretched dwelling — more despicable than the hovel of the
veriest beggar.

A SIMPLE STORY. 289

CHAPTER LIV.

OVERCOME with the want of rest for two nights, through
her distracting fears, and all those fears now hushed, Ma
tilda, soon after she was placed in the carriage with Lord
Elmwood, dropped fast asleep ; and thus, insensibly sur
prised, she leaned her head against her father in the sweet
est slumber that imagination can conceive.

When she awoke, instead of the usual melancholy scene
before her view, she beheld her father ; and heard the
voice of the once dreaded Lord Elmwood tenderly saying, —

" We will go no further to-night : the fatigue is too
much for her. Order beds here directly, and some proper
person to sit up and attend her."

She could only turn to him with a look of love and duty:
her lips could not utter a sentence.

In the morning she found her father by the side of her
bed. He enquired (( if she was in health sufficient to pur
sue her journey, or if she would remain at the inn where
she was."

{f I am able to go with you," she answered instantly.

ee Nay," replied he, <f perhaps you ought to stay here
till you are perfectly recovered ? "

" I am recovered," said she, " and ready to go with
you," fearful that he meant to separate from her, as he had
ever done.

He perceived her fears, and replied, " Nay, if you stay,
I shall do the same — and, when I go, shall take you with
me to my house."

" To Elmwood House ? " she asked eagerly.

" No, to my house in town, where I "intend to be all the
winter, and where you shall still continue under my care."

SHe turned her face on\ the pillow to conceal tears of
joy, but her sobs revealed them.

" Come," said he, " this kiss is a token you have nothing
to dread. I shall send for Miss Woodley, too, immediately,"
continued lie.

290 A SIMPLE STORY.

" Oh, I shall be overjoyed to see her, my Lord — and
to see Mr. Sandford — and even Mr. Rushbrook."

" Do you know him ? " said Lord Elmwood.

f( I have seen him two or three times."

The Earl, hoping the air might be a means of re-establish
ing her health and spirits, now left the room, and ordered
his carriage to be prepared, while she arose, attended by
one of his female servants, for whom he had sent to town
to bring such changes of apparel as were requisite.

When Matilda was ready to join her father in the next
room, she felt a tremour seize her, that made it almost im
possible to appear before him. No other circumstance now
impending to agitate her heart, she felt more forcibly its
embarrassment at meeting, on terms of easy intercourse,
him of whom she had never been used to think but with
that distant reverence and fear which his severity had ex
cited; and she knew not how she should dare to speak to
or look on him with that freedom which her affection war
ranted.

After many efforts to conquer these nice and refined
sensations, but to no purpose, she at last went to his apart
ment. He was reading ; but, as she entered, he put out
his .hand and drew her to him. Her tears wholly over
came her. He could have intermingled his : but assuming
a grave countenance, he entreated her to desist from ex
hausting her spirits ; and, after a few powerful struggles,
she obeyed.

Before the morning was over, she experienced the ex
treme joy of sitting by her father's side as they drove to
town, and of receiving, during his conversation, a thousand
intimations of his love, and tokens of her lasting happiness.

It was now the middle of November ; and yet, as Ma
tilda passed along, never to her did the sun shine so bright
as upon this morning — never did her imagination com
prehend that the human heart could feel happiness true and
genuine as hers.

On arriving at the house, there was no abatement of her
felicity : all was respect and duty on the part of the do
mestics — all paternal care on the part of Lord Elm-
wood; and she would have been at that summit of her

A SIMPLE STORY.

wishes which annihilates hope, but that the prospect of
seeing Miss Woodley and Mr. Sandford still kept this pas

sion in existence.

CHAPTER LV.

RUSHBROOK was detained at Elmwood House during all
this time, more by the persuasions, nay prayers, of Sand-
ford than the commands of Lord Elmwood. He had, but
for Sandford, followed his uncle, and exposed himself to
his anger, sooner than have endured the most piercing
inquietude which he was doomed to suffer till the news
arrived of Lady Matilda's safety. He indeed had little else
to fear from the known firm, courageous character of her
father, and the expedition with which he undertook his
journey ; but lovers' fears are like those of women, obsti
nate : and no argument could persuade either him or Miss
Woodley (who had now ventured to come to Elmwood
House) but that Matilda's peace of mind might be for ever
destroyed before she was rescued from her danger,
i The summons from Lord Elmwood for their coming to
town was received by each of this party with delight ; but
the impatience to obey it was in Rushbrook so violent, it
was painful to himself, and extremely troublesome to Sand-
ford, who wished, from his regard to Lady Matilda, rather
to delay than hurry their journey.

tc You are to blame," said he to him and Miss Woodley,
" to wish, by your arrival, to divide with Lord Elmwood
that tender bond which ties the good, who confer obliga
tions, to the object of their benevolence. At present there
is no one with him to share in the care and protection of
his daughter, and he is under the necessity of discharging
that duty himself: this habit may become so powerful, that
he cannot throw it off, even if his former resolutions should
urge him to it. While we remain here, therefore, Lady
Matilda is safe with her father ; but it would not surprise
me, if on our arrival (especially if we are precipitate)
u 2

292 A SIMPLE STORY.

he should place her again with Miss Woodley at a dis
tance."

To this forcible conjecture they submitted for a few days>
and then most gladly set out for town.

On their arrival, they were met, even at the street door,
by Lady Matilda; and, with an expression of joy they did
not suppose her features could have worn, she embraced
Miss Woodley! hung upon Sandford ! — and to Mr. Rush-
brook, who from his conscious love only bowed at an hum
ble distance, she held out her hand with every look and
gesture of the tenderest esteem.

When Lord Elmwood joined them he welcomed them
all sincerely ; but Sandford more than the rest, with whom
he had not spoken for many days before he left the country,
for his allusion to the wretched situation of his daughter —
and Sandford (with his fellow-travellers) now saw him treat
that daughter with an easy, a natural fondness, as if she
had lived with him from her infancy. He appeared, how
ever, at times, under the apprehension that the propensity
of man to jealousy might give Rushbrook a pang at this
dangerous rival in his love and fortune. For though Lord
Elmwood remembered well the hazard he had once ventured
to befriend Matilda, yet the present unlimited reconciliation
was something so unlooked for, it might be a trial too much
for his generosity. Slight as was this suspicion, it did
Rushbrook injustice. He loved Lady Matilda too sincere
ly, he loved her father's happiness and her mother's memory
too faithfully, not to be rejoiced at all he witnessed ; nor
could the secret hope that whispered him, " their blessings
might one day be mutual," increase the pleasure he found
in beholding Matilda happy.

Unexpected affairs, in which Lord Elmwood had been for
some time engaged, had diverted his attention for a while
from the marriage of his nephew; nor did he at this time
find his disposition sufficiently severe, to exact from the
young man a compliance with his wishes, at so cruel an al
ternative as that of being for ever discarded. He felt his
mind, by the late incident, too much softened for such
harshness ; he yet wished for the alliance he had proposed;
for he was more consistent in his character than to suffer the

A SIMPLE STORY. 293

tenderness his daughter's peril had awakened to derange
those plans which he had long projected. Never, even
now, for a moment did he indulge — for perhaps it would
have been an indulgence — the design of replacing her ex
actly in the rights of her birth, to the disappointment of all
his nephew's expectations.

Yet, milder at this crisis in his temper than he had been
for years before, and knowing he could be no longer irri
tated upon the subject of neglect to his child, he at length
once more resolved to trust himself in a conference with
Rushbrook on the plan of his marriage ; meaning at the
same time to mention Matilda as an opponent from whom
he had nothing to fear. But, for some time before Rush-
brook was called to this private audience, he had, by his
unwearied attention, endeavoured to impress upon Matilda's
mind the softest sentiments in his favour. He succeeded
•—but not so fully as he wished. She loved him as her
friend, her cousin, her foster-brother, but not as a lover.
The idea of love never once came to her thoughts ; and
she would sport with Rushbrook like the most harmless in
fant, while he, all impassioned, could with difficulty resist
disclosing to her what she made him suffer.

At the meeting between him and Lord Elmwood, to
which he was called for his final answer on that subject,
which had once nearly proved so fatal to him ; after a thou
sand fears, much confusion and embarrassment, he at length
frankly confessed his ' ( heart was engaged, and had been
so long before his uncle offered to direct his choice."

Lord Elmwood, as he had done formerly, desired to know
"on whom he had placed his affections."

" I dare not tell you, my Lord," returned he ; " but
Mr. Sandford can witness their sincerity, and how long they
have been fixed."

"Fixed!" cried the Earl.

" Immovably fixed, my Lord ; and yet the object is
as unconscious of my love to this moment as you yourself
have been ; and I swear ever shall be so, without your per
mission."

" Name the object," said Lord Elmwood, anxiously.
u 3

A SIMPLE STORY.

" My Lord, I dare not. The last time I named her to
you, you threatened to abandon me for my arrogance."

Lord Elmwood started — " My daughter ! — Would
you marry her ? "

" But with your approbation, my Lord ; and that "

Before he could proceed a word further, his uncle left the
room hastily; and left Rushbrook all terror for his approach
ing fate.

Lord Elmwood went immediately into the apartment
where Sandford, Miss Woodley, and Matilda were sitting,
and cried with an angry voice, and with his countenance
disordered, —

" Rushbrook has offended me beyond forgiveness. Go,
Sandford, to the library, where he is, and tell him this in
stant to quit my house, and never dare to return."

Miss Woodley lifted up her hands and sighed.

Sandford rose slowly from his seat to execute the
office; —

While Lady Matilda, who was arranging her music books
upon the instrument, stopped from her employment sudden
ly, and held her handkerchief to her eyes.

A general silence ensued, till Lord Elmwood, resuming
his angry tone, cried, f< Did you hear me, Mr. Sandford ? "

Sandford now, without a word in reply, made for the
door ; but there Matilda impeded him, and, throwing her
arms about his neck, cried, —

" Dear Mr. Sandford, do not."

" How ! " exclaimed her father.

She saw the impending frown, and, rushing towards
him, took his hand fearfully, and knelt at his feet. " Mr.
Rushbrook is my relation," she cried in a pathetic voice,
(( my companion, my friend : before you loved me he was
anxious for my happiness, and often visited me to lament
with and console me. I cannot see him turned out of your
house without feeling for him what he once felt for me."

Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations ;
then raising her from the floor, he said, " Do you know
what he has asked of me ? "

<e No," answered she in the utmost ignorance, and with
the utmost innocence painted on her face ; " but whatever

A SIMPLE STORY. 295

it is, my Lord, though you do not grant it, yet pardon him
for asking."

" Perhaps you would grant him what he has requested ? "
said her father.

" Most willingly — was it in my gift."

" It is," replied he. " Go to him in the library, and
hear what he has to say ; for on your will his fate shall
depend."

Like lightning she flew out of the room ; while even the
grave Sandford smiled at the idea of their meeting.

Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in
which his uncle had left him, sat with his head reclined
against a bookcase, and every limb extended with the
despair that had seized him.

Matilda nimbly opened the door and cried, ce Mr. Rush-
brook, I am come to comfort you."

ff That you have always done," said he, rising in rapture
to receive her, even in the midst of all his sadness.

" What is it you want ? " said she. " What have you
asked of my father, that he has denied you ?"

te I have asked for that," replied he, " which is dearer
to me than my life."

" Be satisfied then," returned she ; " for you shall have
it."

<e Dear Matilda ! it is not in your power to bestow."

<f But he has told me it shall be in my power ; and has
desired me to give or to refuse it you, at my own pleasure."
; " O heavens ! " cried Rushbrook in transport, " has he? "

(t He has, indeed — before Mr. Sandford and Miss Wood-
ley. Now tell me what you petitioned for."

" I asked' him," cried Rushbrook, trembling, " for a
wife."

Her hand, which had just then taken hold of his, in the
warmth of her wish to serve him, now dropped down as
with the stroke of death — her face lost its colour — and she
leaned against the desk by which they were standing with
out uttering a word.

" What means this change ? " said he. " Do you not
wish me happy ? "

u 4

296 A SIMPLE STORY.

" Yes/' she exclaimed, " Heaven is my witness ; but it
gives me concern to think we must part."

" Then let us be joined/' cried he, falling at her feet,
" till death alone can part us."

All the sensibility — the reserve — the pride, with which
she was so amply possessed, returned to her that moment.
She started back, and cried, " Could Lord Elmwood know
for what he sent me ? "

« He did," replied Rushbrook : « I boldly told him of
my presumptuous love ; and he has given to you alone the
power over my happiness or misery. Oh, do not doom
roe to the latter."

Whether the heart of Matilda, such as it has been de.
scribed, could sentence him to misery, the reader is left to
surmise ; and if he supposes that it could not, he has every
reason to suppose that their wedded life was — a life of
happiness.

He has beheld the pernicious effects of an improper edu
cation in the destiny which attended the unthinking Miss
Milner. On the opposite side, what may not be hoped
from that school of prudence, though of adversity, in which
Matilda was bred ?

And Mr. Milner, Matilda's grandfather, had better have
given his fortune to a distant branch of his family, as
Matilda's father once meant to do, so that he had given to
his daughter

A PROPER EDUCATION.

THE END.

NATURE AND ART.

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN):

BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
CUMMING, DUBLIN; AND
GALIGNANI, PARIS. ,

1833.

NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER I.

AT a time when the nobility of Britain were said, by the
poet laureate, to be the admirers and protectors of the
arts, and were acknowledged by the whole nation to be the
patrons of music, William and Henry, youths under
twenty years of age, brothers, and the sons of a country
shopkeeper who had lately died insolvent, set out on foot
for London, in the hope of procuring by their industry a
scanty subsistence.

As they walked out of their native town, each with a
small bundle at his back, each observed the other drop
several tears ; but, upon the sudden meeting of their eyes,
they both smiled with a degree of disdain at the weakness
in which they had been caught.

" I am sure/' said William (the elder), " I don't
know what makes me cry."

tf Nor I neither," said Henry ; " for though we may
never see this town again, yet we leave nothing behind us
to give us reason to lament."

" No," replied William, " nor any body who cares what
becomes of us."

(e But I was thinking," said Henry, now weeping bit
terly, " that if my poor father were alive, he would care
what was to become of us : he would not have suffered us
to begin this long journey without a few more shillings in
our pockets."

At the end of this sentence, William, who had with
some effort suppressed his tears while his brother spoke,

300

NATURE AND ART.

now uttered, with a voice almost inarticulate, — " Don't
say any more ; don't talk any more about it. My father
used to tell us, that when he was gone we must take care
of ourselves ; and so we must. I only wish," continued
he, giving way to his grief, " that I had never done any
thing to offend him while he was living."

" That is what I wish too," cried Henry. « If I had
always been dutiful to him while he was alive, I would not
shed one tear for him now that he is gone : but I would
thank Heaven that he had escaped from his creditors."

In conversation such as this, wherein their sorrow for
their deceased parent seemed less for his death than
because he had not been so happy when living, as they
ought to have made him ; and wherein their own outcast
fortune was less the subject of their grief than the
reflection, what their father would have endured, could he
have beheld them in their present situation: — in conver
sation such as this, they pursued their journey till they
arrived at that metropolis, which has received for centuries
past, from the provincial towns, the bold adventurer of
every denomination ; has stamped his character with ex
perience and example ; and while it has bestowed on some
coronets and mitres- — on some the lasting fame of genius
— to others has dealt beggary, infamy, and untimely
death.

CHAPTER II.

AFTER three weeks passed in London, a year followed,
during which William and Henry never sat down to a din
ner, or went into a bed, without hearts glowing with
thankfulness to that Providence who had bestowed on
them such unexpected blessings ; for they no longer pre
sumed to expect (what still they hoped they deserved) a
secure pittance in this world of plenty. Their experience,
since they came to town, had informed them, that to
obtain a permanent livelihood is the good fortune but of

NATURE AND ART. SOI

a part of those who are in want of it ; and the precarious
earning of half-a-crown, or a shilling, in the neighbour
hood where they lodged, by an errand, or some such acci
dental means, was the sole support which they at present
enjoyed.

They had sought for constant employment of various
kinds, and even for servants' places; but obstacles had
always occurred to prevent their success. If they applied
for the situation of a clerk to a man of extensive concerns,
their qualifications were admitted ; but there must be se
curity given for their fidelity; — they had friends who
would give them a character, but who would give them
nothing else. tv-> -i

If they applied for the place even of a menial servant,
they were too clownish and awkward for the presence of
the lady of the house; — and once, when William, (who
had been educated at the free grammar-school of the town
in which he was born, and was an excellent scholar,)
hoping to obtain the good opinion of a young clergyman
whom he solicited for the favour of waiting upon him,
said submissively, ' c that he understood Greek and Latin,"
he was rejected by the divine, " because he could not dress
hair."

Weary of repeating their mean accomplishments of
" honesty, sobriety, humility," and on the precipice of re
probating such qualities, — which, however beneficial to
the soul, gave no hope of preservation to the body, — they
were prevented from this profanation by the fortunate
remembrance of one qualification, which Henry, the pos
sessor, in all his distress, had never till then called to
his recollection ; but which, as soon as remembered and
made known, changed the whole prospect of wretchedness
placed before the two brothers; and they never knew
want more.

Reader — Henry could play upon the fiddle.

302 NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER III.

No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play
most enchantingly upon the violin,, than he was invited into
many companies where no other accomplishment could
have introduced him. His performance was so much ad
mired, that he had the honour of being admitted to several
tavern feasts, of which he had also the honour to partake
without partaking of the expense. He was soon addressed
.by persons of the very first rank and fashion, and was once
seen walking side by side with a peer.

But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for
rejoicing, Henry, whose heart was particularly affectionate,
had one grief which eclipsed all the happiness of his new
life, — his brother William could not play on the fiddle !
consequently, his brother William, with whom he had
shared so much ill, could not share in his good fortune.

One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and
concert at the Crown and Anchor, found William in a
very gloomy and peevish humour, poring over the orations
of Cicero. Henry asked him several times " how he did,"
and similar questions, marks of his kind disposition to
wards his beloved brother; but all his endeavours, he
perceived, could not soothe or soften the sullen mind of
William. At length, taking from his pocket a handful of
almonds, and some delicious fruit, (which he had purloined
from the plenteous table, where his brother's wants had
never been absent from his thoughts,) and laying them
down before him, he exclaimed with a benevolent smile,
tf Do, William, let me teach you to play upon the
violin."

William, full of the great orator whom he was then
studying, and still more alive to the impossibility that his
ear, attuned only to sense, could ever descend from that
elevation, to learn mere sounds — William caught up the
tempting presents which Henry had ventured his reputa
tion to obtain for him, and threw them all indignantly at
the donor's head.

NATURE AND ART. 303

Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of for
tune to resent this ingratitude : he patiently picked up the
repast, and laying it again upon the table, placed by its
side a bottle of claret, which he held fast by the neck,
while he assured his brother, that, " although he had taken
it while the waiter's back was turned, yet it might be
drank with a safe conscience by them ; for he had not him
self tasted one drop at the feast, on purpose that he might
enjoy a glass with his brother at home, and without
wronging the company who had invited him."

The affection Henry expressed as he said this, or the
force of a bumper of wine, which William had not seen
since he left his father's house, had such an effect in calm
ing the displeasure he was cherishing, that, on his brother's
offering him the glass, he took it ; and he deigned even to
eat of his present.

Henry, to convince him that he had stinted himself to
obtain for him this collation, sat down and partook of it.

After a few glasses, he again ventured to say, " Do,
brother William, let me teach you to play on the violin."

Again his offer was refused, though with less vehe
mence : at length they both agreed, that the attempt could
not prosper.

f( Then," said Henry, " William, go down to Oxford
or to Cambridge. There, no doubt, they are as fond of
learning as in this gay town they are of music. You
know you have as much talent for the one as I for the
other : do go to one of our universities, and see what din
ners, what suppers, and what friends you will rind there."

CHAPTER IV.

WILLIAM did go to one of those seats of learning, and
would have starved there, but for the affectionate remit
tances of Henry, who shortly became so great a proficient
in the art of music, as to have it in his power not only to
live in a very reputable manner himself, but to send such

304 NATURE AND ART.

supplies to his brother, as enabled him to pursue his
studies.

With some, the progress of fortune is rapid. Such is
the case when, either on merit or demerit, great patronage
is bestowed. Henry's violin had often charmed, to a wel
come forgetfulness of his insignificance, an effeminate lord;
or warmed with ideas of honour the head of a duke, whose
heart could never be taught to feel its manly glow. Princes
had flown to the arms of their favourite fair ones with
more rapturous delight, softened by the masterly touches
of his art ; and these elevated personages, ever grateful to
those from whom they receive benefits, were competitors in
the desire of heaping favours upon him. But he, in all his
advantages, never once lost for a 'moment the hope of some
advantage for his brother William ; and when at any time
he was pressed by a patron to demand a " token of his
regard," he would constantly reply, —

(f I have a brother, a very learned man, if your Lord
ship (your Grace, or your Royal Highness) would confer
some small favour on him "

His Lordship would reply, " he was so teazed and
harassed in his youth by learned men, that he had ever
since detested the whole fraternity."

His Grace would enquire, " if the learned man could play
upon any instrument."

And his Highness would ask, ' ' if he could sing ? "

Rebuffs such as these poor Henry met with in all his
applications forjWilliam, till one fortunate evening, at the
conclusion of a concert, a great man shook him by the
hand,5 and promised a living of five hundred a-year (the
incumbent of which was upon his death-bed) to his brother,
in return for the entertainment that Henry had just af
forded him.

Henry wrote in haste to William, and began his letter
thus : — ' ' My dear brother, I am not sorry you did not
learn to play upon the fiddle."

NATURE AND ART. 305

CHAPTER V.

THE incumbent of this living died. William underwent
the customary examinations, obtained successively the
orders of deacon and priest ; then as early as possible came
to town, to take possession of the gift which his brother's
skill had acquired for him.

William had a steady countenance, a stern brow, and a
majestic walk ; all of which this new accession, this holy
calling to religious vows, rather increased than diminished.
In the early part of his life, the violin of his brother had
rather irritated than soothed the morose disposition of his
nature ; and though, since their departure from their native
habitation, it had frequently calmed the violent ragings of
his hunger, it had never been successful in appeasing the
disturbed passions of a proud and disdainful mind.

As the painter views with delight and wonder the finished
picture, expressive testimony of his taste and genius; as
the physician beholds with pride and gladness the reco
vering invalid, whom his art has snatched from the jaws
of death ; as the father gazes with rapture on his first child,
the creature to whom he has given life; so did Henry
survey, with transporting glory, his brother, drest for the
first time in canonicals, to preach at his parish church.
He viewed him from head to foot — smiled — viewed again
— pulled one side of his gown a little this way, one end
of his band a little that way — then stole behind him, pre
tending to place the curls of his hair, but in reality to in
dulge, and to conceal, tears of fraternal pride and joy.

William was not without joy : neither was he wanting
in love or gratitude to his brother — but his pride was not
completely satisfied.

" I am the elder/' thought he to himself, " and a man of
literature ; and yet am I obliged to my younger brother,
an illiterate man." Here he suppressed every thought
which could be a reproach to that brother. But there re
mained an object of his former contempt, now become evey

306 NATURE AND ART.

detestable to him — ungrateful man: the very agent of his
elevation was now so odious to him, that he could not cast
his eyes upon the friendly violin without instant emotions
of disgust.

In vain would Henry at times endeavour to subdue his
haughtiness, by a tune on this wonderful machine. " You
know I have no ear," William would sternly say, in recom
pense for one of Henry's best solos. Yet was William
enraged at Henry's answer, when, after taking him to hear
him preach, he asked him, " how he liked his sermon ? "
and Henry modestly replied (in the technical phrase of his
profession), " You know, brother, 1 have no ear."

Henry's renown in his profession daily increased ; and
with his fame, his friends. Possessing the virtues of
humility and charity, far above William, who was the
professed teacher of those virtues, his reverend brother's
disrespect for his vocation never once made him relax, for
a moment, in his anxiety to gain him advancement in the
church. In the course of a few years, and in consequence
of many fortuitous circumstances, he had the gratification
of procuring for him the appointment to a deanery ; and
thus at once placed between them an insurmountable bar
rier to all friendship, that was not the effect of conde
scension on the part of the dean.

William would now begin seriously to remonstrate with
his brother " upon his useless occupation," and would in
timate " the degradation it was to him to hear his frivolous
talent spoken of in all companies." Henry believed his
brother to be much wiser than himself, and suffered shame
that he was not more worthy of such a relation. To con
sole himself for the familiar friend whom he now perceived
he had entirely lost, he searched for one of a softer nature —
he married.

CHAPTER VI.

As Henry despaired of receiving his brother's appro
bation of his choice, he never mentioned the event to him.

NATURE AND ART. 307

But William, being told of it by a third person, enquired
of Henry, who confirmed the truth of the intelligence ; and
acknowledged, that, in taking a wife, his sole view had been
to obtain a kind companion and friend, who would bear
with his failings, and know how to esteem his few quali^-
fications ; therefore he had chosen one of his own rank in
life, and who, having a taste for music, and, as well as
himself, an obligation to the art

" And is it possible," cried the dean, " that what has
been hinted to me is true ? Is it possible that you have
married a public singer ? "

" She is as good as myself," returned Henry : " I did
not wish her to be better, for fear she should despise me."

" As to despise," answered the dean, " Heaven forbid
that we should despise any one — that would be acting
unlike a Christian ; but do you imagine I can ever in
troduce her to my intended wife, who is a woman of
family."

Henry had received in his life many insults from his
brother; but, as he was not a vain man, he generally
thought his brother in the right, and consequently sub
mitted with patience; but, though he had little self-love,
he had for his wife an unbounded affection : on the
present occasion, therefore, he began to raise his voice,
and even (in the coarse expression of clownish anger) to
lift his hand : but the sudden and affecting recollection of
what he had done for the dean — of the pains, the toils,
the hopes, and the fears, he had experienced when soli
citing his preferment — this recollection overpowered his
speech, weakened his arm, and deprived him of every active
force, but that of flying out of his brother's house (in which
they then were) as swift as lightning, while the dean sat
proudly contemplating — " that he had done his duty."

For several days Henry did no.t call, as was his custom,
to see his brother : William's marriage drew near, and he
sent a formal card to invite him on that day ; but not
having had the condescension to name his sister-in-law in
the invitation, Henry thought proper not to accept it ; and
the joyful event was celebrated without his presence. But
the ardour of the bridegroom was not so vehement as to
x 2

308 NATURE AND ART.

overcome every other sensation — he missed his brother :
that heart-felt cheerfulness with which Henry had ever
given him joy upon every happy occasion — even amidst
all the politer congratulations of his other friends — seemed
to the dean mournfully wanting. This derogation from
his felicity he was resolved to resent; and for a whole
year these brothers, whom adversity had entwined closely
together, prosperity separated.

Though Henry, on his marriage,, paid so much attention
to his brother's prejudices, as to take his wife from her
public employment, this had not so entirely removed the
scruples of Wjlliam, as to permit him to think her a
worthy companion for Lady Clementina, the daughter of a
poor Scotch earl, whom he had chosen, merely that he
might be proud of her family ; and, in return, suffer that
family to be ashamed of his.

If Henry's wife were not fit company for Lady Clemen
tina, it is to be hoped that she was company for angels :
she died within the first year of her marriage, a faithful
and affectionate wife, and a mother.

When William heard of her death, he felt a sudden
shock ; and a kind of fleeting thought glanced across his
mind, that —

" Had he known she had been so near her dissolution,
she might have been introduced to Lady Clementina ; and
he himself would have called her sister."

That is (if he had defined his fleeting idea), " They
would have had no objection to have met this poor woman for
the last time; and would have descended to the familiarity
of kindred, in order to have wished her a good journey to
the other world."

Or, is there in death something which so raises the ab-
jectness of the poor, that, on their approach to its sheltering
abode, the arrogant believer feels the equality he had before
denied, and trembles ?

NATURE AND ART. 309

CHAPTER VII.

THE wife of Henry had been dead near six weeks before
the dean heard the news : a month then elapsed in thoughts
by himself, and consultations with Lady Clementina, how
he should conduct himself on this occurrence. Her advice
was, —

' ( That, as Henry was the younger, and by their stations,
in every sense, the dean's inferior, Henry ought first to
make overtures of reconciliation."

The dean answered, " He had no doubt of his brother's
good, will to him ; but that he had reason to think, from the
knowledge of his temper, he would be more likely to come
to him upon an occasion to bestow comfort, than to receive
it : for instance, if I had suffered the misfortune of losing
your Ladyship, my brother, I have no doubt, would have

forgotten his resentment, and "

She was offended that the loss of the vulgar wife of
Henry should be compared to the loss of her — she la
mented her indiscretion in forming an alliance with a
family of no rank, and implored the dean to wait till his
brother should make some concession to him, before he
renewed the acquaintance.

Though Lady Clementina had mentioned, on this oc
casion, her indiscretion, she was of a prudent age — she
was near forty — yet, possessing rather a handsome face
and person, she would not have impressed the spectator
with a supposition that she was near so old, had she not
constantly attempted to appear much younger. Her dress
was fantastically fashionable, her manners affected all the
various passions of youth, and her conversation was per
petually embellished with accusations against her own
' ' heedlessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness, and childish.
ness."

There is, perhaps, in each individual, one parent motive

to every action, good or bad. Be that as it may, it was

evident, that with Lady Clementina, all she said or did, all

she thought or looked, had but one foundation — vanity.

x 3

310 NATURE AND ART.

If she were nice, or if she were negligent, vanity was the
cause of both ; for she would contemplate with the highest
degree of self-complacency ef what such-a-one would say
of her elegant preciseness, or what such-a-one would think
of her interesting neglect. "

If she complained she was ill, it was with the certainty
that her languor would be admired ; if she boasted she was
well, it was that the spectator might admire her glowing
health ; if she laughed, it was because she thought it made
her look pretty ; if she cried, it was because she thought
it made her look prettier still. If she scolded her servants,
it was from vanity, to show her knowledge superior to
theirs ; and she was kind to them from the same motive,
that her benevolence might excite their admiration. For
ward and impertinent in the company of her equals, from
the vanity of supposing herself above them, she was bash
ful even to shamefacedness in the presence of her superiors,
because her vanity told her she engrossed #11 their observ
ation. Through vanity she had no memory ; for she
constantly forgot every thing she heard others say, from
the minute attention which she paid to every thing she said
herself.

. She had become an old maid from vanity, believing no
offer she received ; worthy of her deserts ; and when her
power of farther conquest began to be doubted, she married
from vanity, to repair the character of her fading charms.
In a word, her vanity was of that magnitude, that she had
no conjecture but that she was humble in her own opinion ;
and it would have been impossible to have convinced her
that she thought well of herself, because she thought so
well, as to be assured that her own thoughts undervalued
her.

CHAPTER VIII.

THAT, which in a weak woman is called vanity, in a man
of sense is termed pride. Make one a degree stronger, o r

NATURE AND ART. 311

the other a degree weaker, and the dean and his wife were
infected with the self-same folly. Yet, let not the reader
suppose that his failing (however despicahle) had erased
from either bosom all traces of humanity. They are hu
man creatures who are meant to he portrayed in this little
book ; and where is the human creature who has not some
good qualities to soften, if riot to counterbalance, his bad
ones ?

The dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget his
brother, nor eradicate from his remembrance the friend that
he had been to him : he resolved, therefore, in spite of his
wife's advice, to make him some overture, which he had
no doubt Henry's good-nature would instantly accept. The
more he became acquainted with all the vain and selfish
propensities of Lady Clementina, the more he felt a re
turning affection for his brother : but little did he suspect
how much he loved him, till (after sending to various
places to enquire for him) he learned, that on his wife's
decease, unable to support her loss in the surrounding scene,
Henry had taken the child she brought him in his arms,
shaken hands with all his former friends — passing over
his brother in the number — and set sail in a vessel bound
for Africa, with a party of Portuguese and some few En
glish adventurers, to people there the uninhabited part of
an extensive island.

This was a resolution, in Henry's circumstances, worthy
a mind of singular sensibility : but William had not dis
cerned, till then, that every act of Henry's was of the
same description ; and more than all, his every act towards
him. He staggered when he heard the tidings ; at first
thought them untrue ; but quickly recollected, that Henry
was capable of surprising deeds ! He recollected, with a
force which gave him torture, the benevolence his brother
had ever shown to him — the favours he had heaped upon
him — the insults he had patiently endured in requital !

In the first emotion, which this intelligence gave the
dean, he forgot the dignity of his walk and gesture : he
ran with frantic enthusiasm to every corner of his deanery
where the least vestige of what belonged to Henry re
mained ; he pressed close to his breast, with tender agony,
x 4

312 NATURE AND ART.

a coat of his, which hy accident had been left there ; he
kissed and wept over a walking-stick which Henry once
had given him ; he even took up with delight a music book
of his brother's, nor would his poor violin have then excited
anger.

When his grief became more calm, he sat in deep and
melancholy meditation, calling to mind when and where
he saw his brother last. The recollection gave him fresh
cause of regret. He remembered they had parted on his
refusing to suffer Lady Clementina to admit the acquaintance
of Henry's wife. Both Henry and his wife he now con
templated beyond the reach of his pride ; and he felt the
meanness of his former and the imbecility of his future
haughtiness towards them.

To add to his self-reproaches, his tormented memory
presented to him the exact countenance of his brother at
their last interview, as it changed, while he censured his
marriage, and treated with disrespect the object of his con
jugal affection. He remembered the anger repressed, the
tear bursting forth, and the last glimpse he had of him, as
he left his presence, most likely for ever.

In vain he now wished that he had followed him to the
door ; that he had once shaken hands and owned his obli
gations to him before they had parted. In vain he wished
too, that, in this extreme agony of his mind, he had such
a friend to comfort him, as Henry had ever proved.

CHAPTER IX.

THE avocations of an elevated life erase the deepest im
pressions. The dean in a few months recovered from those
which his brother's departure first made upon him ; and he
would now at times even condemn, in anger, Henry's having
so hastily abandoned him and his native country, in resent
ment, as he conceived, of a few misfortunes which his usual
fortitude should have taught him to have borne. Yet was

NATURE AND ART. SIS

he still desirous of his return, and wrote two or three letters
expressive of his wish, which he anxiously endeavoured
should reach him. But many years having elapsed without
any intelligence from him, and a report having arrived,
that he, and all the party with whom he went, were slain
by the savage inhabitants of the island, William's despair
of seeing his brother again caused the desire to diminish ;
while attention and affection to a still nearer and dearer
relation than Henry had ever been to him, now chiefly en
gaged his mind.

Lady Clementina had brought him a son, on whom, from
his infancy, he doted ; and the boy, in riper years, possess
ing a handsome person, and evincing a quickness of parts,
gratified the father's darling passion, pride, as well as the
mother's vanity.

The dean had, besides this child, a domestic comfort
highly gratifying to his ambition : the Bishop of * * * * be
came intimately acquainted with him soon after his marriage,
and from his daily visits had become, as it were, a part of
the family. This was much honour to the dean, not only
as the bishop was his superior in the church, but was of
that part of the bench whose blood is ennobled by a race
of ancestors, and to which all wisdom on the plebeian side
crouches in humble respect.

Year after year rolled on in pride and grandeur : the
bishop and the dean passing their time in attending levees
and in talking politics ; Lady Clementina passing hers in
attending routs and in talking of herself, till the son arrived
at the age of thirteen.

Young William passed his time, from morning till night,
with persons who taught him to walk, to ride, to talk, to
think like a man — a foolish man, instead of a wise child,
as nature flRRi'pnpd him to bp.

This unfortunate youth was never permitted to have one
conception of his own — all were taught him : he was never
once asked, (( what he thought ;" but men were paid to
tell him " how to think." He was taught to revere such
and such persons, however unworthy of his reverence ; to
believe such and such things, however unworthy of his

S14> NATURE AND ART.

credit ; and to act so and so, on such and such occasions,
however unworthy of his feelings.

Such were the lessons of the tutors assigned him hy his
father : those masters whom his mother gave him did him
less mischief; for though they distorted his limbs, and
made his manners effeminate, they did not interfere beyond
the body.

Mr. Norwynne (the family name of his father, and
though but a school-boy he was called Mister) could talk
on history, on politics, and on religion ; surprisingly to all
who never listened to a parrot or magpie: for he merely
repeated what had been told to him, without one reflection
upon the sense or probability of his report. He had been
praised for his memory ; and to continue that praise, he
was so anxious to retain every sentence he had heard, or he
had read, that the poor creature had no time for one native
idea, but could only re-deliver his tutors' lessons to his
father, and his father's to his tutors. But, whatever he
said or did, was the admiration of all who came to the
house of the dean, and who knew he was an only child.
Indeed, considering the labour that was taken to spoil him,
he was rather a commendable youth ; for, with the pedantic
folly of his teachers, the blind affection of his father and
mother, the obsequiousness of the servants, and flattery of
the visiters, it was some credit to him that he was not an
idiot or a brute; though, when he imitated the manners
of a man, he had something of the latter in his appearance ;
for he would grin and bow to a lady, catch her fan in haste
when it fell, and hand her to her coach, as thoroughly void
of all the sentiment which gives grace to such tricks as a
monkey.

CHAPTER X.

ONE morning in winter, just as the dean, his wife, and
darling child, had finished their breakfast at their house in

NATURE AND ART. 315

London, a servant brought in a letter to his master, arid
said " the man waited for an answer."

" Who is the man ?" cried the dean, with all that ter
rifying dignity with which he never failed to address his
inferiors, especially such as waited on his person.

The servant replied with a servility of tone equal to the
haughty one of his master, " he did not know ; but that
the man looked like a sailor, and had a boy with him."

" A begging letter, no doubt," cried Lady Clementina.

(c Take it back," said the dean, " and bid him send up
word who he is, and what is his errand."

The servant went ; and returning said, " he comes
from on board a ship ; his captain sent him, and his er
rand is, he believes, to leave a boy he has brought with
him."

<e A boy ! " cried the dean : " what have I to do with a
boy? I expect no boy. What boy? What age?"

" He looks about twelve or thirteen," replied the ser
vant.

" He is mistaken in the house," said the dean. " Let
me look at the letter again."

He did look at it, and saw plainly it was directed to
himself. Upon a second glance, he had so perfect a recol
lection of the hand, as to open it instantaneously ; and,
after ordering the servant to withdraw, he read the fol
lowing : —

" Zocotora Island, April 6.
" My dear Brother William,

ft It is a long time since we have seen one another j but
I hope not so long, that you have quite forgotten the many
happy days we once passed together.

" I did not take my leave of you when I left England,
because it would have been too much for me. I had met
with a great many sorrows just at that time ; one of which
was, the misfortune of losing the use of my right hand by
a fall from my horse, which accident robbed me of most
of my friends ; for I could no longer entertain them with
my performance as I used to do ; and so I was ashamed to

316

NATURE AND ART.

see them or you ; and that was the reason I came hither to
try my fortune with some other adventurers.

"You have, I suppose, heard that the savages of the
island put our whole party to death. But it was my
chance to escape their cruelty. I was heart-broken for
my comrades ; yet, upon the whole, I do not know that
the savages were much to blame ; we had no business to
invade their territories ; and if they had invaded England,
we should have done the same by them. My life was
spared, because, having gained some little strength in my
hand, during the voyage, I pleased their king when I ar
rived there, with playing on my violin.

' ' They spared my child, too, in pity to my lamentations,
when they were going to put him to death. Now, dear
brother, before I say any more to you concerning my child,
I will first ask your pardon for any offence I may have
ever given you in all the time we lived so long together.
I know you have often found fault with me, and I dare
say I have been very often to blame ; but I here solemnly
declare, that I never did any thing purposely to offend
you, but mostly, all I could, to oblige you; and I can
safely declare, that I never bore you above a quarter of an
hour's resentment for any thing you might say to me
which I thought harsh.

" Now, dear William, after being in this island eleven
years, the weakness in my hand has unfortunately re
turned ; and yet there being no appearance of complaint,
the uninformed islanders think it is all my obstinacy, and
that I will not entertain them with my music, which makes
me say that I cannot ; and they have imprisoned me, and
threaten to put my son to death if I persist in my stub
bornness any longer.

" The anguish I fe'el in my mind takes away all hope of
the recovery of strength in my hand j and I have no doubt
but that they intend, in a few days, to put their horrid
threat into execution.

ft Therefore, dear brother William, hearing, in my
prison, of a most uncommon circumstance, which is, that
an English vessel is lying at a small distance from the
island, I have intrusted a faithful negro to take my child

NATURE AND ART. 317

to the ship, and deliver him to the captain, with a request
that he may be sent (with this letter) to you, on the ship's
arrival in England.

"Now, my dear, dear brother William, in case the
poor boy should live to come to you, I have no doubt but
you will receive him ; yet, excuse a poor fond father, if I
say a word or two which I hope may prove in his favour.

" Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the child's
fault, but mine, that you will find him so ignorant — he
has always shown a quickness and a willingness to learn,
and would, I dare say, if he had been brought up under
your care, have been by this time a good scholar — but
you know I am no scholar myself. Besides, not having
any books here, I have only been able to teach my child
by talking to him ; and in all my conversations with him
I have never taken much pains to instruct him in the
manners of my own country ; thinking, that if ever he
went over, he would learn them soon enough ; and if he
never did go over, that it would be as well he knew nothing
about them.

" I have kept him also from the knowledge of every
thing which I have thought pernicious in the conduct of
the savages, except that I have now and then pointed out
a few of their faults, in order to give him a true concep
tion and a proper horror of them. At the same time I
have taught him to love, and to do good to his neighbour,
whoever that neighbour may be, and whatever may be his
failings. Falsehood of every kind I included in this pre
cept as forbidden, for no one can love his neighbour and
deceive him.

" I have instructed him, too, to hold in contempt all
frivolous vanity, and all those indulgences which he was
never likely to obtain. He has learned all that I have
undertaken to teach him ; but I am afraid you will yet
think he has learned too little.

" Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of
politeness, and perhaps proper respect for a person of her
rank : but indeed he is very tractable, and can, without
severity, be amended of all his faults; and though you
will find he has many, yet, pray, my dear brother, pray, my

318 NATURE AND ART.

dear brother William, call to mind he has been a dutiful
and an affectionate child to me ; and that, had it pleased
Heaven we had lived together for many years to come, I
verily believe I should never have experienced one mark of
his disobedience.

"Farewell for ever, my dear, dear brother William:
and if my poor, kind, affectionate child should live to
bring you this letter, sometimes speak to him of me ; and
let him know, that for twelve years he was my sole com
fort ; and that, when I sent him from me, in order to save
his life, I laid down my head upon the floor of the cell in
which I was confined, and prayed that Heaven might end
my days before the morning."

This was the conclusion of the letter, except four or
five lines which (with his name) were so much blotted,
apparently with tears, that they were illegible.

CHAPTER XL

WHILE the dean was reading to himself this letter, his
countenance frequently changed, and once or twice the
tears streamed from his eyes. When it was finished, he
exclaimed, —

C( My brother has sent his child to me, and I will be a
parent to him." He was rushing towards the door, when
Lady Clementina stopped him.

" Is it proper, do you think, Mr. Dean, that all the
servants in the house should be witnesses to your meeting
with your brother and your nephew in the state in which
they must be at present? Send for them into a private
apartment."

" My brother ! " cried the dean, " Oh, that it were
my brother ! The man is merely a person from the ship,
who has conducted his child hither."

The bell was rung, money was sent to the man, and

NATURE AND ART. 319

orders given that the boy should be shown up immedi
ately.

While young Henry was walking up the stairs, the
dean's wife was weighing in her mind in what manner it
would most redound to her honour to receive him ; for her
vanity taught her to believe that the whole inquisitive
world pried into her conduct, even upon every family oc
currence.

Young William was wondering to himself what kind of
an unpolished monster his beggarly cousin would appear ;
and was contemplating how much the poor youth would be
surprised and awed by his superiority.

The dean felt no other sensation than an impatient
desire of beholding the child.

The door opened — and the son of his brother Henry,
of his benefactor, entered.

The habit he had on when he left his father, having
been of slight texture, was worn out by the length of the
voyage, and he was in the dress of a sailor-boy. Though
about the same age with his cousin, he was something
taller : and though a strong family resemblance appeared
between the two youths, he was handsomer than William ;
and from a simplicity spread over his countenance, a quick
impatience in his eye — which denoted anxious curiosity,
and childish surprise at every new object which presented
itself — he appeared younger than his informed and well-
bred cousin.

He walked into the room, not with a dictated obeisance,
but with a hurrying step, a half-pleased, yet a half-
frightened look, an instantaneous survey of every person
present ; not as demanding " what they thought of him,"
but expressing almost as plainly as in direct words, Cf what
he thought of them." For all alarm in respect to his
safety and reception seemed now wholly forgotten, in the
curiosity which the sudden sight of strangers, such as he
had never seen in his life before, excited ; and as to him-,
self, he did not appear to know there was such a person
existing : his whole faculties were absorbed mothers.

The dean's reception of him did honour to his sensi
bility, and his gratitude to his brother. After the first

320 NATURE AND ART.

affectionate gaze, he ran to him, took him in his arms, sat
down, drew him to him, held him between his knees, and
repeatedly exclaimed, " I will repay to you all I owe to
your father."

The boy, in return, hugged the dean round the neck,
kissed him, and exclaimed, —

te Oh, you are my father — you have just such eyes,
and such a forehead — indeed you would be almost the
same as he, if it were not for that great white thing which
grows upon your head ! "

Let the reader understand, that the dean, fondly at
tached to every ornament of his dignified function, was
never seen (unless caught in bed) without an enormous
wig. With this young Henry was enormously struck ;
having never seen so unbecoming a decoration, either in
the savage island from whence he came, or on board the
vessel in which he sailed.

" Do you imagine/' cried his uncle, laying his hand
gently on the reverend habiliment, " that this grows ?"

te What is on my head grows," said young Henry, " and
so does that which is upon my father's."

" But now you are come to Europe, Henry, you will
see many persons with such things as these, which they
put on and take off."

" Why do you wear such things ?"

" As a distinction between us and inferior people : they
are worn to give an importance to the wearer."

" That is just as the savages do : they hang brass nails,
wire, buttons, and entrails of beasts all over them, to give
them importance."

The dean now led his nephew to Lady Clementina, and
told him, "she was his aunt, to whom he must behave
with the utmost respect/'

" I will, I will," he replied ; " for she, I see, is a per
son of importance too : she has, very nearly, such a white
thing upon her head as you have ! "

His aunt had not yet fixed in what manner it would be
advisable to behave ; whether with intimidating grandeur,
or with amiable tenderness. While she was hesitating be
tween both, she felt a kind of jealous apprehension that her

NATURE AND ART. 1

son was not so engaging either in his person or address as
his cousin ; and therefore she said, —

" I hope, dean, the arrival of this child will give you a
still higher sense of the happiness we enjoy in our own.
What an instructive contrast between the manners of the
one, and of the other ! "

" It is not the child's fault," returned the dean, " that
he is not so elegant in his manners as his cousin. Had
William been bred in the same place, he would have been
as unpolished as this boy."

f: I beg your pardon, sir," said younp William, with a

S formal bow and a sarcastic smile ; " I assure you, several
of my tutors have told me, that I appear to know many
things as it were by instinct."

Young Henry fixed his eyes upon his cousin, while,
with steady self-complacency, he delivered this speech ;
and no sooner was it concluded, than Henry cried out in a
kind of wonder, —

ff A little man ! as I am alive, a little man ! I did not
know there were such little men in this country ! I never
saw one in my life before ! "

" This is a boy," said the dean, " a boy not older than
yourself."

He put their hands together, and William gravely shook
hands with his cousin.

" It i*a man," continued young Henry — then stroked
his cousin's chin. " No, no, I do not know whether it is cr
not."

" I tell you again/' said the dean, " he is a boy of your
own age ; you and he are cousins, for I am his father/'

" How can that be ?" said young Henry : " he called
you sir.''

" In this country," said the dean, " polite children do
not call their parents father and mother."

" Then don't they sometimes forget to love them as
such ?" asked Henry.

His uncle became now impatient to interrogate him in
every particular concerning his father's state. Lady Cle
mentina felt equal impatience to know where the father
was : whether he were coming to live with them, wanted

Y

322 NATURE AND ART.

any thing of them, and every circumstance in which her
vanity was interested. Explanations followed all these
questions ; but which exactly agreeing with what the elder
Henry's letter has related, require no recital here.

CHAPTER XII.

THAT vanity which presided over every thought and
deed of Lady Clementina was the protector of young Henry
within her house : it represented to her how amiable her
conduct would appear in the eye of the world, should she
condescend to treat this destitute nephew as her own son ;
what envy such heroic virtue would excite in the hearts of
her particular friends, and what grief in the bosoms of all
those who did not like her.

The dean was a man of no inconsiderable penetration :
he understood the thoughts which, upon this occasion,
passed in the mind of his wife ; and in order to insure
her kind treatment of the boy, instead of reproaching her
for the cold manner in which she had at first received him,
he praised her tender and sympathetic heart, for having
shown him so much kindness, and thus stimulated her
vanity to be praised still more.

William, the mother's own son, far from apprehending
a rival in this savage boy, was convinced of his own pre
eminence, and felt an affection for him — though rather as
a foil than as a cousin. He sported with his ignorance
upon all occasions, and even lay in wait for circumstances
that might expose it : while young Henry, strongly im
pressed with every thing which appeared new to him, ex
pressed, without reserve, the sensations which those novel
ties excited ; wholly careless of the construction put on his
observations.

He never appeared either offended or abashed when
laughed at ; but still pursued his questions, and still dis
covered his wonder at many replies made to him, though

NATURE AND ART. 323

" simpleton," ie poor silly boy/' and " idiot/' were vo
ciferated around him from his cousin, his aunt, and their
constant visiter the bishop.

His uncle would frequently undertake to instruct him ;
so indeed would the bishop : but Lady Clementina, her son,
and the greatest part of her companions, found something
so irresistibly ridiculous in his remarks, that nothing but
immoderate laughter followed : they thought such folly
had even merit in the way of entertainment, and they
wished him no wiser.

Having been told, that every morning, on first seeing
his uncle, he was to make a respectful bow, and coming
into the dean's dressing-room just as he was out of bed,
his wig lying on the table, Henry appeared at a loss which
of the two he should bow to — at last he gave the pre
ference to his uncle ; but, afterwards, bowed reverently to
the wig. In this, he did what he conceived was proper,
from the introduction which the dean, on his first arrival,
had given him to this venerable stranger ; for, in reality,
Henry had a contempt for all finery; and had called even
his aunt's jewels, when they were first shown to him,
" trumpery," asking " what they were good for ?" But being
corrected in this disrespect, and informed of their high
value, he, like a good convert, gave up his reason to his
faith ; and becoming, like ah1 converts, over-zealous, he
now believed there was great worth in all gaudy appear
ances, and even respected the ear-rings of Lady Clementina
almost as much as he respected herself.

CHAPTER XIII,

IT was to be lamented, that when young Henry had
been several months in England, had been taught to read,
and had, of course, in the society in which he lived, seen
much of the enlightened world, yet the natural expectation
of his improvement was by no means answered,
y 2

324 NATURE AND ART.

Notwithstanding the sensibility, which upon various oc
casions he manifested in the most captivating degree, not
withstanding the seeming gentleness of his nature upon all
occasions, there now appeared, in most of his enquiries and
remarks, a something which demonstrated either a stupid
or troublesome disposition : either dulness of conception^
or an obstinacy of perseverance in comments, and in argu
ments, which were glaringly false.

Observing his uncle one day offended with his coach
man, and hearing him say to him, in a very angry tone,
" You shah1 never drive me again " —

The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with
his eyes fixed in the deepest contemplation) repeated fiv
or six times, in a half whisper to himself, —

fc You shall never drive me again."
* " You shall never drive me again."

The dean at last called to him, " What do you mean
by thus repeating my words ?"

" I am trying to find out what you meant," said Henry.

" What! don't you know ? " cried his enlightened cousin :
". Richard is turned away : he is never to get upon our
coach-box again, never to drive any of us more."

<f And was it pleasure to drive us, cousin ? I am sure
I have often pitied him : it rained sometimes very hard
when he was on the box ; and sometimes Lady Clementina
has kept him a whole hour at the door all in the cold and
snow : was that pleasure ?"

" No," replied young William.

fe Was it honour, cousin ?"

" No," exclaimed his cousin, with a contemptuous smile.

" Then why did my uncle say to him, as a punishment,
" he should never "

" Come hither, child," said the dean, " and let me in
struct you : your father's negligence has been inexcusable.
There are in society," continued the dean, "rich and
poor ; the poor are born to serve the rich."

" And what are the rich born for ?"

<f To be served by the poor."

" But suppose the poor would not serve them ?"

" Then they must starve."

NATURE AND ART. 325

" And so poor people are permitted to live, only upon
condition that they wait upon the rich ?"

" Is that a hard condition ? or if it were, they will be
rewarded in a better world than this."

ff Is there a better world than this ?"

" Is it possible you do not know there is ?"

" I heard my father once say something about a world
to come ; but he stopt short, and said I was too young to
understand what he meant."

" The world to come," returned the dean, " is where
we shall go after death ; and there no distinction will be
made between rich and poor — all persons there will be
equal."

" Ay, now I see what makes it a better world than
this. But cannot this world try to be as good as that ?"

e( In respect to placing all persons on a level, it is
utterly impossible : God has ordained it otherwise."

" How ! has God ordained a distinction to be made,
and will not make any himself?"

The dean did not proceed in his instructions : he now
began to think his brother in the right, and that the boy
was too young, or two weak, to comprehend the subject.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN addition to his ignorant conversation upon many
topics, young Henry had an incorrigible misconception
and misapplication of many words. His father having
had but few opportunities of discoursing with him, upon
account of his attendance at the court of the savages, and
not having books in the island, he had consequently many
words to learn of this country's language, when he arrived
in England : this task his retentive memory made easy
to him ; but his childish inattention to their proper signi
fication still made his want of education conspicuous.
He would call compliments, lies — reserve he would call
Y 3

326 *'' NATURE AND ART.

pride — stateliness, f affectation — and for the words war
and battle, he constantly substituted the word massacre.

" Sir/' said William to his father, one morning as he
entered the room, " do you hear how the cannons are
firing, and the bells ringing?"

f ' Then I dare say," cried Henry, " there has been an
other massacre."

The dean called to him in anger, " Will you never
learn the right use of words ? You mean to say a battle."
" Then what is a massacre ?" cried the frightened but
still curious Henry.

<{ A massacre," replied his uncle, " is when a number
of people are slain——"

" I thought," returned Henry, lt soldiers had been
people!"

" You interrupted me," said the dean, " before I
finished my sentence. Certainly, both soldiers and sailors
are people, but they engage to die by their own free will
and consent."

"What! all of them?"
" Most of them."
" But the rest are massacred ?"

The dean answered, " The number who go to battle
unwillingly, and by force, are few; and for the others,
they have previously sold their lives to the state."
" For what?"

<c For soldiers' and sailors' pay."

" My father used to tell me, we must not take away
our own lives ; but he forgot to tell me, we might sell
them for others to take away/'

<f William," said the dean to his son, his patience tired
with his nephew's persevering nonsense, ee explain to your
cousin the difference between a battle and a massacre.*'

tf A massacre," said William, rising from his seat, and
fixing his eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and
the bishop (all of whom were present) for their approba
tion, rather than the person's to whom his instructions
were to be addressed — "a. massacre," said William, "is
when human beings are slain, who have it not in their
power to defend themselves."

NATURE AND ART. 327

<f Dear cousin William/' said Henry, " that must ever
be the case with every one who is killed."

After a short hesitation, William replied, ee In mas
sacres, people are put to death for no crime, but merely
because they are objects of suspicion."

C( But in battle," said Henry, " the persons put to
death are not even suspected."

The bishop now condescended to end this disputation,
by saying emphatically, —

" Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the
infant, the aged, the sick, nor infirm, are involved, but
only those in the full prime of health and vigour."

As this argument came from so great and reverend a
man as the bishop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from
his uncle, to submit, as one refuted ; although he had an
answer at the veriest tip of his tongue, which it was tor
ture to him not to utter. What he wished to say, must
ever remain a secret. The church has its terrors as well
as the law ; and Henry was awed by the dean's tremen
dous wig, as much as Paternoster Row is awed by the
attorney-general.

CHAPTER XV.

IF the dean had loved his wife but moderately, seeing all
her faults clearly as he did, he must frequently have
quarrelled with her : if he had loved her with tenderness,
he must have treated her with a degree of violence in the
hope of amending her failings ; but having neither per
sonal nor mental affection towards her, sufficiently inte
resting to give himself the trouble to contradict her will
in any thing, he passed for one of the best husbands in
the world. Lady Clementina went out when she liked,
staid at home when she liked, dressed as she liked, and
talked as she liked, without a word of disapprobation from
her husband, and all^because he cared nothing about
her.

328 NATURE AND ART.

Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate
affection ; and observers in general thought her happier in
her marriage than the beloved wife who bathes her pillow
with tears by the side of an angry husband, whose affec
tion is so excessive, that he unkindly upbraids her because
she is — less than perfection.

The dean's wife was not so dispassionately considered
by some of his acquaintance as by himself; for they
would now and then hint at her foibles : but this great
liberty she also conceived to be the effect of most violent
love, or most violent admiration j and such would have
been her construction,, had they commended her follies —
had they totally slighted, or had they beaten her.

Amongst those acquaintances, the aforesaid bishop, by
far the most frequent visiter, did not come merely to
lounge an idle hour, but he had a more powerful motive ;
the desire of fame, and dread of being thought a man
receiving large emolument for unimportant service.

The dean, if he did not procure him the renown he
wished, still preserved him from the apprehended cen
sure.

The elder William was to his negligent or ignorant
superiors in the church such as an apt boy at school is to
the rich dunces— William performed the prelates' tasks for
them, and they rewarded him, not, indeed, with toys or
money, but with their countenance, their company, their
praise. And scarcely was there a sermon preached from
the patrician part of the bench, in which the dean did not
fashion some periods, blot out some uncouth phrases,
render some obscure sentiments intelligible, and was the
certain person, when the work was printed, to correct the
press.

This honourable and right reverend bishop delighted in
printing and publishing his works, or rather the entire
works of the dean, which passed for his ; and so degrad-
ingly did William, the shopkeeper's son, think of his own
honest extraction, that he was blinded, even to the loss
of honour, by the lustre of this noble acquaintance : for
though, in other respects, he was a man of integrity, yet,
when the gratification of his friend was in question, he

NATURE AND ART.

was a liar : he not only disowned his giving him aid in
any of his publications, but he never published any thing
in his own name, without declaring to the world, " that
he had been obliged for several hints on the subject, for
many of the most judicious corrections, and for those pas
sages in page so and so (naming the most eloquent parts
of the work), to his noble and learned friend the bishop."

The dean's wife being a fine lady, while her husband
and his friend pored over books or their own manuscripts
at home, she ran from house to house, from public amuse
ment to public amusement ; but much less for the pleasure
of seeing than for that of being seen. Nor was it material
to her enjoyment whether she were observed, or welcome,
where she went, as she never entertained the smallest
doubt of either, but rested assured that her presence
roused curiosity and dispensed gladness all around.

One morning she went forth to pay her visits, all smiles,
such as she thought captivating : she returned, all tears,
such as she thought no less endearing.

Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to
be ipatient under a misfortune to which even kings are
liable, — namely, defamation.

Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief, of
which he knew not the cause, begged to know "what
was the matter ?''

{( Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus ! " cried
his aunt, in a fury, casting the corner of her eye into a
looking-glass to see how rage became her.

" But comfort yourself," said one of her companions ;
' ( few people will believe you merit the charge."

" But few ! if only one believe it, I shall call my
reputation lost, and I will shut myself up in some lonely
hut, and for ever renounce all that is dear to me ! "

" What ! all your fine clothes ? " said Henry, in amaze
ment.

" Of what importance will my best dresses be, when no
body would see them ?"

(< You would see them yourself, dear aunt ; and I am
sure nobody admires them more."

330 NATURE AND ART.

te Now you speak of that/' said she, ef I do not think
this gown I have on becoming ; I am sure I look "

The dean, with the bishop, (to whom he had been
reading a treatise just going to the press, which was to be
published in the name of the latter, though written by the
former,) now entered, to enquire why they had been sent
for in such haste.

t( Oh, dean ! oh, my lord bishop ! " she cried, resuming
that grief which the thoughts of her dress had for a time
dispelled, " my reputation is destroyed : a public print
has accused me of playing deep at my own house, and
winning all the money ! "

" The world will never reform," said the bishop : cc all
our labour, my friend, is thrown away."

" But is it possible," cried the dean, " that any one
has dared to say this of you ? "

" Here it is in print," said she, holding out a news
paper.

The dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed, (t I
can forgive a falsehood spoken — the warmth of conversa
tion may excuse it ; but to write and print an untruth is
unpardonable, — and I will prosecute this publisher."

l( Still the falsehood will go down to posterity," said
Lady Clementina; "and after-ages will think I was a
gambler/'

" Comfort yourself, dear madam," said young Henry,
wishing to console her : " perhaps after-ages may not hear
of you, nor even the present age think much about you."

The bishop now exclaimed, after having taken the
paper from the dean, and read the paragraph, <c It is a
libel, a rank libel, and the author must be punished."

" Not only the author, but the publisher," said the dean.

" Not only the publisher, but the printer," continued
the bishop.

(C And must my name be bandied about by lawyers in
a common court of justice ? " cried Lady Clementina ;
" how shocking to my delicacy ! "

(f My Lord, it is a pity we cannot try them by the
ecclesiastical court," said the dean, with a sigh.

NATURE AND ART. 331

" Or by the India delinquent bill," said the bishop,
with vexation.

• " So totally innocent as I am!" she vociferated with
sobs. " Every one knows I never touch a card at home,
and this libel charges me with playing at my own house ;
and though, whenever I do play, I own I am apt to win,
yet it is merely for my amusement."

<f Win or not win, play or not play," exclaimed both the
churchmen, " this is a libel — no doubt, no doubt, a libel."

Poor Henry's confined knowledge of his native language
tormented him so much with curiosity upon this occasion,
that he went softly up to his uncle, and asked him in a
whisper, " What is the meaning of the word libel ?"

" A libel," replied the dean, in a raised voice, " is that
which one person publishes to the injury of another."

" And what can the injured person do," asked Henry,
' ' if the accusation should chance to be true ? "

" Prosecute," replied the dean.

' ' But, then, what does he do if the accusation be false ? "

" Prosecute likewise," answered the dean.

tf How, uncle ! is it possible that the innocent behave
just like the guilty?"

" There is no other way to act."

" Why, then, if I were the innocent, I would do no-
thing at all, sooner than I would act like the guilty. I
would not persecute

e ' I said prosecute," cried the dean in anger. " Leave
the room : you have no comprehension."

" Oh yes, now I understand the difference of the two
words ; but they sound so much alike, I did not at first
observe the distinction. You said, ' the innocent prosecute,
but the guilty persecuted " He bowed (convinced as he
thought), and left the room.

After this modern star-chamber, which was left sitting,
had agreed on its mode of vengeance, and the writer of
the libel was made acquainted with his danger, he waited,
in all humility, upon Lady Clementina, and assured her,
with every appearance of sincerity, —

" That she was not the person alluded to by the para
graph in question, but that the initials which she had

332 NATURE AND ART.

conceived to mark out her name were, in fact, meant to
point out Lady Catherine Newland."

" But, sir," cried Lady Clementina, " what could in
duce you to write such a paragraph upon Lady Catherine ?
She never plays."

" We know that, madam, or we dared not to have at
tacked her. Though we must circulate libels, madam, to
gratify our numerous readers, yet no people are more in
fear of prosecutions than authors and editors: therefore,
unless we are deceived in our information, we always take
care to libel the innocent; we apprehend nothing from
them — their own characters support them — but the guilty
are very tenacious, and what they cannot secure by fair
means, they will employ force to accomplish. Dear
madam, be assured I have too much regard for a wife and
seven small children, who are maintained by my industry
alone, to have written any thing in the nature of a libel
upon your Ladyship."

CHAPTER XVI.

ABOUT this period the dean had just published a pamphlet
in his own name, and in which that of his friend the
bishop was only mentioned with thanks for hints, observa
tions, and condescending encouragement to the author.

This pamphlet glowed with the dean's love for his
country; and such a country as he described, it was im
possible not to love. " Salubrious air, fertile fields, wood,
water, corn, grass, sheep, oxen, fish, fowl, fruit, and vege
tables," were dispersed with the most prodigal hand ;
" valiant men, virtuous women ; statesmen wise and just ;
tradesmen abounding in merchandise and money ; hus
bandmen possessing peace, ease, plenty; and all ranks
liberty." This brilliant description, while the dean read
the work to his family, so charmed poor Henry, that he
repeatedly cried out, —

" I am glad I came to this country."

NATURE AND ART. 333

But it so happened that, a few days after, Lady Clemen
tina, in order to render the delicacy of her taste admired,
could eat of no one dish upon the table, but found fault
with them all. The dean at length said to her, —

" Indeed you are too nice : reflect upon the hundreds of
poor creatures who have not a morsel or a drop of any
thing to subsist upon, except bread and water ; and even
of the first a scanty allowance, but for which they are
obliged to toil six days in the week, from sun to sun."

" Pray, uncle," cried Henry, " in what country do
these poor people live ? "

fe In this country," replied the dean.
Henry rose from his chair, ran to the chimney-
piece, took up his uncle's pamphlet, and said, " I don't
remember your mentioning them here."

(C Perhaps I have not," answered the dean coolly.
Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book ; but he
could meet only with luxurious details of ( ' the fruits of
the earth, the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and
the fishes of the sea."

" Why here is provision enough for all the people,"
said Henry : " why should they want ? why do not they
go and take some of these things ? "

, " They must not," said the dean, " unless they were
their own."

" What, uncle ! does no part of the earth, nor any
thing which the earth produces, belong to the poor ?"
" Certainly not."

' c Why did you not say so then in your pamphlet ? "
" Because it is what every body knows."
" Oh, then, what you have said in your pamphlet is
only what — nobody knows."

There appeared to the dean, in the delivery of this
sentence, a satirical acrimony, which his irritability as an
author could but ill forgive.

An author, it is said, has more acute feelings in respect
to his works than any artist in the world besides.

Henry had some cause, on the present occasion, to
think this observation just ; for no sooner had he spoken
the foregoing words, than his uncle took him by the hand

334 NATURE AND ART.

out of the room • and leading him to his study, there he
enumerated his various faults, and having told him " it
was for all those, too long permitted with impunity, and
not merely for the present impertinence, that he meant to
punish him," ordered him to close confinement in his
chamher for a week.

In the mean time, the dean's pamphlet (less hurt hy
Henry's critique than he had heen) was proceeding to the
tenth edition, and the author acquiring literary reputation
beyond what he had ever conferred on his friend the
bishop.

The style, the energy, the eloquence of the work, was
echoed by every reader who could afford to buy it — some
few enlightened ones excepted, who chiefly admired the
author's invention.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE dean, in the good humour which the rapid sale of
his book produced, once more took his nephew to his
bosom ; and although the ignorance of young Henry upon
the late occasions had offended him very highly, yet that
self-same ignorance, evinced a short time after upon a
different subject, struck his uncle as productive of a most
rare and exalted virtue.

Henry had frequently, in his conversation, betrayed the
total want of all knowledge in respect to religion or futu
rity ; and the dean, for this reason, delayed taking him to
church, till he had previously given him instructions where*
fore he went.

A leisure morning arrived ; on which he took his nephew
to his study, and implanted in his youthful mind the first
unconfused idea of the Creator of the universe.

The dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention : his
understanding, expanded by time to the conception of a
God, and not warped by custom, from the sensations which
a just notion of that God inspires, dwelt with delight and

NATURE AND ART. 335

wonder on the information given him ; lessons which, in
stilled into the head of a senseless infant, too often produce,
throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to
the truths revealed.

Yet, with all that astonished, that respectful sensibility
which Henry showed on this great occasion, he still ex
pressed his opinion, and put questions to the dean with his
usual simplicity, till he felt himself convinced.

" What ! " cried he, after being informed of the attri
butes inseparable from the Supreme Being, and having re
ceived the injunction to offer prayers to him night and
morning, — " what ! am I permitted to speak to Power
Divine ?"

" At all times," replied the dean.
" How ! whenever I like ?"
<e Whenever you like," returned the dean.
tl I durst not," cried Henry, " make so free with the
bishop, nor dare any of his attendants."

<f The bishop," said the dean, " is the servant of God,
and therefore must be treated with respect."

(< With more respect than his Master ?" asked Henry.
The dean not replying immediately to this question,
Henry, in the rapidity of enquiry, ran on to another :
*' But what am I to say when I speak to the Almighty ?"
" First, thank him for the favours he has bestowed on
you."

" What favours ?"

<f You amaze me," cried the dean, ff by your question.
Do not you live in ease, in plenty, and happiness ?*'

(t And do the poor and the unhappy thank him too,
uncle ?"

*c No doubt : every human being glorifies him, for hav
ing been made a rational creature."

i( And does my aunt, and all her card-parties, glorify
him for that?"

The dean again made no reply, and Henry went on to
other questions, till his uncle had fully instructed him as
to the nature and the form of prayer; and now, putting
into his hands a book, he pointed out to him a few short

336 NATURE AND ART.

prayers, which he wished him to address to Heaven in his
presence.

Whilst Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed,
he trembled, turned pale, and held, for a slight support,
on the chair placed before him.

His uncle went to him, and asked him f( what was the
matter ?"

" Oh," cried Henry, " when I first came to your door
with my poor father's letter, I shook for fear you would
not look upon me ; and I cannot help feeling even more
now than I did then."

The dean embraced him with warmth, gave him con
fidence, and retired to the other side of the study, to ob
serve his whole demeanour on this new occasion.

As he beheld his features varying between the passions
of humble fear and fervent hope, his face sometimes glow
ing with the rapture of thanksgiving, and sometimes with
the blushes of contrition, he thus exclaimed apart, —

" This is the true education on which to found the
principles of religion. The favour conferred by Heaven
in granting the freedom of petitions to its throne can never
be conceived with proper force but by those whose most
tedious moments during their infancy were not passed in
prayer. Unthinking governors of childhood ! to insult the
Deity with a form of worship, in which the mind has no
share, nay, worse, has repugnance ; and, by the thought
less habits of youth, prevent, even in age, devotion."

Henry's attention was so firmly fixed, that he forgot
there was a spectator of his fervour ; nor did he hear
young William enter the chamber, and even speak to his
father.

At length, closing his book, and rising from his knees,
he approached his uncle and cousin with a sedateness in
his air, which gave the latter a very false opinion of the
state of his youthful companion's mind.

" So, Mr. Henry," cried William, " you have been
obliged, at last, to say your prayers."

The dean informed his son, " that to Henry it was no
punishment to pray."

NATURE AND ART. 337

" He is the strangest boy I ever knew/' said William,
inadvertently.

" To be sure/' said Henry,, " I was frightened when I
first knelt ; but when I came to the words, Father which
art in heaven, they gave me courage ; for I know how
merciful and kind a father is, beyond any one else."

The dean again embraced his nephew, let fall a tear to
his poor brother Henry's misfortunes, and admonished the
youth to show himself equally submissive to other instruc
tions as he had done to those which inculcate piety.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE interim between youth and manhood was passed
by young William and young Henry in studious applica
tion to literature ; some casual mistakes in our customs
and manners on the part of Henry, some too close adhe-
rences to them on the side of William.

Their different characters when boys were preserved
when they became men. Henry still retained that natural
simplicity which his early destiny had given him ; he
wondered still at many things he saw and heard, and at
times would venture to give his opinion, contradict, and
even act in opposition to persons whom long experience
and the approbation of the world had placed in situations
which claimed his implicit reverence and submission.

Unchanged in all his boyish graces, young William,
now a man, was never known to infringe upon the statutes
of good-breeding ; even though sincerity, his own free
will, duty to his neighbour, with many other plebeian
virtues and privileges, were the sacrifice.

William inherited all the pride and ambition of the
dean, Henry all his father's humility. And yet, so various
and extensive is the acceptation of the word pride, that, on
some occasions, Henry was proud even beyond his cousin.
He thought it far beneath his dignity ever to honour, or

338 KATURE AND ART.

contemplate with awe, any human being in whom he saw
numerous failings ; nor would he, to ingratiate himself in
to the favour of a man above him, stoop to one servility,
such as the haughty William daily practised.

" I know I am called proud/' one day, said William to
Henry.

" Dear cousin," replied Henry, <e it must be only, then^
by those who do not know you ; for to me you appear the
humblest creature in the world."

" Do you really think so ? "

(C I am certain of it ; or would you always give up your
opinion to that of persons in a superior state, however in
ferior in their understanding? Would, else, their weak
judgment immediately change yours, though, before, you
had been decided on the opposite side ? Now, indeed,
cousin, I have more pride than you ; for I never will
stoop to act or to speak contrary to my feelings."

(t Then you will never be a great man."

" Nor ever desire it, if I must first be a mean one."

There was in the reputation of these two young men
another mistake, which the common retailers of character
committed. Henry was said to be wholly negligent, while
William was reputed to be extremely attentive to the other
sex. William, indeed, was gallant, was amorous, and in
dulged his inclination to the libertine society of women;
but Henry it was who loved them. He admired them at
a reverential distance, and felt so tender an affection for
the virtuous female, that it shocked him to behold, much
more to associate with, the depraved and vicious.

In the advantages of person, Henry was still superior to
William ; and yet the latter had no common share of those
attractions which captivate weak, thoughtless, or unskilful
minds.

CHAPTER XIX.

ABOUT the time that Henry and William quitted col
lege, and had arrived at their twentieth year, the dean

NATURE AND ART. 339

purchased a small estate in a village near to the country
residence of Lord and Lady Bendhara; and, in the total
want of society, the dean's family were frequently honour
ed with invitations from the great house.

Lord Bendham, hesides a good estate, possessed the of
fice of a lord of the bed-chamber to his Majesty. His
torians do not ascribe much importance to the situation, or
to the talents of nobles in this department, nor shall this
little history. A lord of the bed-chamber is a personage
well known in courts, and in all capitals where courts re
side; with this advantage to the enquirer, that in becoming
acquainted with one of those noble characters, he becomes
acquainted with all the remainder ; not only with those of
the same kingdom, but those of foreign nations ; for, in
whatever land, in whatever climate, a lord of the bed
chamber must necessarily be the self-same creature : one,
wholly made up of observance, of obedience, of dependence,
and of imitation — a borrowed character — a character
formed by reflection.

The wife of this illustrious peer, as well as himself,
took her hue, like the chameleon, from surrounding objects :
her manners were not governed by her mind, but were
solely directed by external circumstances. At court, hum
ble, resigned, patient, attentive : at balls, masquerades,
gaming-tables, and routs, gay, sprightly, and flippant : at
her country seat, reserved, austere, arrogant, and gloomy.

Though in town her timid eye, in presence of certain
personages, would scarcely uplift its trembling lid, so much
she felt her own insignificance ; yet, in the country, till
Lady Clementina arrived, there was not one being of con
sequence enough to share in her acquaintance ; and she
paid back to her inferiors there, all the humiliating slights,
all the mortifications, which in London she received from
those to whom she was inferior.

Whether in town or country, it is but justice to acknow
ledge, that in her own person she was strictly chaste ; but
in the country she extended that chastity even to the per
sons of others ; and the young woman who lost her virtue
in the village of Anfield had better have lost her life.
z 2

340 NATURE AND ART.

Some few were now and then found hanging or drowned,
while no other cause could be assigned for their despair,
than an imputation on the discretion of their character,
and dread of the harsh purity of Lady Bendham. She
would remind the parish priest of the punishment allotted
for female dishonour, and by her influence had caused
many an unhappy girl to do public penance, in their own
or the neighbouring churches.

But this country rigour, in town, she could dispense
withal ; and, like other ladies of virtue, she there visited
and received into her house the acknowledged mistresses of
any man in elevated life : it was not therefore the crime,
but the rank which the criminal held in society, that drew
down Lady Bendham's vengeance: she even carried her
distinction of classes in female error to such a very nice
point, that the adulterous concubine of an elder brother
was her most intimate acquaintance, whilst the less guilty
unmarried mistress of the younger she would not sully
her lips to exchange a word with.

Lord and Lady Bendham's birth, education, talents, and
propensities, being much on the same scale of eminence,
they would have been a very happy pair, had not one great
misfortune intervened — the lady never bore her lord a
child — while every cottage of the village was crammed with
half-starved children; whose father from week to week,
from year to year, exerted his manly youth and wasted his
strength in vain to protect them from hunger ; whose mother
mourned over her new-born infant as a little wretch sent
into the world to deprive the rest of what already was too
scanty for them : in the castle, which owned every cottage
and all the surrounding land, and where one single day of
feasting would have nourished for a month all the poor in
habitants of the parish, not one child was given to partake
of the plenty. The curse of barrenness was on the family
of the lord of the manor — the curse of fruitfulness upon
the famished poor.

This lord and lady, with an ample fortune, both by in.
heritance and their sovereign's favour, had never yet the
economy to be exempt from debts ; still, over their splen-

NATURE AND ART. 341

did, their profuse table, they could contrive and plan excel
lent schemes " how the poor might live most comfortably
with a little better management."

The wages of a labouring man, with a wife and half a
dozen small children, Lady Bendham thought quite suffi
cient, if they would only learn a little economy.

<f You know, my Lord, those people never want to dress
— shoes and stockings, a coat and waistcoat, a gown and
a cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, are all they want —
fire, to be sure, in winter — then all the rest is merely for
provision. "

" I '11 get a pen and ink," said young Henry, one day
when he had the honour of being at their table, IC and see
what the rest amounts to."

<c No, no accounts," cried my Lord, Cf no summing up :
but if you were to calculate, you must add to the receipts
of the poor my gift at Christmas — last year, during the
frost, no less than a hundred pounds."

" How benevolent !" exclaimed the dean.

" How prudent ! " exclaimed Henry.

" What do you mean by prudent? " asked Lord Bendham.
" Explain your meaning."

" No, my Lord," replied the dean, " do not ask for an
explanation : this youth is wholly unacquainted with our
customs, and, though a man in stature, is but a child in
intellects. Henry, have not I often cautioned you "

" Whatever his thoughts are upon this subject," cried
Lord Bendham, " I desire to know them."

" Why then, my Lord," answered Henry, <c I thought it
was prudent in you to give a little ; lest the poor, driven to
despair, should take all."

tf And if they had, they would have been hanged."

" Hanging, my Lord, our history, or some tradition, says,
was formerly adopted as a mild punishment, in place of
starving."

" I am sure," cried Lady Bendham (who seldom spoke
directly to the argument before her), — ' ' I am sure they
ought to think themselves much obliged to us."

" That is the greatest hardship of all," cried Henry.

" What, sir ? " exclaimed the Earl.
z 3

342 NATURE AND ART.

<l I beg your pardon — my uncle looks displeased — I am
very ignorant — I did not receive my first education in this
country — and I find I think so differently from every one
else,, that I am ashamed to utter my sentiments."

ff Never mind, young man," answered Lord Bendham ;
" we shall excuse your ignorance for once. Only inform
us what it was you just now called the greatest hardship of
all."

" It was, my Lord, that what the poor receive to keep
them from perishing should pass under the name of gifts and
bounty. Health, strength, and the will to earn a moderate
subsistence, ought to be every man's security from obli
gation."

" I think a hundred pounds a great deal of money/'
cried Lady Bendham ; " and I hope my Lord will never
give it again."

" I hope so too," cried Henry ; "for if my Lord would
only be so good as to speak a few words for the poor, as a
senator, he might possibly for the future keep his hundred
pounds, and yet they never want it."

Lord Bendham had the good-nature only to smile at
Henry's simplicity, whispering to himself, " I had rather
keep my " His last word was lost in the whisper.

CHAPTER XX.

IN the country — where the sensible heart is still more
susceptible of impressions, and where the unfeeling mind,
in the want of other men's wit to invent, forms schemes
for its own amusement — our youths both fell in love: if
passions, that were pursued on the most opposite principles,
can receive the same appellation. William, well versed in
all the licentious theory, thought himself in love, because
he perceived a tumultuous impulse cause his heart to beat
while his fancy fixed on a certain object, whose presence
agitated yet more his breast.

NATURE AND ART. 343

Henry thought himself not in love, because, while he
listened to William on the subject, he found their sensations
did not in the least agree.

William owned to Henry, that he loved Agnes, the
daughter of a cottager in the village, and hoped to make
her his mistress.

Henry felt that his tender regard for Rebecca, the daughter
of the curate of the parish, did not inspire him even with
the boldness to acquaint her with his sentiments ; much less
to meditate one design that might tend to her dishonour.

While William was cautiously planning how to meet in
private, and accomplish the seduction of the object of his
passion, Henry was endeavouring to fortify the object of
his choice with every virtue. He never read a book from
which he received improvement, that he did not carry it to
Rebecca — never heard a circumstance which might assist
towards her moral instruction, that he did not haste to tell
it her — and once, when William boasted, —

f< He knew he was beloved by Agnes," —

Henry said, with equal triumph, (( he had not dared to
take the means to learn, nor had Rebecca dared to give one
instance of her partiality."

Rebecca was the youngest, and by far the least handsome
daughter of four, to whom the Reverend Mr. Rymer, a
widower, was father. The other sisters were accounted
beauties ; and she, from h?r comparative want of personal
charms, having been less beloved by her parents, and less
caressed by those who visited them, than the rest, had
for some time past sought other resources of happiness than
the affection, praise, and indulgence of her fellow-creatures.
The parsonage-house in which this family lived was the
forlorn remains of an ancient abbey : it had in later times
been the habitation of a rich and learned rector, by whom,
at his decease, a library was bequeathed for the use of every
succeeding resident. Rebecca, left alone in this huge, ruin
ous abode, while her sisters were paying stated visits in
search of admiration, passed her solitary hours in reading.
She not merely read — she thought: the choicest English
books from this excellent library taught her to think ; and
reflection fashioned her mind to bear the slights, the mor-
z 4

344 NATURE AND ART.

tifications of neglect, with a patient dejection, rather than
with an indignant or a peevish spirit.

This resignation to injury and "contumely gave to her
perfect symmetry of person, a timid eye, a retiring manner,
and spread upon her face a placid sweetness, a pale serenity
indicating sense, which no wise connoisseur in female charms
would have exchanged for all the sparkling eyes and florid
tints of her vain and vulgar sisters. Henry's soul was so
enamoured of her gentle deportment, that in his sight she
appeared beautiful ; while she, with an understanding com
petent to judge of his worth, was so greatly surprised, so
prodigiously astonished at the distinction, the attention,
the many offices of civility paid her, by him, in preference
to her idolised sisters, that her gratitude for such unex
pected favours had sometimes (even in his presence and in
that of her family) nearly drowned her eyes with tears.
Yet they were only trifles, in which Henry had the oppor
tunity or the power to give her testimony of his regard —
trifles, often more grateful to the sensible mind than efforts
of high importance ; and by which the proficient in the
human heart will accurately trace a passion, wholly con
cealed from the dull eye of the unskilled observer.

The first cause of amazement to Rebecca in the manners
of Henry was, that he talked with her as well as with her
sisters; no visiter else had done so. In appointing a
morning's or an evening's walk, he proposed her going with
the rest ; no one had ever required her company before.
When he called and she was absent, he asked where she
was ; no one had ever missed her before. She thanked
him most sincerely, and soon perceived, that, at those times
when he was present, company was more pleasing even than
books.

Her astonishment, her gratitude, did not stop here —
Henry proceeded in attention — he soon selected her from
her sisters, to tell her the news of the day ; answered her
observations the first ; once gave her a sprig of myrtle from
his bosom in preference to another who had praised its beauty ;
and once — never-to-be-forgotten kindness — sheltered her
from a hasty shower with his parapluie, while he lamented,
to her drenched companions, —

NATURE AND ART. <

" That he had but one to offer."

From a man whose understanding and person they ad
mire, how dear, how impressive on the female heart is
every trait of tenderness ! Till now, Rebecca had ex
perienced none ; not even of the parental kind; and merely
from the overflowings of a kind nature (not in return for
affection) had she ever loved her father and her sisters.
Sometimes, repulsed by their severity, she transferred the
fulness of an affectionate heart upon birds, or the brute
creation ; but now, her alienated mind was recalled and
softened by a sensation that made her long to complain of
the burden it imposed. Those obligations which exact
silence are a heavy weight to the grateful ; and Rebecca
longed to tell Henry, "that even the forfeit of her life
would be too little to express the full sense she had of the
respect he paid to her." But as modesty forbade not only
every kind of declaration, but every insinuation purporting
what she felt, she wept through sleepless nights from a
load of suppressed explanation ; yet still she would not
have exchanged this trouble for all the beauty of her
sisters.

CHAPTER XXI.

OLD John and Hannah Primrose, a prudent, hardy cou
ple, who, by many years of peculiar labour and peculiar
abstinence, were the least poor of all the neighbouring cot
tagers, had an only child (who has been named before)
called Agnes ; and this cottage girl was reckoned, in spite
of the beauty of the elder Miss Rymers, by far the^ pret
tiest female in the village.

Reader of superior rank, if the passions which rage in
the bosom of the inferior class of human kind are beneath
your sympathy, throw aside this little history, for Rebecca
Rymer and Agnes Primrose are its heroines.

But you, unprejudiced reader, whose liberal observ-

346

NATURE AND ART.

ations are not confined to stations, but who consider all
mankind alike deserving your investigation ; who believe
that there exist in some, knowledge without the advantage
of instruction ; refinement of sentiment independent of
elegant society ; honourable pride of heart without dignity
of blood ; and genius destitute of art to render it conspi
cuous — you will, perhaps, venture to read on; in hopes
that the remainder of this story may deserve your atten
tion, just as the wild herb of the forest, equally with the
cultivated plant in the garden, claims the attention of the
botanist.

Young William saw in young Agnes even more beauty
than was beheld by others ; and on those days when he
felt no inclination to ride, to shoot, or to hunt, he would
contrive, by some secret device, the means to meet with
her alone, and give her tokens (if not of his love) at least
of his admiration of her beauty, and of the pleasure he en.
joyed in her company.

Agnes listened, with a kind of delirious enchantment, to
all her elevated and eloquent admirer uttered ; and in re
turn for his praises of her charms, and his equivocal re
plies in respect to his designs towards her, she gave to him
her most undisguised thoughts, and her whole enraptured
heart.

* This harmless intercourse (as she believed it) had not
lasted many weeks before she loved him: she even con
fessed she did, every time that any unwonted mark of
attention from him struck with unexpected force her in
fatuated senses.

It has been said by a celebrated writer, upon the affec
tion subsisting between the two sexes, " that there are
many persons who, if they had never heard of the passion
of love, would never have felt it." Might it not with
equal truth be added, that there are many more, who hav
ing heard of it, and believing most firmly that they feel it,
are nevertheless mistaken ? Neither of these cases was the
lot of Agnes. She experienced the sentiment before she
ever heard it named in the sense with which it had pos
sessed her — joined with numerous other sentiments : for
genuine love, however rated as the chief passion of the

NATURE AND ART. 34*7

human heart, is but a poor dependant, a retainer upon
other passions ; admiration, gratitude, respect, esteem,
pride in the object. Divest the boasted sensation of these,
and it is no more than the impression of a twelvemonth,
by courtesy, or vulgar error, termed love.

Agnes was formed by the rarest structure of the human
frame, and destined by the tenderest thrillings of the hu
man soul, to inspire and to experience real love : but her
nice taste, her delicate thoughts, were so refined beyond
the sphere of her own station in society, that nature would
have produced this prodigy of attraction in vain, had not
one of superior education and manners assailed her affec
tions ; and had she been accustomed to the conversation of
men in William's rank of life, she had, perhaps, treated
William's addresses with indifference : but, in comparing
him with her familiar acquaintance, he was a miracle !
His unremitting attention seemed the condescension of an
elevated being, to whom she looked up with reverence,
with admiration, with awe, with pride, with sense of ob
ligation — and all those various passions which constitute
true, and weuer-to-be-eradicated, love.

But in vain she felt and even avowed with her lips what
every look, every gesture, had long denoted ; William,
with discontent, sometimes with anger, upbraided her for her
false professions, and vowed, f< that while one tender proof,
which he fervently besought, was wanting, she did but ag
gravate his misery by less endearments."

Agnes had been taught the full estimation of female
virtue; and if her nature could have detested any one
creature in a state of wretchedness, it would have been the
woman who had lost her honour : yet, for William, what
would not Agnes forfeit? The dignity, the peace, the
serenity, the innocence of her own mind, love soon encou
raged her to fancy she could easily forego — and this same
overpowering influence at times so forcibly possessed her,
that she even felt a momentary transport in the contempla
tion "of so precious a sacrifice to him." But then she
loved her parents ; and their happiness she could not pre
vail with herself to barter even for his. She wished he
would demand some other pledge of her attachment to

348 NATURE AND ART.

him ; for there was none but this, her ruin in no other
shape, that she would deny at his request. While thus
she deliberated, she prepared for her fall.

Bred up with strict observance both of his moral and
religious character, William did not dare to tell an un
equivocal lie even to his inferiors — he never promised
Agnes he would marry her; nay even, he paid so much
respect to the forms of truth, that no sooner was it evident
that he had obtained her heart, her whole soul entire — so
that loss of innocence would be less terrifying than separ
ation from him — no sooner did he perceive this, than he
candidly told her he " could never make her his wife."
At the same time he lamented " the difference of their
births, and the duty he owed his parents' hopes," in terms
so pathetic to her partial ear, that she thought him a
greater object of compassion in his attachment, even than
herself; and was now urged. by pity to remove the cause
of his complainings.

One evening Henry accidentally passed the lonely spot
where William and she constantly met : he observed his
cousin's impassioned eye, and her affectionate yet fearful
glance. William, he saw, took delight in the agitation of
mind, in the strong apprehension mixed with the love of
Agnes : this convinced Henry that either he or himself
was not in love ; for his heart told him he would not have
beheld such emotions of tenderness mingled with such
marks of sorrow, upon the countenance of Rebecca, for the
wealth of the universe.

The first time he was alone with William after this, he
mentioned his observation on Agnes's apparent affliction,
and asked <( why her grief was the result of their stolen
meetings."

" Because," replied William, f< her professions are un
limited, while her manners are reserved ; and I accuse her
of loving me with unkind moderation, while I love her to
distraction/'

"gYou design to marry her then ?"

" How can you degrade me by the supposition ?"

ee Would it degrade you more to marry her than to
make her your companion ? To talk with her for hours in

NATURE AND ART. 34$

preference to all other company ? To wish to be endeared
to her by still closer ties ?"

" But all this is not raising her to the rank of my wife."

" It is still raising her to that rank for which wives
alone were allotted."

" You talk wildly ! I tell you I love her; but not
enough, I hope, to marry her."

" But too much, I hope, to undo her ? "

" That must be her own free choice — I make use of
no unwarrantable methods."

<f What are the warrantable ones ?"

" I mean, I have made her no false promises — offered
no pretended settlement — vowed no eternal constancy."

" But you have told her you love her ; and, from that
confession, has she not reason to expect every protection
which even promises could secure ? "

" I cannot answer for her expectations ; but I know if
she should make me as happy as I ask, and I should then
forsake her, I shall not break my word."

" Still she will be deceived ; for you will falsify your
looks."

" Do you think she depends on my looks ? "

" I have read in some book, Looks are the lovers sole
dependence"

11 I have no objection to her interpreting mine in her
favour ; but then, for the consequences, she will have her
self and only herself to blame."

" Oh, Heaven ! "

" What makes you exclaim so vehemently ?"

" A forcible idea of the bitterness of that calamity which
inflicts self-reproach ! Oh, rather deceive her — leave her
the consolation to reproach you, rather than herself."

f< My honour will not suffer me."

" Exert your honour, and never see her more."

" I cannot live without her."

" Then live with her by the laws of your country ; and
make her and yourself both happy."

" Am I to make my father and my mother miserable ?
They would disown me for such a step."

" Your mother, perhaps, might be offended, but your

350 NATURE AND ART.

father could not. Remember the sermon he preached but
last Sunday, upon — the shortness of this life — contempt
of all riches and worldly honours in balance with a quiet
conscience — and the assurance he gave us, that the greatest
happiness enjoyed upon earth was to be found under an
humble roof, with heaven in prospect."

t( My father is a very good man," said William ; " and
yet, instead of being satisfied with an humble roof, he
looks impatiently forward to a bishop's palace."

" He is so very good then/' said Henry, " that perhaps,
seeing the dangers to which men in exalted stations are
exposed, he has such extreme philanthropy, and so little
self-love, he would rather that himself should brave those
perils incidental to wealth and grandeur than any other
person/'

" You are not yet civilised," said William ; " and to
argue with you is but to instruct without gaining instruc
tion."

" I know, sir," replied Henry, (e that you are studying
the law most assiduously, and indulge flattering hopes of
rising to eminence in your profession ; but let me hint to
you, that though you may be perfect in the knowledge how
to administer the commandments of men, unless you keep
in view the precepts of God, your judgment, like mine,
will be fallible."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE dean's family passed this first summer at the new-
purchased estate so pleasantly, that they left it with regret
when winter called them to their house in town.

But if some felt concern in quitting the village of Anfield,
others who were left behind felt the deepest anguish.
Those were not the poor ; for rigid attention to the religion
and morals of people in poverty, and total neglect of their
bodily wants, was the dean's practice. He forced them to

NATURE AND ART. 351

attend church every Sabbath; but whether they had a
dinner on their return was too gross and temporal an en
quiry for his spiritual fervour. Good of the soul was all
he aimed at ; and this pious undertaking, besides his dili
gence as a pastor, required all his exertion as a magistrate ;
for to be very poor and very honest, very oppressed yet
very thankful, is a degree of sainted excellence not often
to be attained, without the aid of zealous men to frighten
into virtue.

Those, then, who alone felt sorrow at the dean's de
parture, were two young women, whose parents, exempt
from indigence, preserved them from suffering under his
unpitying piety ; but whose discretion had not protected
them from the bewitching smiles of his 'nephew, and the
seducing wiles of his son.

The first morning that Rebecca rose and knew Henry
was gone till the following summer, she wished she could
have laid down again and slept away the whole long inter
val. Her sisters' peevishness, her father's austerity, she
foresaw, would be insupportable, now that she had expe
rienced Henry's kindness, and he was no longer near to
fortify her patience. She sighed — she wept — she was
unhappy.

But if Rebecca awoke with a dejected mind and an
aching heart, what were the sorrows of Agnes ? The only
child of doting parents, she never had been taught the
necessity of resignation — untutored, unread, unused to
reflect, but knowing how to fed ; what were her sufferings
when, on waking, she called to mind, that " William was
gone," and with him gone all that excess of happiness
which his presence had bestowed, and for which she had
exchanged her future tranquillity.

Loss of tranquillity even Rebecca had to bemoan : Agnes
had still more — the loss of innocence.

Had William remained in the village, shame, even con
science, perhaps, might have been silenced ; but, separated
from her betrayer, parted from the joys of guilt, and left
only to its sorrows, every sting which quick sensibility
could sharpen, to torture her, was transfixed in her heart.
First came the recollection of a cold farewell from the man

352 NATURE AND ART.

whose love she had hoped her yielding passion had for ever
won -, next flashed on her thoughts her violated person ;
next, the crime incurred; then her cruelty to her parents;
and, last of all, the horrors of detection.

She knew that as yet, by wariness, care, and contri
vance, her meetings with William had been unsuspected ;
but, in this agony of mind, her fears foreboded an in
former who would defy all caution ; who would stigmatise
her with a name — dear and desired by every virtuous
female — abhorrent to the blushing harlot — the name of
mother.

That Agnes, thus impressed, could rise from her bed,
meet her parents and her neighbours with her usual smile
of vivacity, and voice of mirth, was impossible : to leave
her bed at all, to creep down stairs, and reply in a faint
broken voice to questions asked, were, in her state of mind,
mighty efforts, and they were all to which her struggles
could attain for many weeks.

William had promised to write to her while he was
away: he kept his word; but not till the end of two
months did she receive a letter. Fear for his health, ap
prehension of his death during this cruel interim, caused
an agony of suspense, which, by representing him to her
distracted fancy in a state of suffering, made him, if pos
sible, still dearer to her. In the excruciating anguish of
uncertainty, she walked with trembling steps through all
weathers (when she could steal half a day while her pa
rents were employed in labour abroad) to the post-town,
at six miles' distance, to enquire for his long-expected, long
wished-for letter. When at last it was given to her, that
moment of consolation seemed to repay her for the whole
time of agonising terror she had endured. " He is alive ! "
she said, " and I have suffered nothing."

She hastily put this token of his health and his remem
brance of her into her bosom, rich as an empress with a
new-acquired dominion. The way from home, which she
had trod with heavy pace, in the fear of renewed disap
pointment, she skimmed along, on her return, swift as a
doe : the cold did not pierce, neither did the rain wet her.
Many a time she put her hand upon the prize she pos-

NATURE AND ART. 353

sessed, to find if it were safe : once, on the road, she took
it from her bosom, curiously viewed the seal and the di
rection, then replacing it, did not move her fingers from
their fast gripe, till she arrived at her own house.

Her father and her mother were still absent. She drew a
chair, and placing it near to the only window in the room,
seated herself with ceremonious order; then gently drew
forth her treasure, laid it on her knee ; and with a smile
that almost amounted to a laugh of gladness, once more
inspected the outward part before she would trust herself
with the excessive joy of looking within.

At length the seal was broken — but the contents still a
secret. Poor Agnes had learned to write as some youths
learn Latin : so short a time had been allowed for the
acquirement, and so little expert had been her master, that
it took her generally a week to write a letter of ten lines,
and a month to read one of twenty. But this being a letter
on which her mind was deeply engaged, her whole ima
gination aided her slender literature, and at the end of a
fortnight she had made out every word. They were these : —

" Dr. Agnes,

" I hope you have been well since we parted : I have
been very well myself; but I have been teased with a great
deal of business, which has not given me time to write to
you before. I have been called to the bar, which engages
every spare moment; but I hope it will not prevent my
coming down to Anfield with my father in the summer.

" I am, Dr. Agnes,

" With gratitude for all the favours you
have conferred on me,

" Yours, &c.

" W. N."

To have beheld the illiterate Agnes trying for two weeks,
day and night, to find out the exact words of this letter,
would have struck the spectator with amazement, had he
also understood the right, the delicate, the nicely proper
sensations with which she was affected by every sentence
it contained.

She wished it had been kinder, even for his sake who

A A

354 NATURE AND ART.

wrote it ; because she thought so well of him, and desired
still to think so well, that she was sorry at any faults which
rendered him less worthy of her good opinion. The cold
civility of his letter had this effect — her clear, her acute
judgment felt it a kind of prevarication to promise to
write — and then write nothing that was hoped for. But,
enthralled by the magic of her passion, she shortly found
excuses for the man she loved, at the expense of her own
condemnation.

<f He has only the fault of inconstancy," she cried ;
" and that has been caused by my change of conduct. Had
I been virtuous still, he had still been affectionate." Bitter
reflection !

Yet there was a sentence in the letter that, worse than
all the tenderness left out, wounded her sensibility ; and
she could not read the line, gratitude for all the favours
conferred on me, without turning pale with horror, then
kindling with indignation at the common-place thanks which
insultingly reminded her of her innocence given in exchange
for unmeaning acknowledgments.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ABSENCE is said to increase strong and virtuous love, but
to destroy that which is weak and sensual. In the parallel
between young William and young Henry, this was the
case; for Henry's real love increased, while William's
turbulent passion declined in separation : yet had the latter
not so much abated, that he did not perceive a sensation,
like a sudden shock of sorrow, on a proposal made him by
his father, of entering the marriage state with a young
woman the dependent niece of Lady Bendharn ; who, as
the dean informed him, had signified her Lord's and her
own approbation of his becoming their nephew.

At the first moment William received this intimation
from his father, his heart revolted with disgust from the
object, and he instantly thought upon Agnes with more

NATURE AND ART. 355

affection than he had done for many weeks before. This
was from the comparison between her and his proposed
wife ; for he had frequently seen Miss Sedgeley at Lord
Bendham's, but had never seen in her whole person, or
manners, the least attraction to excite his love. He pic
tured to himself an unpleasant home with a companion so
little suited to his taste, and felt a pang of conscience, as
well as of attachment, in the thought of giving up for ever
his poor Agnes.

But these reflections, these feelings, lasted only for the
moment: no sooner had the dean explained why the
marriage was desirable, recited what great connections and
what great patronage it would confer upon their family,
than William listened with eagerness, and both his love
and his conscience were, if not wholly quieted, at least for
the present hushed.

Immediately after the dean had expressed to Lord and
Lady Bendham his son's " sense of the honour and the hap
piness conferred on him, by their condescension in admitting
him a member of their noble family " — Miss Sedgeley
received from her aunt nearly the same shock as William
had done from his father. For she (placed in the exact
circumstance of her intended husband) had frequently
seen the deans son at Lord Bendham s, but had never
seen in his whole person or manners the least attraction to
excite her love. She pictured to herself an unpleasant
home with a companion so little suited to her taste ; and at
this moment she felt a more than usual partiality to the
dean's nephew, finding the secret hope she had long in
dulged, of winning his affections, so near being thwarted.

But Miss Sedgeley was too much subjected to the
power of her uncle and aunt to have a will of her own,
at least, to dare to utter it. She received the commands
of Lady Bendham with her accustomed submission, while
all the consolation for the grief they gave her was, ee that
she resolved to make a very bad wife."

" I shall not care a pin for my husband," said she to
herself ; ' ' and so I will dress and visit, and do just as I
like — he dares not be unkind because of my aunt. Be
sides, now I think again, it is not so disagreeable to marry
A A 2

356 NATURE AND ART.

him as if I were obliged to marry into any other family,
because I shall see his cousin Henry as often, if not
oftener, than ever."

For Miss Sedgetey — whose person he did not like, and
with her mind thus disposed — William began to force
himself to shake off every little remaining affection, even
all pity, for the unfortunate, the beautiful, the sensible,
the doting Agnes ; and determined to place in a situation •
to look down with scorn upon her sorrows, this weak, this
unprincipled woman.

' Connections, interest, honours, were powerful advocates :
his private happiness William deemed trivial, compared to
public opinion ; and to be under obligations to a peer, his
wife's relation, gave greater renown in his servile mind
than all the advantages which might accrue from his own
intrinsic independent worth.

In the usual routine of pretended regard, and real in
difference, sometimes disgust, between parties allied by
what is falsely termed prudence, the intended union of
Mr. Norwynne with Miss Sedgeley proceeded in all due
form ; and at their country seats at Anfield, during the
summer, their nuptials were appointed to be celebrated.

William was now introduced into all Lord Bendham's
courtly circles : his worldly soul was entranced in glare
and show : he thought of nothing but places, pensions,
titles, retinues ; and steadfast, alert, unshaken in the pur
suit of honours, neglected not the lesser means of rising
to preferment — his own endowments. But in this round
of attention to pleasures and to study, he no more com
plained to Agnes of " excess of business." Cruel as she
had once thought that letter in which he thus apologised
for slighting her, she at last began to think it was won
drous kind ; for he never found time to send her another.
Yet she had studied with all her most anxious care to
write him an answer ; such a one as might not lessen her
understanding, which he had often praised, in his esteem.

Ah, William ! even with less anxiety your beating, am
bitious heart panted for the admiration of an attentive
auditory, when you first ventured to harangue in public !
With far less hope and fear (great as yours were) did

NATURE AND ART. 35 7

you first address a crowded court, and thirst for its ap
probation on your efforts, than Agnes sighed for your
approbation, when she took a pen and awkwardly scrawled
over a sheet of paper. Near twenty times she began —
but to a gentleman — and one she loved like William — what
could she dare to say ? Yet she had enough to tell, if
shame had not interposed — or if remaining confidence in
his affection had but encouraged her.

Overwhelmed by the first, and deprived of the last, her
hand shook, her head drooped, and she dared not commu
nicate what she knew must inevitably render her letter
unpleasing ; and still more depreciate her in his regard, as
the occasion of incumbrance, and of injury to his moral
reputation.

Her free, her liberal, her venturous spirit subdued, in
timidated by the force of affection, she only wrote, —

" Sir,

" I am sorry you have so much to do, and should be
ashamed if you put it off to write to me. I have not
been at all well this winter — I never before passed such a
one in all my life, and I hope you will never know such a one
yourself in regard to not being happy — I should be sorry
if you did — think I would rather go through it again
myself than you should. I long for the summer, the
fields are so green, and every thing so pleasant at that
time of the year : I always do long for the summer, but I
think never so much in my life as for this that is coming
— though sometimes I wish that last summer had never
come. Perhaps you wish so too — and that this summer
would not come either.

" Hope you will excuse all faults, as I never learnt but
one month.

" Your obedient humble servant,

" A. P."

AA 3

358 NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER XXIV.

SUMMER arrived — and lords and ladies, who had par
taken of all the dissipation of the town, whom opera-
houses, gaming-houses, and various other houses, had
detained whole nights from their peaceful home, were
HOW poured forth from the metropolis, to imbibe the
wholesome air of the farmer and peasant, and disseminate,
in return, moral and religious principles.

Among the rest, Lord and Lady Bendham, strenuous
opposers of vice in the poor, and gentle supporters of it in
the rich, never played at cards, or had concerts on a
Sunday, in the village, where the poor were spies ; he,
there, never gamed, nor drank, except in private; and
she banished from her doors every woman of sullied cha
racter. Yet poverty and idiotism are not the same; the
poor can hear, can talk, sometimes can reflect; servants
will tell their equals how they live in town ; listeners
will smile and shake their heads ; and thus hypocrisy, in
stead of cultivating, destroys every seed of moral virtue.

The arrival of Lord Bendham's family at Anfield an
nounced to the village that the dean's would quickly follow.
Rebecca's heart bounded with joy at the prospect. Poor
Agnes felt a sinking, a foreboding tremour, that wholly
interrupted the joy of her expectations. She had not
heard from William for five tedious months : she did not
know whether he loved or despised — whether he thought
of or had forgotten her. Her reason argued against the
hope that he loved her; yet hope still subsisted; she
would not abandon herself to despair while there was
doubt : she lf had frequently been deceived by the ap
pearance of circumstances; and perhaps he might come
all kindness, perhaps even not like her the less for that
indisposition which had changed her bloom to paleness,
and the sparkling of her eyes to a pensive languor."

Henry's sensations, on his return to Anfield, were the
self-same as Rebecca's were — sympathy in thought, sym
pathy in affection, sympathy in virtue, made them so.

NATURE AND ART. 359

As he approached near the little village, he felt more light
than usual. He had committed no trespass there, dreaded
no person's reproach or enquiries ; hut his arrival might
prove, at least to one object, the cause of rejoicing.

William's sensations were the reverse of these. In
spite of his ambition, and the flattering view of one day
accomplishing all to which it aspired, he often, as they
proceeded on their journey, envied the gaiety of Henry,
and felt an inward monitor, that told him, " he must first
act like Henry, to be as happy."

His intended marriage was still, to the families of both
parties (except to the heads of the houses) a profound
secret. Neither the servants, nor even Henry, had re
ceived the slightest intimation of the designed alliance;
and this to William was matter of some comfort.

When men submit to act in contradiction to their prin-
ciples, nothing is so precious as a secret. In their estima
tion, to have their conduct known is the essential mischief;
while it is hid, they fancy the sin but half committed :
and to the moiety of a crime they reconcile their feel
ings, till, in progression, the whole, when disclosed, ap
pears trivial. He designed that Agnes should receive the
news from himself by degrees, and in such a manner as
to console her, or at least to silence her complaints ; and
with the wish to soften the regret which he still felt on the
prudent necessity of yielding her wholly up when his
marriage should take place, he promised to himself some
intervening hours of private meetings, which he hoped
would produce satiety.

While Henry flew to Mr. Rymer's house with a con
science clear, and a face enlightened with gladness ; while
he met Rebecca with open-hearted friendship and frank
ness, which charmed her soul to peaceful happiness ;
William skulked around the cottage of Agnes, dreading
detection; and when towards midnight he found the
means to^ obtain the company of the sad inhabitant, he
grew so impatient at her tears and sobs, at the delicacy
with which she withheld her caresses, that he burst into
bitter upbraidings at her coyness ; and at length (without
AA 4

360 NATURE AND ART.

discovering the cause of her peculiar agitation and reserve)
abruptly left her, vowing " never to see her more."

As he turned away, his heart even congratulated him,
" that he had made so discreet a use of his momentary
disappointment, as thus to shake her off at once without
farther explanation or excuse."

She, ignorant and illiterate as she was, knew enough of
her own heart to judge of his, and to know that such
violent affections and expressions, above all, such a sudden,
heart-breaking manner of departure, were not the effects
of love, nor even of humanity. She felt herself debased
by a ruffian ; yet still, having loved him when she thought
him a far different character, the Jblackest proof_pf _the de
ception could not erase a sentiment formed whilst she was
deceived.

She passed the remainder of the night in anguish ; but
with the cheerful morning some cheerly thoughts con
soled her. She thought, " perhaps William by this time
had found himself to blame ; had conceived the cause of
her grief and her distant behaviour, and had pitied her."

The next evening she waited, with anxious heart, for
the signal that had called her out the foregoing night : in
vain she watched, counted the hours, and the stars, and
listened to the nightly stillness of the fields around : they
were not disturbed by the tread of her lover. Daylight
came ; the sun rose in its splendour ; William had not
been near her, and it shone upon none so miserable as
Agnes.

She now considered his word, ef never to see her more,"
as solemnly passed : she heard anew the impressive, the
implacable tone in which the sentence was pronounced ;
and could look back on no late token of affection, on which
to found the slightest hope that he would recall it.

Still, reluctant to despair — in the extremity of grief, in
the extremity of fear for an approaching crisis which must
speedily arrive — she (after a few days had elapsed) trusted
a neighbouring peasant with a letter to deliver to Mr. Nor-
wynne in private.

This letter, unlike the last, was dictated without the
hope to please : no pains were taken with the style, no care

NATURE AND ART. 36l

in the formation of the letters : the words flowed from ne
cessity ; strong necessity guided her hand.

" Sir,
f ' I beg your pardon — pray don't forsake me all at once

— see me one time more — I have something to tell you

— it is what I dare tell nobody else — and what I am
ashamed to tell you — yet pray give me a word of advice

— what to do I don't know — I then will part, if you
please, never to trouble you, never any more — but hope
to part friends — pray do, if you please — and see me
one time more.

" Your obedient,

"A. P."

These incorrect, inelegant lines, produced this imme
diate reply : —

"To AGNES PRIMROSE.

" I have often told you that my honour is as dear to
me as my life : my word is a part of that honour — you
heard me say / would never see you again. I shall keep
my word."

CHAPTER XXV.

WHEN the dean's family had been at Anfield about a
month, one misty morning, such as portends a sultry day,
as Henry was walking swiftly through a thick wood, on
the skirts of the parish, he suddenly started on hearing a
distant groan, expressive, as he thought, both of bodily
and mental pain. He stopped to hear it repeated, that he
might pursue the sound. He heard it again ; and though
now but in murmurs, yet, as the tone implied excessive
grief, he directed his course to that part of the wood from
which it came.

362 NATURE AND ART.

As he advanced,, in spite of the thick fog, he discerned
the appearance of a female stealing away on his approach.
His eye was fixed on this object ; and, regardless where he
placed his feet, he soon shrunk back with horror, on per
ceiving they had nearly trod upon a new-born infant, lying
on the ground ! a lovely male child, entered on a world
where not one preparation. had been made to receive him.

" Ah ! " cried Henry, forgetting the person who had
fled, and with a smile of compassion on the helpless infant,
ff I am glad I have found you ; you give more joy to me
than you have done to your hapless parents. Poor dear,"
continued he, while he took off his coat to wrap it in, " I
will take care of you while I live ; I will beg for you,
rather than you shall want — but, first, I will carry you to
those who can at present do more for you than myself."

Thus Henry said and thought, while he enclosed the
child carefully in his coat, and took it in his arms. But,
proceeding to walk his way with it, an unlucky query struck
him, where he should go.

Cf I must not take it to the dean's," he cried, " because
Lady Clementina will suspect it is not nobly, and my uncle
will suspect it is not lawfully, born. Nor must I take it
to Lord Bendham's for the self-same reason ; though, could
it call Lady Bendham mother, this whole village, nay, the
whole country round, would ring with rejoicings for its
birth. How strange ! " continued he, " that we should
make so little of human creatures, that one sent among us,
wholly independent of his own high value, becomes a curse,
instead of a blessing, by the mere accident of circumstances."

He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through
the folds of his coat, to look again at his charge. He
started, turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the
surprise of first seeing the child, had escaped his observa
tion. Around its little throat was a cord, entwined by a
slipping noose, and drawn half way, as if the trembling
hand of the murderer had revolted from its dreadful office,
and he or she had left the infant to pine away in nakedness
and hunger rather than see it die.

Again Henry wished himself joy of the treasure he had
found; and more fervently than before; for he had not

NATURE AND ART. 363

only preserved one fellow-creature from death, but another
from murder.

Once more he looked at his charge, and was transported
to observe upon its serene brow and sleepy eye no traces of
the dangers it had passed; no trait of shame either for
itself or its parents; no discomposure at the unwelcome
reception it was ^likely to encounter from a proud world !
He now slipped the fatal string from its neck ; and, by this
affectionate disturbance causing the child to cry, he ran
(but he scarcely knew whither) to convey it to a better nurse.

He at length found himself at the door of his dear Re
becca : for so very happy Henry felt at the good luck which
had befallen him, that he longed to bestow a part of the
blessing upon her he loved.

He sent for her privately out of the house, to speak
to him. When she came, et Rebecca," said he (looking
around that no one observed him), — " Rebecca, I have
brought you something you will like."

" What is it ?" she asked.

"You know, Rebecca, that you love deserted birds,
strayed kittens, and motherless lambs : I have brought
something more pitiable than any of these. Go, get a cap
and a little gown, and then I will give it you."

" A gown ! " exclaimed Rebecca. " If you have brought
me a monkey, much as I should esteem any present from
you, indeed I cannot touch it."

" A monkey ! " repeated Henry, almost in anger : then,
changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph, " It
is a child ! "

On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might
confirm the pleasing truth he spoke.

te A child ! " repeated Rebecca in amaze.

" Yes, and indeed I found it."

" Found it ! "

"Indeed I did. The mother, I fear, had just for
saken it."

" Inhuman creature ! "

" Nay, hold, Rebecca ! I am sure you will pity her when
you see her child ; you then will know she must have loved

S64> NATURE AND ART.

it ; and you will consider how much she certainly had suf
fered,, before she left it to perish in a wood."

" Cruel ! " once more exclaimed Rebecca.

" Oh, Rebecca, perhaps, had she possessed a home of
her own, she would have given it the best place in it ; had
she possessed money, she would have dressed it with the
nicest care ; or had she been accustomed to disgrace, she
would have gloried in calling it hers ! But now, as it is,
it is sent to us — to you and me, Rebecca, to take care of."

Rebecca, soothed by Henry's compassionate eloquence,
held out her arms, and received the important parcel ; and,
as she kindly looked in upon the little stranger, "Now,
are not you much obliged to me," said Henry, tf for having
brought it to you ? I know no one but yourself to whom
I would have trusted it with pleasure."

" Much obliged to you," repeated Rebecca, with a very
serious face; "if I did but know what to do with it —
where to put it — where to hide it from my father and
sisters."

ff Oh, any where," returned Henry. " It is very good
— it will not cry. Besides, in one of the distant, unfre
quented rooms of your old abbey, through the thick walls
and long gallery, an infant's cry cannot pass. Yet, pray
be cautious how you conceal it ; for if it should be dis
covered by your father or sisters, they will take it from you,
prosecute the wretched mother, and send the child to the
parish."

"I will do all I can to prevent them," said Rebecca;
" and I think I call to mind a part of the house where it
must be safe. I know, too, I can take milk from the
dairy, and bread from the pantry, without their being
missed, or my father much the poorer. But if "

That instant they were interrupted by the appearance of
the stern curate at a little distance. Henry was obliged to
run swiftly away, while Rebecca returned by stealth into
the house with her innocent burden.

NATURE AND ART. 365

CHAPTER XXVI.

THERE is a word in the vocabulary more bitter, more dire
ful in its import, than all the rest. Reader, if poverty, if
disgrace, if bodily pain, even if slighted love, be your
unhappy fate, kneel and bless Heaven for its beneficent
influence, so that you are not tortured with the anguish of —
remorse.

Deep contrition for past offences had long been the
punishment of unhappy Agnes ; but, till the day she
brought her child into the world, remorse had been
averted. From that day, life became an insupportable
load, for all reflection was torture. To think, merely to
think, was to suffer excruciating agony ; yet, never before
was thought so intrusive ; it haunted her in every spot, in
all discourse or company : sleep was no shelter — she
never slept but her racking dreams told her — " she had
slain her infant."

They presented to her view the naked innocent whom
she had longed to press to her bosom, while she lifted up
her hand against its life. They laid before her the piteous
babe whom her eye-balls strained to behold once more,
while her feet hurried her away for ever.

Often had Agnes, by the winter's fire, listened to tales
of ghosts — of the unceasing sting of a guilty conscience;
often had she shuddered at the recital of murders ; often
had she wept over the story of the innocent put to death,,
and stood aghast that the human mind could premeditate
the heinous crime of assassination !

From the tenderest passion the most savage impulse
may arise : in the deep recesses of fondness, sometimes is
implanted the root of cruelty ; and from loving William
with unbounded, lawless affection, she found herself de
praved so as to become the very object which could most
of all excite her own horror.

Still, at delirious intervals, that passion which, like a
fatal talisman, had enchanted her whole soul, held out the
delusive prospect that <( William might yet relent ;" for,

366 NATURE AND ART.

though she had for ever discarded the hope of peace, she
could not force herself to think but that, again blest with
his society,, she should, at least for the time that he was
present with her, taste the sweet cup of " forge tfulness of
the past," for which she so ardently thirsted.

" Should he return to me," she thought in those
paroxysms of delusion, (f I would to him unbosom all my
guilt ; and as a remote, a kind of unwary accomplice in
my crime, his sense, his arguments, ever ready in making
light of my sins, might afford a respite to my troubled
conscience."

While thus she unwittingly thought, and sometimes
watched through the night, starting with convulsed rapture
at every sound, because it might possibly be the harbinger
of him, he was busied in carefully looking over marriage
articles, fixing the place of residence with his destined
bride, or making love to her in formal process. Yet, Agnes,
vaunt ! — he sometimes thought on thee ; he could not wit
ness the folly, the weakness, the vanity, the selfishness, of his
future wife, without frequently comparing her with thee.
When equivocal words, and prevaricating sentences, fell
from her lips, he remembered with a sigh thy candour —
that open sincerity which dwelt upon thy tongue, and
seemed to vie with thy undisguised features to charm the
listener even beyond the spectator. While Miss Sedgeley
eagerly grasped at all the gifts he offered, he could not but
call to mind " that Agnes's declining hand was always
closed, and her looks forbidding, every time he proffered
such disrespectful tokens of his love." He recollected the
softness which beamed from her eyes, the blush on her face
at his approach, while he could never discern one glance of
tenderness from the niece of Lord Bendham ; and the
artificial bloom on her cheeks was nearly as disgusting, as
the ill-conducted artifice with which she attempted gentle
ness and love.

But all these impediments were only observed as trials
of his fortitude ; his prudence could overcome his aversion,
and thus he valued himself upon his manly firmness.

JT was now, that William being rid, by the peevishness
of Agnes, most honourably of all future ties to her, and

NATURE AND ART. 367

the day of his marriage with Miss Sedgeley being fixed,
that Henry, with the rest of the house, learnt what to
them was news. The first dart of Henry's eye upon his
cousin, when, in his presence, he was told of the intended
union, caused a reddening on the face of the latter : he
always fancied Henry saw his thoughts ; and he knew that
Henry in return would give him his. On the present
occasion, no sooner were they alone, and Henry began to
utter them, than William charged him, —

t( Not to dare to proceed ; for that, too long accustomed
to trifle, the time was come when serious matters could
alone employ his time ; and when men of approved sense
must take place of friends and confidents like him."

Henry replied, " The love, the sincerity of friends, I
thought were their best qualities ; these I possess."

" But you do not possess knowledge."

" If that be knowledge which has of late estranged you
from all who bear you a sincere affection, which imprints
every day more ami more upon your features the marks of
gloomy inquietude, am I not happier in my ignorance ? "

" Do not torment me with your ineffectual reasoning."

" I called at the cottage of poor Agnes the other day,"
returned Henry : " her father and mother were taking
their homely meal alone ; and when I asked for their
daughter, they wept, and said, Agnes was not the girl she
had been."

William cast his eyes on the floor.

Henry proceeded : — " They said a sickness, which they
feared would bring her to the grave, had preyed upon her
for some time past. They had procured a doctor ; but
no remedy was found, and they feared the worst."

" What worst ? " cried William, (now recovered from
the effect of the sudden intelligence, and attempting a
smile,) " do they think she will die ? And do you think
it will be for love ? We do not hear of these deaths often,
Henry."

". And if she die, who will hear of that ? No one but
those interested to conceal the cause ; and thus it is that
dying for love becomes a phenomenon."

Henry wculd have pursued the discourse farther ; but

368 NATURE AND ART.

William, impatient on all disputes, except where his ar
gument was the better one, retired from the controversy,
crying out, " I know my duty, and want no instructor."

It would be unjust to William to say he did not feel
for this reported illness of Agnes: he felt during that
whole evening, and part of the next morning ; but busi
ness, pleasures, new occupations, and new schemes of
future success, crowded to dissipate all unwelcome reflec
tions ; and he trusted to her youth, her health, her animal
spirits, and, above all, to the folly of the gossips' story of
dying for love, as a surety for her life, and a safeguard for
his conscience.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE child of William and Agnes was secreted, by Rebecca,
in a distant chamber belonging to the dreary parsonage,
near to which scarcely any part of the family ever went.
There she administered to all its wants, visited it every
hour of the day, and at intervals, during the night, viewed
almost with the joy of a mother its health, its promised
life, — and, in a short time, found she loved her little gift
better than any thing on earth, except the giver.

Henry called the next morning, and the next, and
many succeeding times, in hopes of an opportunity to
speak alone with Rebecca, to enquire concerning her charge,
and consult when, and how, he could privately relieve her
from her trust, as he now meant to procure a nurse for
wages. In vain he called or lurked around the house ;
for near five weeks all the conversation he could obtain
with her was in the company of her sisters, who, begin-
ing to observe his preference, his marked attention to her,
and the languid, half-srnothered transport with which she
received it, indulged their envy and resentment at the
contempt shown to their charms, by watching her steps

NATURE AND ART. 369

when he was away, and her every look and whisper while
he was present.

For five weeks, then, he was continually thwarted in his
expectation of meeting her alone ; and at the end of that
period, the whole design he had to accomplish by such a
meeting was rendered abortive.

Though Rebecca had, with strictest caution, locked
the door of the room in which the child was hid, and
covered each crevice, and every aperture through which
sound might more easily proceed ; though she had sur
rounded the infant's head with pillows, to obstruct all
noise from his crying, yet one unlucky night, the strength
of his voice increasing with his age, he was heard by the
maid, who slept the nearest to that part of the house.

Not meaning to injure her young mistress, the servant
next morning simply related to the family what sounds
had struck her ear during the night, and whence they
proceeded. At first she was ridiculed " for supposing
herself awake, when in reality she must be dreaming."
But steadfastly persisting in what she had said, and Re
becca's blushes, confusion, and eagerness to prove the
maid mistaken, giving suspicion to her charitable sisters,
they watched her the very next time she went by stealth
to supply the office of a mother; and breaking abruptly
on her, while feeding and caressing the infant, they
instantly concluded it was her own, seized it, and, in spite
of her entreaties, carried it down to their father.

That account which Henry had given Rebecca fe of his
having found the child," and which her own sincerity,
joined to the faith she had in his word, made her receive
as truth, she now felt would be heard by the present
auditors with contempt, even with indignation, as a false
hood. Her affright is easier conceived than described.

Accused, and forced by her sisters along with the child
before the curate, his attention to their representation, his
crimsoned face, knit brow, and thundering voice, struck
with terror her very soul. Innocence is not always a pro
tection against fear — sometimes less bold than guilt.

In her father and -sisters she saw, she knew, the sus
picious, partial, cruel, boisterous natures by whom she was

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370 NATURE AND ART.

to be judged ; and timid, gentle, oppressed, she fell
trembling on her knees, and could only articulate, —

" Forgive me ! "

The curate would not listen to this supplication till she
had replied to his question, ' { Whose child is this ? "

She replied, " I do not know."

Questioned louder, and with more violence still, " how
the child came there, wherefore her affection for it, and
whose it was ? " she felt the improbability of the truth still
more forcibly than before, and dreaded some immediate
peril from her father's rage, should she dare to relate an
apparent lie. She paused to think upon a more probable
tale than the real one, and as she hesitated, shook in every
limb, while her father exclaimed, —

" I understand the cause of this terror : it confirms
your sisters' fears, and your own shame. From your in
fancy I have predicted that some fatal catastrophe would
befall you. I never loved you like my other children — I
never had the cause : you were always unlike the rest, and
I knew your fate would be calamitous ; but the very worst
of my forebodings did not come to this — so young, so
guilty, and so artful ! Tell me this instant, are you married ?"

Rebecca answered, " No."

The sisters lifted up their hands.

The father continued, — ' ' Vile creature ! I thought as
much. Still I will know the father of this child."

She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and firmly vowed she
" did not know herself; nor who the mother was."

et This is not to be borne ! " exclaimed the curate in
fury. " Persist in this, and you shall never see my face
again. Both your child and you I'll turn out of my house
instantly, unless you confess your crime, and own the
father." '

Curious to know this secret, the sisters went up to Rebecca
with seeming kindness, and ff conjured her to spare her
father still greater grief, and her own and her child's public
infamy, by acknowledging herself its mother, and naming
the man who had undone her."

Emboldened by this insult from her own sex, Rebecca
now began to declare the simple truth. But no sooner had

NATURE AND ART. 3?

she said, that t( the child was presented to her care, by a
young man who had found it," than her sisters burst into
laughter, and her father into redoubled rage.

Once more the women offered their advice, " to confess
and be forgiven."

Once more the father raved.

Beguiled by solicitations, and terrified by threats, like
women formerly accused of witchcraft, and other wretches
put to the torture, she thought her present sufferings worse
than any that could possibly succeed ; and felt inclined to
confess a falsehood, at which her virtue shrunk, to obtain
a momentary respite from reproach; she felt inclined to
take the mother's share of the infant, but was at a loss to
whom to give the father's. She thought that Henry had
entailed on himself the best right to the charge ; but she
loved him, and could not bear the thought of accusing him
falsely.

While, with agitation in the extreme, she thus delibe
rated, the proposition again was put, —

" Whether she would trust to the mercy of her father
by confessing, or draw down his immediate vengeance by
denying her guilt ? "

She made choice of the former, and with tears and sobs
" owned herself the mother of the boy."

But still—" Who is the father?"

Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently im
plored, — ' ' to be spared on that point."

Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the
curate's rage increased till she acknowledged, —

" Henry was the father."

" I thought so," exclaimed all her sisters at the same
time.

" Villain !" cried the curate. " The dean shall know,
before this hour is expired, the baseness of the nephew
whom he supports upon charity : he shall know the misery,
the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how un
worthy he is of his protection/'

" Oh, have mercy on him ! " cried Rebecca, as she still
knelt to her father : f ' do not ruin him with his uncle, for
he is the best of human beings."

BB 2

NATURE AND ART.

" Ay, ay, we always saw how much she loved him/'
cried her sisters.

" Wicked, unfortunate girl ! " said the clergyman, (his
rage now subsiding, and tears supplying its place,) " you
have brought a scandal upon us all : your sisters' repu
tation will be stamp t with the colour of yours ; my good
name will suffer : but that is trivial, your soul is lost to
virtue, to religion, to shame "

" No, indeed !" cried Rebecca : ft if you will but believe
me."

c ( Do not I believe you ? Have not you confessed ? "

" You will not pretend to unsay what you have said,"
cried her eldest sister : ' < that would be making things
worse."

" Go, go out of my sight ! " said her father. (t Take
your child with you to your chamber, and never let me
see either of you again. I do not turn you out of my
doors to-day, because I gave you my word I would not,
if you revealed your shame; but by to-morrow I will
provide some place for your reception, where neither I,
nor any of your relations, shall ever see or hear of you
again."

Rebecca made an effort to cling around her father, and
once more to declare her innocence ; but her sisters inter
posed, and she was taken, with her reputed son, to the
chamber where the curate had sentenced her to remain, till
she quitted his house for ever.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE curate, in the disorder of his mind, scarcely felt the
ground he trod, as he hastened to the dean's house to com
plain of his wrongs. His name procured him immediate
admittance into the library — and the moment the dean
appeared, the curate burst into tears. The cause being

NATURE AND ART. 3?3

required of such " very singular marks of grief," Mr.
Rymer described himself et as having been, a few moments
ago, the happiest of parents ; but that his peace and that
of his whole family had been destroyed by Mr. Henry
Norwynne, the dean's nephew."

He now entered into a minute recital of Henry's frequent
visits there, and of all which had occurred in his house
that morning — from the suspicion that a child was con
cealed under his roof, to the confession made by his youngest
daughter of her fall from virtue, and of her betrayer's
name.

The dean was astonished, shocked, and roused to anger :
he vented reproaches and menaces on his nephew ; and,
" blessing himself in a virtuous son, whose wisdom and
counsel were his only solace in every care," sent for William
to communicate with him on this unhappy subject.

William came, all obedience, and heard with marks of
amazement and indignation the account of such black
villany ! In perfect sympathy with Mr. Rymer and his
father, he allowed " no punishment could be too great for
the seducer of innocence, the selfish invader of a whole
family's repose."

Nor did William here speak what he did not think — he
merely forgot his own conduct ; or if he did recall it to his
mind, it was with some fair interpretation in his own behalf ;
such as self-love ever supplies to those who wish to cheat
intruding conscience.

Young Henry being sent for, to appear before this trium
virate, he came with a light step and a cheerful face. But,
on the charge against him being exhibited, his countenance
changed — yet only to the expression of surprise ! He
boldly asserted his innocence, plainly told the real fact, and
with a deportment so perfectly unembarrassed, that nothing
but the asseverations of the curate, te that his daughter had
confessed the whole," could have rendered the story Henry
told suspected ; although some of the incidents he related
were of no common kind. But Mr. Rymer's charge was
an objection to his veracity, too potent to be overcome ; and
the dean exclaimed, in anger, —

BBS

374 NATURE AND ART.

" We want not your avowal of your guilt — the mother's
evidence is testimony sufficient."

" The virtuous Rebecca is not a mother," said Henry,
with firmness.

William here, like Rebecca's sisters, took Henry aside,
and warned him not to " add to his offence by denying
what was proved against him."

But Henry's spirit was too manly, his affection too sin
cere, not to vindicate the chastity of her he loved, even at
his own peril. He again and again protested " she was
virtuous."

. " Let her instantly be sent for," said the dean, " and
this madman confronted with her." Then adding, that as
he wished every thing might be conducted with secrecy, he
would not employ his clerk on the unhappy occasion : he
desired William to draw up the form of an oath, which
he would administer as soon as she arrived.

A man and horse were immediately despatched to bring
Rebecca : William drew up an affidavit as his father had
directed him — in Rebecca $ name solemnly protesting she
was a mother, and Henry the father of her child — and now
the dean, suppressing till she came the warmth of his dis
pleasure, spoke thus calmly to Henry : —

" Even supposing that your improbable tale of having
found this child, and all your declarations in respect to it,
were true, still you would be greatly criminal. What plea
can you make for not having immediately revealed the cir
cumstance to me or some other proper person, that the real
mother might have been detected and punished for her de
sign of murder?"

" In that, perhaps, I was to blame," returned Henry ;
<c but whoever the mother was, I pitied her."

tf Compassion on such an occasion was ill-placed," said
the dean.

" Was I wrong, sir, to pity the child ? "

« No."

<f Then how could I feel for that, and yet divest myself
of all feeling for its mother ? "

" Its mother ! " exclaimed William, in anger : " she

NATURE AND ART. 3 75

ought to have been immediately pursued, apprehended, and
committed to prison."

" It struck me, cousin William," replied Henry, " that
the father was more deserving of a prison : the poor wo
man had abandoned only one — the man, in all likelihood,
had forsaken two pitiable creatures."

William was pouring execrations "on the villain, if
such there could be," when Rebecca was announced.

Her eyes were half closed with weeping : deep confusion
overspread her face ; and her tottering limbs could hardly
support her to the awful chamber where the dean, her
father, and William sat in judgment, whilst her beloved
Henry stood arraigned as a culprit, by her false evidence.

Upon her entrance, her father first addressed her, and
said, in a stern, threatening, yet feeling tone, " Unhappy
girl, answer me before all present — Have you, or have
you not, owned yourself a mother ?"

She replied, stealing a fearful look at Henry, " I have."

"And have you not," asked the dean, "owned that
Henry Norwynne is the father of your child?"

She seemed as if she wished to expostulate.

The curate raised his voice, — "Have you, or have you
not ?"

" I have," she faintly replied.

" Then here," cried the dean to William, " read that
paper to her, and take the Bible."

William read the paper, which in her name declared a
momentous falsehood: he then held the book in form,
while she looked like one distracted — wrung her hands,
and was near sinking to the earth.

At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips
to kiss, Henry rushed to her, — "Stop," he cried, "Rebecca!
do not wound your future peace. I plainly see under what
prejudices you have been accused, under what fears you
have fallen. But do not be terrified into the commission
of a crime which hereafter will distract your delicate con
science. My requesting you of your father for my wife
will satisfy his scruples, prevent your oath — and here I
make the demand."

" He at length confesses ! Surprising audacity ! Com-
B B 4

NATURE AND ART.

plicated villany {"exclaimed the dean ; — then added, "Henry
Norwynne, your first guilt is so enormous — your second,
in steadfastly denying it, so base — this last conduct so au
dacious — that, from the present hour, you must never
dare to call me relation,' or to consider my house as your
home."

"William, in unison with his father, exclaimed, " Indeed,
Henry, your actions merit this punishment."

Henry answered with firmness, " Inflict what punish
ment you please/'

(C With the dean's permission, then," said the curate,
" you must marry my daughter."

Henry started : — "Do you pronounce that as a punish
ment ? It would be the greatest blessing Providence could
bestow. But how are we to live ? My uncle is too much
offended ever to be my friend again ; and in this country,
persons of a certain class are so educated, they cannot
exist without the assistance, or what is called the patronage,
of others: when that is withheld, they steal or starve.
Heaven protect Rebecca from such misfortune ! — Sir (to
the curate), do you but consent to support her only a year or
two longer, and in that time I will learn some occupation,
that shall raise me to the eminence of maintaining both
her and myself without one obligation, or one inconveni
ence, to a single being."

Rebecca exclaimed, " Oh, you have saved me from such
a weight of sin, that my future life would be too happy,
passed as your slave."

"No, my dear Rebecca, return to your father's house,
return to slavery but for a few years more, and the rest of
your life I will make free."

(e And can you forgive me ?"

1 ' I can love you ; and in that is comprised every thing
that is kind."

The curate, who, bating a few passions and a few pre
judices, was a man of some worth and feeling, and felt,
in the midst of her distress, though the result of supposed
crimes, that he loved this neglected daughter better than
he had before conceived ; and he now agreed " to take her
home for a time, provided she were relieved from the child,

NATURE AND ART. 377

and the matter so hushed up, that it might draw no im
putation upon the characters of his other daughters/'

The dean did not degrade his consequence by consult
ations of this nature ; but, having penetrated (as he ima
gined) into the very bottom of this intricate story, and
issued his mandate against Henry, as a mark that he took
no farther concern in the matter, he proudly walked out of
the room without uttering another word.

William as proudly and as silently followed.

The curate was inclined to adopt the manners of such
great examples : but self-interest, some affection to Re
becca, and concern for the character of his family, made
him wish to talk a little more with Henry ; who now re
peated what he had said respecting his marriage with Re
becca, and promised " to come the very next day, in
secret, and deliver her from the care of the infant, and
the suspicion that would attend her nursing it."

" But, above all," said the curate, "procure your uncle's
pardon ; for without that, without his protection, or the
protection of some other rich man, to marry, to obey
God's ordinance, increase and multiply, is to want food
for yourself and your offspring."

CHAPTER XXIX.

THOUGH this unfortunate occurrence in the curate's fa
mily was, according to his own phrase, "to be hushed
up," yet certain persons of his, of the dean's, and of
Lord Bendham's house,' immediately heard and talked
of it. Among these, Lady Bendham was most of all
shocked and offended : she said, she " never could bear to
hear Mr. Rymer either pray or preach again ; he had not
conducted himself with proper dignity either as a clergy
man or a father : he should have imitated the dean's ex
ample in respect to Henry, and have turned his daughter
out of doors."

378 NATURE AND ART.

Lord Bendham was less severe on the seduced, but had
no mercy on the seducer — "a vicious youth, without one
accomplishment to endear vice." For vice, Lord Bendham
thought (with certain philosophers), might be most exqui
sitely pleasing, in a pleasing garb. " But this youth sin
ned without elegance, without one particle of wit, or an
atom of good breeding."

Lady Clementina would not permit the subject to be
mentioned a second time in her hearing — extreme delicacy
in woman, she knew, was bewitching ; and the delicacy she
displayed on this occasion went so far, that she ff could
not even intercede with the dean to forgive his nephew,
because the topic was too gross for her lips to name, even
in the ear of her husband.

Miss Sedgeley, though on the very eve of her bridal-
day with William, felt so tender a regard for Henry, that
often she thought " Rebecca happier in disgrace and poverty,
blest with the love of him, than she was likely to be in
the possession of friends and fortune with his cousin."

Had Henry been of a nature to suspect others of evil,
or had he felt a confidence in his own worth, such a pas
sion as this young woman's would soon have disclosed its
existence : but he, regardless of any attractions of Miss
Sedgeley, equally supposed he had none in her eyes ; and
thus, fortunately for the peace of all parties, this prepos
session ever remained a secret, except to herself.

So little did William conceive that his clownish cousin
could rival him in the affections of a woman of fashion,
that he even slightly solicited his father t( that Henry might
not be banished from the house, at least till after the fol
lowing day, when the great festival of his marriage was
to be celebrated."

But the dean refused, and reminded his son, c ' that he
was bound, both by his moral and religious character, in
the eyes of God, and still more, in the eyes of men, to
show lasting resentment of iniquity like his."

William acquiesced, and immediately delivered to his
cousin the dean's " wishes for his amendment," and a
letter of recommendation procured from Lord Bendham,
to introduce him on board a man-of-war ; where, he was

NATURE AND ART. 379

told, he might hope to meet with preferment, according to
his merit, as a sailor and a gentleman.

Henry pressed William's hand on parting, wished him
happy in his marriage, and supplicated, as the only favour
he would implore, an interview with his uncle, to thank
him for all his former kindness, and to see him for the
last time.

William repeated this petition to his father, hut with so
little energy, that the dean did not grant it. He felt him
self, he said, compelled to resent that reprobate character
in which Henry had appeared ; and he feared ' ' lest the
remembrance of his last parting from his brother might,
on taking a formal leave of that brother's son, reduce him
to some tokens of weakness, that would ill become his dig
nity and just displeasure."

He sent him his blessing, with money to convey him to
the ship ; and Henry quitted [his uncle's house in a flood
of tears, to seek first a new protectress for his little found
ling, and then to seek his fortune.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE wedding-day of Mr. William Norwynne with Miss
Caroline Sedgeley arrived ; and, on that day, the bells of
every parish surrounding that in which they lived joined
with their own in celebration of the blissful union. Flow
ers were strewed before the new-married pair, and favours
and ale made many a heart more gladsome than that of
either bridegroom or bride.

Upon this day of ringing and rejoicing, the bells were
not muffled, nor was conversation on the subject withheld
from the ear of Agnes. She heard like her neighbours ;
and, sitting on the side of her bed in her little chamber,
suffered, under the cottage roof, as much affliction as ever
visited a palace.

Tyrants, who have imbrued their hands in the blood of

S80

NATURE AND ART.

myriads of their fellow-creatures, can call their murders
"religion, justice, attention to the good of mankind."
Poor Agnes knew no sophistry to calm her sense of guilt :
she felt herself a harlot and a murderer ; a slighted, a de
serted wretch, bereft of all she loved in this world, all she
could hope for in the next.

She complained bitterly of illness, nor could the en
treaties of her father and mother prevail on her to share in
the sports of this general holiday. As none of her humble
visiters suspected the cause of her more than ordinary in
disposition, they endeavoured to divert it with an account
of every thing they had seen at church — " what the bride
wore— how joyful the bridegroom looked" — and all the
seeming signs of that complete happiness which they con
ceived was for certain tasted.

Agnes, who, before this event, had at moments sup
pressed the agonising sting of self-condemnation, in the
faint prospect of her lover one day restored, on this me
morable occasion lost every glimpse of hope, and was
weighed to the earth with an accumulation of despair.

Where is the degree in which the sinner stops ? Un
happy Agnes ! the first time you permitted indecorous fa
miliarity from a man who made you no promise, who
gave you no hope of becoming his wife, who professed no
thing beyond those fervent, though slender, affections which
attach the rake to the wanton ; the first time you inter
preted his kind looks and ardent prayers into tenderness
and constancy; the first time you descended from the cha
racter of purity, you rushed imperceptibly on the blackest
crimes. The more sincerely you loved, the more you
plunged in danger : from one ungoverned passion pro
ceeded a second, and a third. In the fervency of affection
you yielded up your virtue ! In the excess of fear, you
stained your conscience with the intended murder of your
child ! and now, in the violence of grief, you meditate —
what ? — to put an end to your existence by your own
hand !

After casting her thoughts around, anxious to find some
little bud of comfort on which to fix her longing eye, she
beheld, in the total loss of William, nothing but a wide

NATURE AND ART. 381

Waste, an extensive plain of anguish. " How am I to be
sustained through, this dreary journey of life?" she ex
claimed. Upon this question she felt, more poignantly
than ever, her loss of innocence : innocence would have
been her support; but, in place of this best prop to the
afflicted, guilt flashed on her memory every time she flew
for aid to reflection.

At length, from horrible rumination, a momentary alle
viation came : — " But one more step in wickedness," she
triumphantly said, " and all my shame, all my sufferings
are over." She congratulated herself upon the lucky
thought; when, but an instant after, the tears trickled
down her face for- the sorrow her death, her sinful death,
would bring to her poor and beloved parents. She then
thought upon the probability of a sigh it might draw from
William ; and the pride, the pleasure of that little tribute,
counterpoised every struggle on the side of life.

As she saw the sun decline, " When you rise again,"
she thought, " when you peep bright to-morrow morning
into this little room to call me up, I shall not be here to
open my eyes upon a hateful day — I shall no more regret
that you have waked me ! I shall be sound asleep, never
to wake again in this wretched world — not even the voice
of William would then awake me."

While she found herself resolved, and evening just come
on, she hurried out of the house, and hastened to the fatal
wood ; the scene of her dishonour — the scene of intended
murder — and now the meditated scene of suicide.

As she walked along between the close-set trees, she
saw, at a little distance, the spot where William first made
love to her ; and where, at every appointment, he used to
wait her coming. She darted her eye away from this
place with horror ; but, after a few moments of emotion,
she walked slowly up to it — shed tears, and pressed with
her trembling lips that tree, against which he was accus
tomed to lean while he talked with her. She felt an in.
clination to make this the spot to die in ; but her precon
certed, and the less frightful death, of leaping into a pool
on the other side of the wood, induced her to go onwards.

Presently, she came near the place where her child, and

382 NATURE AND ART.

Williams, was exposed to perish. Here she started with
a sense of the most atrocious guilt ; and her whole frame
shook with the dread of an approaching, an omnipotent
Judge, to sentence her for murder.

She halted, appalled, aghast ! undetermined whether to
exist longer heneath the pressure of a criminal conscience,
or die that very hour, and meet her final condemnation.

She proceeded a few steps farther, and beheld the very
ivy-bush close to which her infant lay, when she left him
exposed : and now, from this minute recollection, all the
mother rising in her soul, she saw, as it were, her babe
again in its deserted state ; and, bursting into tears of bit
terest contrition and compassion, she cried, —

ee As I was merciless to thee, my child, thy father has
been pitiless to me ! As I abandoned thee to die with
cold and hunger, he has forsaken, and has driven me to
die by self-slaughter."

She now fixed her eager eyes on the distant pond, and
walked^ more nimbly than before, to rid herself of her
agonising sensations.

Just as she had nearly reached the wished-for brink,
she heard a footstep, and saw, by the glimmering of a
clouded moon, a man approaching. She turned out of her
path, for fear her intentions should be guessed at, and op
posed ; but still, as she walked another way, her eye was
wishfully bent towards the water that was to obliterate her
love and her remorse — obliterate, for ever, William and
his child.

It was now that Henry, who, to prevent scandal, had
stolen at that still hour of night to rid the curate of the
incumbrance so irksome to him, and take the foundling to
a woman whom he had hired for the charge : it was now
that Henry came up, with the child of Agnes in his arms,
carefully covered all over from the night's dew.

(< Agnes, is it you ? " cried Henry, at a little distance.
f< Where are you going thus late ? "

" Home, sir," said she, and rushed among the trees.

" Stop, Agnes," he cried : " I want to bid you fare
well: to-morrow I am going to leave this part of the
country for a long time. So God bless you, Agnes ! "

NATURE AND ART. 383

Saying this, he stretched out his arm to shake her by the
hand.

Her poor heart trusting that his blessing, for want of
more potent offerings, might perhaps, at this tremendous
crisis, ascend to Heaven in her behalf, she stopt, returned,
and put out her hand to take his.

" Softly !" said he, " don't wake my child: this spot
has been a place of danger to him ; for underneath this
very ivy-bush it was that I found him."

" Foiind what ? " cried Agnes, with a voice elevated to
a tremulous scream.

" I will not tell you the story," replied Henry ; " for
no one I have ever yet told of it would believe me."

" I will believe you, I will believe you," she repeated,
with tones yet more impressive.

' Why, then," said Henry, "only five weeks ago "

' Ah ! " shrieked Agnes.

' What do you mean ?" said Henry.
Go on," she articulated, in the same voice.
Why, then, as I was passing this very place, I wish
I may never speak truth again, if I did riot find" — (here
he pulled aside the warm rug in which the infant was
wrapt)—" this beautiful child."

" With a cord."

tf A cord was round its neck."

(t 'T is mine — the child is mine — 't is mine — my
child — I am the mother and the murderer — I fixed the
cord, while the ground shook under me — while flashes of
fire darted before my eyes — while my heart was bursting
with despair and horror ! But I stopt short — I did not
draw the noose — I had a moment of strength, and I ran
away. I left him living — he is living now — escaped
from my hands — and I am no longer ashamed, but over
come with joy that he is mine ! I bless you, my dear, my
dear, for saving his life — for giving him to me again —
for preserving my life, as well as my child's."

Here she took her infant, pressed it to her lips and to
her bosom ; then bent to the ground, clasped Henry's
knees, and wept upon his feet.

He could not for a moment doubt the truth of what she

384i NATURE AND ART.

said : her powerful, yet broken accents, her convulsive em
braces of the child, even more than her declaration, con
vinced him she was its mother.

" Good Heaven ! " cried Henry, " and this is my cousin
William's child!"

" But your cousin does not know it," said she : " I
never told him — he was not kind enough to embolden
me ; therefore do not blame him for my sin : he did not
know of my wicked designs — he did not encourage
me "

ff But he forsook you, Agnes."

ce He never said he would not. He always told me he
could not marry me."

" Did he tell you so at his first private meeting ?"

" No."

ee Nor at the second ?"

" No ; nor yet at the third."

fe When was it he told you so ?"

<c I forget the exact time ; but I remember it was on
that very evening when I confest to him "

"What?"

<c That he had won my heart."

' ' Why did you confess it ? "

<f Because he asked me, and said it would make him
happy if I would say so."

" Cruel ! dishonourable ! "

ft Nay, do not blame him : he cannot help not loving
me, no more than I can help loving him."

Henry rubbed his eyes.

" Bless me, you weep ! I always heard that you were
brought up in a savage country ; but I suppose it is a
mistake : it was your cousin William."

<f Will not you apply to him for the support of your
child ? " asked Henry.

" If I thought he would not be angry."

(f Angry ! I will write to him on the subject, if you
will give me leave."

" But do not say it is by my desire. Do not say I
wish to trouble him : I would sooner beg than be a trouble
to him."

NATURE AND ART. 385

fc Why are you so delicate ?"

" It is for my own sake — I wish him not to hate me."

" Then thus you may secure his respect. I will write
to him,, and let him know all the circumstances of your
case; I will plead for his compassion on his child, but
assure him that no conduct of his will ever induce you to
declare (except only to me, who knew of your previous
acquaintance,) who is the father."

To this she consented : but when Henry offered to take
from her the infant, and carry him to the nurse he had
engaged, to this she would not consent.

"Do you mean, then, to acknowledge him yours?"
Henry asked.

"Nothing shall force me to part from him again. I
will keep him, and let my neighbours judge of me as they
please."

Here Henry caught at a hope he feared to name before.

" You will, then, have no objection," said he, " to clear
an unhappy girl to a few friends, with "whom her character
has suffered by becoming, at my request, his nurse ?"

" I will clear any one, so that I do not accuse the father."

"You give me leave, then, in your name, to tell the
whole story to some particular friends, my cousin William's
part in it alone excepted ?"

" I do."

Henry now exclaimed, " God bless you ! " with greater
fervour than when he spoke it before ; and he now hoped
the night was nearly gone, that the time might be so much
the shorter before Rebecca should be re-instated in the esteem
of her father, and of all those who had misjudged her.

" God bless you ! " said Agnes, still more fervently, as
she walked with unguided steps towards her home ; for her
eyes never wandered from the precious object which caused
her unexpected return.

0 0

386 NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER XXXI.

HENRY rose early in the morning., and flew to the curate's
house^ with more than even his usual thirst of justice, to
clear injured innocence — to redeem from shame her whom
he loved. With eager haste he told that he had found
the mother, whose fall from virtue Rebecca,, overcome by
confusion and threats, had taken on herself.

Rebecca rejoiced : but her sisters shook their heads; and
even the father seemed to doubt.

Confident in the truth of his story,, Henry persisted so
boldly in his affirmations,, that, if Mr. Rymer did not en
tirely believe what he said, he secretly hoped that the dean
and other people might ; therefore he began to imagine he
could possibly cast from his family the present stigma,
wh«ther or no it belonged to any other.

No sooner was Henry gone than Mr. Rymer waited on
the dean, to report what he had heard; and he frankly
attributed his daughter's false confession to the compulsive
methods he had adopted in charging her with the offence.
Upon this statement, Henry's love to her was also a solu
tion of his seemingly inconsistent conduct on that singular
occasion.

The dean immediately "said, "I will put the matter
beyond all doubt: for I will this moment send for the pre
sent reputed mother ; and, if she acknowledges the child,
I will instantly commit her to prison for the attempt of
putting it to death."

The curate applauded the dean's sagacity : a warrant
was issued ; and Agnes brought prisoner before the grand
father of her child.

She appeared astonished at the peril in which she found
herself. Confused, also, with a thousand inexpressible
sensations, which the dean's presence inspired, she seemed
to prevaricate in all she uttered.

Accused of this prevarication, she was still more discon
certed ; said, and unsaid ; confessed herself the mother of
the infant ; but declared she did not know, then owned she

NATURE AND ART. 387

did know, the name of the man who had undone her, but
would never utter it. At length, she cast herself on her
knees before the father of her betrayer, and supplicated " he
would not punish her with severity, as she most penitently
confessed her fault, so far as it related to herself."

While Mr. and Mrs. Norwynne, just entered on the
honey-moon, were sitting side by side, enjoying, with peace
and with honour, conjugal society, poor Agnes, threatened,
reviled, and sinking to the dust, was hearing, from the
mouth of William's father, the enormity of those crimes
to which his son had been accessary. She saw the mittimus
written that was to convey her into a prison — saw herself
delivered once more into the hands of constables, before
her resolution left her, of concealing the name of William
in her story. She now, overcome with affright, and think
ing she should expose him still more in a public court, if,
hereafter, on her trial, she should be obliged to name him
— she now humbly asked the dean to hear a few words she
had to say in private ; where she promised she " would
speak nothing but the truth."

" This was impossible," he said: — (< No private confes
sions before a magistrate ! All must be done openly."

She urged again and again the same request : it was
denied more peremptorily than at first. On which she said,
" Then, sir, forgive me, since you force me to it, if I speak,
before Mr. Rymer and these men, what I would for ever
have kept a secret if I could. One of your family is my
child's father."

" Any of my servants ?" cried the dean.

"No."

ff My nephew ?"

" No ; one who is nearer still."

" Come this way," said the dean ; " I will speak to you
in private."

It was not that the dean, as a magistrate, distributed
partial decrees of pretended justice — he was rigidly faithful
to his trust : he would riot inflict punishment on the inno
cent, nor let the guilty escape ; but, in all particula-rs of
refined or coarse treatment, he would alleviate or aggravate
according to the rank of the offender. He could not feel
c c 2

388 NATURE AND ART.

that a secret was of equal importance to a poor as to a rich
person ; and while Agnes gave no intimation but that her
delicacy rose from fears for herself, she did not so forcibly
impress him with an opinion, that it was a case which had
weighty cause for a private conference, as when she boldly
said, " A part of his family, very near to him, was con
cerned in her tale."

The final result of their conversation, in an adjoining
room, was, a charge from the dean, in the words of Mr.
Rymer, " to hush the affair up ; " and his promise that the
infant should be immediately taken from her, and that " she
should have no more trouble with it."

" I have no trouble with it/' replied Agnes : " my child
is now all my comfort ; and I cannot part from it."

" Why, you inconsistent woman, did you not attempt
to murder it ?"

" That was before I had nursed it."

" 'T is necessary you should give it up. It must be sent
some miles away ; and then the whole circumstance will be
soon forgotten."

" I shall never forget it."

cf No matter : you must give up the child. Do not some
of our first women of quality part with their children ?"

' ' Women of quality have other things to love : I have
nothing else."

ft And would you occasion my son, and his new-made
bride, the shame and the uneasiness "

Here Agnes burst into a flood of tears; and being
angrily asked by the dean, '" why she blubbered so ? "

" / have had shame and uneasiness," she replied, wring
ing her hands.

fc And you deserve them : they are the sure attendants
of crimes such as yours. If you allured and entrapped a
young man like my son "

" I am the youngest by five years," said Agnes.

" Well, well, repent," returned the dean ; " repent, and
resign your child. Repent, and you may yet marry an
honest man, who knows nothing of the matter."

" And repent too?" asked Agnes.

Not the insufferable ignorance of young Henry, when

NATURE AND ART. 389

he first came to England, was more vexatious or provoking
to the dean than the rustic simplicity of poor Agnes's un
cultured replies. He, at last, in an offended and determined
manner, told her, " That if she would resign the child,
and keep the father's name a secret, not only the child
should be taken care of, hut she herself might, perhaps,
receive some favours : but if she persisted in her imprudent
folly, she must expect no consideration on her own account;
nor should she be allowed, for the maintenance of the boy,
a sixpence beyond the stated sum for a poor man's unlawful
offspring." Agnes, resolving not to be separated from her
infant, bowed resignation to this last decree ; and, terrified
at the loud words and angry looks of the dean, after being
regularly discharged, stole to her home ; where the smiles
of her infant, and the caresses she lavished on it, repaid
her for the sorrows she had just suffered for its sake.

Let it here be observed, that the dean, on suffering Agnes
to depart without putting in force the law against her, as he
had threatened, did nothing, as it were, behind the curtain.
He openly and candidly owned, on his return to Mr. Rymer,
his clerk, and the two constables who were attending, " that
an affair of some little gallantry, in which he was extremely
sorry to say his son was rather too nearly involved, required,
in consideration of his recent marriage, and an excellent
young woman's (his bride's) happiness, that what had oc
curred should not be publicly talked of; therefore he had
thought proper only to reprimand the hussy, and send her
about her business."

The curate assured the dean, ' f that upon this, and upon
all other occasions, which should, would, or could occur, he
owed to his judgment, as his superior, implicit obedience."

The clerk and the two constables most properly said,
" His honour was a gentleman, and of course must know
better how to act than they."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE pleasure of a mother, which Agnes experienced, did
not make her insensible to the sorrow of a daughter.
c c 3

NATURE AND ART.

Her parents had received the stranger child, along with
a fabricated tale she told " of its appertaining to another,"
without the smallest suspicion ; but, by the secret diligence
of the curate, and the nimble tongues of his elder daughters;
the report of all that had passed on the subject of this un
fortunate infant soon circulated through the village,- and
Agnes, in a few weeks, had seen her parents pine away in
grief and shame at her loss of virtue.

She perceived the neighbours avoid, or openly sneer at
her ; but that was little ; she saw them slight her aged
father and mother upon her account : and she now took
the resolution rather to perish for want in another part of
the country, than live where she was known, and so entail
an infamy upon the few who loved her. She slightly
hoped, too, that, by disappearing from the town and
neighbourhood, some little reward might be allowed her,
for her banishment, by the dean's family. In that she
was deceived. No sooner was she gone, indeed, than her
guilt was forgotten ; but with her guilt her wants. The
dean and his family rejoiced at her and her child's de
parture : but as this mode she had chosen chanced to be no
specified condition in the terms proposed to her, they did
not think they were bound to pay her for it ; and while
she was too fearful and bashful to solicit the dean, and
too proud (forlorn as she was) to supplicate his son, they
both concluded she " wanted for nothing;" for to be
poor, and too delicate to complain, they deemed in
compatible.

To heighten the sense of her degraded, friendless situa
tion, she knew that Henry had not been unmindful of his
promise to her, but that he had applied to his cousin in
her and his child's behalf; for he had acquainted her that
William's answer was — " All obligations on his part were
now undertaken by his father ; for that Agnes, having
chosen (in a fit of malignity upon his marriage) to apprise
the dean of their former intercourse, such conduct had
for ever cancelled all attention due from him to her, or to
her child, beyond what its bare maintenance exacted."

In vain had Henry explained to him, by a second ap
plication, the predicament in which poor Agnes was in-

NATURE AND ART. SQl

volved, before she consented to reveal her secret to his
father : William was happy in an excuse to rid himself
of a burden ; and he seemed to believe, what he wished
to be true, that she had forfeited all claim to his farther
notice.

Henry informed her of this unkind reception of his
efforts in her favour, in as gentle terms as possible, for
she excited his deepest compassion. Perhaps our own
misfortunes are the cause of our pity for others, even
more than their ills ; and Henry's present sorrows had
softened his heart to peculiar sympathy in woe. He had
unhappily found, that the ardour which had hurried him to
vindicate the reputation of Rebecca was likely to deprive
him of the blessing of her ever becoming his wife ; for
the dean, chagrined that his son was at length proved an
offender instead of his nephew, submitted to the tempta
tion of punishing the latter, while he forgave the former.
He sent for Henry, and having coldly congratulated him
on his and Rebecca's innocence, represented to him the
impropriety of marrying the daughter of a poor curate,
and laid his commands on him " never to harbour such
an intention more." Henry found this restriction so
severe, that he would not promise obedience ; but on his
next attempt to visit Rebecca, he met a positive repulse
from her father, who signified to him, " that the dean
had forbidden him to permit their farther acquaintance ;"
and the curate declared, Cf that, for his own part, he had
no will, judgment, or faculties, but that he submitted in
all things to the superior clergy."

At the very time young Henry had received the pro
posal from Mr. Rymer of his immediate union with his
daughter, and the dean had made no objection, Henry
waved the happiness for the time present, and had given
a reason why he wished it postponed. The reason he
then gave had its weight; but he had another concealed,
of yet more import. Much as he loved, and looked for-
. ward with rapture to that time when every morning, every
evening, and all the day, he should have the delight of
Rebecca's society, still there was one other wish nearer
his heart than this one desire, which, for years, had been

C 3 4

392 NATURE AND ART.

foremost in his thoughts, and which not even love "could
eradicate : — he longed, he pined to know what fate had
befallen his father. Provided he were living, he could
conceive no joy so great as that of seeing him : if he
were dead, he was anxious to pay the tribute of filial
piety he owed, by satisfying his affectionate curiosity in
every circumstance of the sad event.

While a boy, he had frequently expressed these senti
ments to both his uncle and his cousin : sometimes they
apprised him of the total improbability of accomplishing
his wishes ; at other times, when they saw the disappoint
ment weigh heavy on his mind, they bade him " wait till
he was a man, before he could hope to put his designs in
execution/' He did wait. But on the very day he ar
rived at the age of twenty-one, he made a vow, " that to
gain intelligence of his father should be the first important
act of his free will/'

Previously to this time, he had made all the enquiries
possible, whether any new adventure to that part of Africa
in which he was bred was likely to be undertaken. Of
this there appeared to be no prospect, till the intended ex
pedition to Sierra Leone was announced, and which
favoured his hope of being able to procure a passage
among those adventurers, so near to the island on which
his father was (or had been) prisoner, as to obtain an
opportunity of visiting it by stealth.

Fearing contention, or the being dissuaded from his
plans if he communicated them, he not only formed them
in private, but he kept them secretly ; and, his imagina
tion filled with the kindness, the tenderness, the excess of
fondness he had experienced from his father, beyond any
other person in the world, he had thought with delight on
the separation from all his other kindred, to pay his duty
to him, or to his revered memory. Of late, indeed, there
had been an object introduced to his acquaintance, from
whom it was bitter to part ; but his designs had been
planned and firmly fixed before he knew Rebecca; nor
could he have tasted contentment even with her, at the
expense of his piety to his father.

In the last interview he had with the dean, Henry, per-

NATURE AND ART. 3Q3

ceiving that his disposition towards him was not less
harsh than when, a few days before, he had ordered him
on board a vessel, found this the proper time to declare his
intentions of accompanying the fleet to Sierra Leone. His
uncle expressed surprise : but immediately gave him a
sum of money, in addition to that he had sent him before,
and as much as he thought might defray his expenses ;
and as he gave it, by his willingness, his look, and his ac
cent, he seemed to say, " I foresee this is the last you
will ever require."

Young William, though a very dutiful son, was amazed
when he heard of Henry's project, as " the serious and
settled resolution of a man."

Lady Clementina, Lord and Lady Bendham, and twenty
others, " wished him a successful voyage," and thought
no more about him.

It was for Rebecca alone to feel the loss of Henry —
it was for a mind like hers alone to know his worth ; nor
did this last proof of it, the quitting her for one who
claimed by every tie a preference, lessen him in her esteem.
When, by [a message from him, she became acquainted
with his design, much as it interfered with her happiness,
she valued him the more for this observance of his duty ;
the more regretted his loss, and the more anxiously prayed
ffor his return — a return which he, in the following letter,
written just before his departure, taught her to hope for
with augmented impatience : — v

<f My dear Rebecca,

" I do not tell you I am sorry to part from you — you
know I am, and you know all I have suffered since your
father denied me permission to see you.

" But, perhaps, you do not know the hopes I enjoy,
and which bestow on me a degree of peace ; and those I
am eager to tell you.

fe I hope, Rebecca, to see you again : I hope to return
to England, and overcome every obstacle to our marriage ;
and then, in whatever station we are placed, I shall con
sider myself as happy as it is possible to be in this world.
I feel a conviction that you would be happy also.

3Q4s NATURE AND ART.

ff Some persons, I know., estimate happiness by fine
houses, gardens, and parks; others by pictures, horses,
money, and various things wholly remote from their own
species : but when I wish to ascertain the real felicity of
any rational man, I always enquire whom he has to love.
If I find he has nobody, or does not love those he has,
even in the midst of all his profusion of finery and
grandeur, I pronounce him a being in deep adversity. In
loving you, I am happier than my cousin William, even
though I am obliged to leave you for a time.

" Do not be afraid you should grow old before I re
turn — age can never alter you in my regard. It is your
gentle nature, your unaffected manners, your easy cheer
fulness, your clear understanding, the sincerity of all your
words and actions, which have gained my heart ; and
while you preserve charms like these,, you will be dearer to
me with white hairs and a wrinkled face, than any of your
sex, who, not possessing all these qualities, possess the
form and features of perfect beauty.

" You will esteem me, too, I trust, though I should
return on crutches with my poor father, whom I may be
obliged to maintain by daily labour.

" I shall employ all my time, during my absence, in
the study of some art which may enable me to support
you both, provided Heaven will bestow two such blessings
on me. In the cheering thought that it will be so, and
in that only, I have the courage, my dear, dear Rebecca,
to say to you, " Farewell !

" H. NORWYNNE."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

BEFORE Henry could receive a reply to his letter, the
fleet in which he sailed put to sea.

By his absence not only Rebecca was deprived of the
friend she loved, but poor Agnes lost a kind and com
passionate adviser. The loss of her parents, too, she had
to mourn ; for they both sickened, and both died, in a

NATURE AND ART. 395

short time after. And now wholly friendless in her little
exile, where she could only hope for toleration, not being
known, she was contending with suspicion, rebuffs, disap
pointments, and various other ills, which might have made
the most rigorous of her Anfield persecutors feel compas
sion for her, could they have witnessed the throbs of her
heart, and all the deep wounds there imprinted.

Still, there are few persons whom Providence afflicts
beyond the limits of all consolation — few cast so low as
not to feel pride on certain occasions ; and Agnes felt a
comfort and a dignity in the thought, that she had both
a mind and a body capable of sustaining every hardship
which her destiny might inflict, rather than submit to the
disgrace of soliciting William's charity a second time.

This determination was put to a variety of trials. In
vain she offered herself to the strangers of the village, in
which she was accidentally cast, as a servant ; her child,
her dejected looks, her broken sentences, a wildness in her
eye, a kind of bold despair which at times overspread her
features, her imperfect story, who and what she was, pre
judiced all those to whom she applied ; and after thus
travelling to several small towns and hamlets, the only
employer she could obtain was a farmer, and the only
employment, to tend and feed his cattle, while his men
were in the harvest, tilling the ground, or at some other
labour which required, at the time, peculiar expedition.

Though Agnes was born of peasants, yet, having been
the only child of industrious parents, she had been nursed
with a tenderness and delicacy ill suited to her present oc
cupation. But she endured it with patience ; and the most
laborious part would have seemed light, could she have
dismissed the reflection — what it was that had reduced
her to such a state.

Soon her tender hands became hard and rough, her fair
skin burnt and yellow ; so that when, on a Sunday, she
has looked in the glass, she has started back, as if it were
some other face she saw instead of her own. But this loss
of beauty gave her no regret — while William did not see
her, it was indifferent to her whether she were beautiful or
hideous. On the features of her child only, she now

396 NATURE AND ART.

looked with joy : there, she fancied she saw William at
every glance; and, in the fond imagination, felt, at times,
every happiness short of seeing him.

By herding with the hrute creation, she and her child
were allowed to live together ; and this was a state she
preferred to the society of human creatures, who would
have separated her from what she loved so tenderly. Anxi
ous to retain a service in which she possessed such a bless
ing, care and attention to her humble office caused her
master to prolong her stay through all the winter : then,
during the spring, she tended his yeaning sheep, — in the
summer, watched them as they grazed, — and thus season
after season passed, till her young son could afford her
assistance in her daily work.

He now could charm her with his conversation as well
as with his looks : a thousand times, in the transports of
parental love, she has pressed him to her bosom, and
thought, with an agony of horror, upon her criminal, her
mad intent to destroy what was now so dear, so necessary
to her existence.

Still the boy grew up more and more like his father. In
one resemblance alone he failed : he loved Agnes with an
affection totally distinct from the pitiful and childish gra
tification of his own self-love ; he never would quit her
side for all the tempting offers of toys or money ; never
would eat of rarities given to him, till Agnes took a part ;
never crossed her will, however contradictory to his own ;
never saw her smile that he did not laugh ; nor did she
ever weep, but he wept too.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

FROM the mean subject of oxen, sheep, and peasants, we
return to personages, i. e. persons of rank and fortune.
The bishop who was introduced in the foregoing pages,
but who has occupied a very small space there, is now
mentioned again, merely that the reader may know he is
at present in the same state as his writings — dying ; and

NATURE AND ART. 397

that his friend, the dean, is talked of as the most likely
successor to his dignified office.

The dean, most assuredly, had a strong friendship for
the bishop, and now, most assuredly, wished him to re
cover ; and yet, when he reflected on the success of his
pamphlet a few years past, and of many which he had
written since on the very same subject, he could not but
think " that he had more righteous pretensions to fill the
vacant seat of his much beloved and reverend friend
(should fate ordain it to be vacated) than any other man;"
and he knew that it would not take one moment from that
friend's remaining life, should he exert himself, with all
due management, to obtain the elevated station when he
should be no more.

In presupposing the death of a friend, the dean, like
many other virtuous men, ' ' always supposed him going to a
better place." With perfect resignation, therefore, he waited
whatever change might happen to the bishop ; ready to
receive him with open arms if he recovered, or equally
ready, in case of his dissolution, to receive his dignities.

Lady Clementina displayed her sensibility and feeling
for the sick prelate, by the extravagance of hysteric fits ;
except at those times when she talked seriously with her
husband upon the injustice which she thought would be
done to him, and to his many pamphlets and sermons, if
he did not immediately rise to the episcopal honour.

"Surely, dean," said she, <e should you be disappointed
upon this occasion, you will write no more books for the
good of your country ? "

' ' Yes, I will/' he replied ; f ' but the next book I write
for the good of my country shall be very different, nay,
the very reverse of those I have already written."

" How, dean ! would you show yourself changed ? "

" No ; but I will show that my country is changed."

' ' What ! since you produced your last work, only six
weeks ago ? "

"Great changes may occur in six days," replied the
dean, with a threatening accent ; f< and if I find things
have taken a new and improper turn, I will be the first to
expose it."

398 NATURE AND ART.

" But before you act in this manner, my dear, surely
you will wait "

ff I will wait till the see is disposed of to another," said he.

He did wait : the bishop died : the dean was promoted
to the see of * * *, and wrote a folio on the prosperity of
our happy country.

CHAPTER XXXV.

WHILE the bishop and his son were sailing before pros-*
perous gales on the ocean of life, young Henry was con
tending with adverse winds, and many other perils, on the
watery ocean; yet still his distresses and dangers were
less than those which Agnes had to encounter upon land.
The sea threatens an untimely death ; the shore menaces
calamities from which death is a refuge.

The afflictions she had already experienced could just
admit of aggravation : the addition occurred.

Had the good farmer, who made her the companion of
his flocks and herds, lived till now, till now she might
have been secure from the annoyance of human kind ; but,
thrown once more upon society, she was unfit to sustain
the conflict of decorum against depravity. Her master,
her patron, her preserver, was dead ; and hardly as she
had earned the pittance she received from bin, she found
that it surpassed her power to obtain the like again. Her
doubtful character, her capacious mind, her unmethodical
manners, were still badly suited ^o the nice precision of a
country housewife ; and as the prudent mistress of a fa
mily sneered at her pretensions, she, in her turn, scorned
the narrow-minded mistress of a family.

In her enquiries how to gain her bread free from the
cutting reproaches of discretion, she was informed ie that
London was the only private corner where guilt could be
secreted undisturbed ; and the only public place where, in
open day, it might triumphantly stalk, attended by a
train of audacious admirers."

There was a charm to the ear of Agnes in the name of
London, which thrilled through her soul. William lived

NATURE AND ART. 399

in London ; and she thought that, while she retired to
some dark cellar with her offences, he probably would ride
in state with his, and she at humble distance might some
times catch a glance of him.

As difficult as to eradicate insanity from a mind once
possessed, so difficult it is to erase from the lover's breast
the deep impression of a real affection. Coercion may
prevail for a short interval, still love will rage again. Not
all the ignominy which Agnes experienced in the place
where she now was, without a home; not the hunger
which she at times suffered and even at times saw her
child endure ; not every inducement for going to London,
or motive for quitting her present desolate station, had
the weight to affect her choice so much as — in London
she should live nearer William : in the present spot she
could never hope to see him again ; but there she might
chance to pass him in the streets ; she might pass his house
every day unobserved; might enquire about him of his
inferior neighbours, who would be unsuspicious of the
cause of her curiosity. For these gratifications she should
imbibe new fortitude ; for these she could bear all hard
ships which London threatened; and for these she at
length undertook a three weeks' journey to that perilous
town on foot, cheering, as she walked along, her innocent
and wearied companion.

William ! in your luxurious dwelling ! possessed of cof
fers filled with gold ! relations, friends, clients, joyful
around you ! delicious viands and rich wines upon your
sumptuous board ! voluptuousness displayed in every apart
ment of your habitation ! contemplate, for a moment, Ag
nes, your first love, with her son, your first and only child,
walking through frost and snow to London, with a fore
boding fear on the mother — that, when arrived, they both
may perish for the want of a friend.

But no sooner did Agnes find herself within the smoke
of the metropolis, than the old charm was renewed ; and
scarcely had she refreshed her child at the poor inn at which
she stopped, than she enquired — how far it was to that
part of the town where William, she knew, resided ?

She received for answer, "• About two miles."

400 NATURE AND ART.

Upon this information, she thought that she would keep
in reserve, till some new sorrow befell her, the consolation
of passing his door (perchance of seeing him), which must
ever be an alleviation of her grief. It was not long before
she had occasion for more substantial comfort. She soon
found she was not likely to obtain a service here, more
than in the country. Some objected that she could not
make caps and gowns ; some, that she could not preserve
and pickle ; some, that she was too young ; some, that she
was too pretty ; and all declined accepting her, till at last
a citizen's wife, on condition of her receiving but half the
wages usually given, took her as a servant of all work.

In romances, and in some plays, there are scenes of
dark and unwholesome mines, wherein the labourer works,
during the brightest day, by the aid of artificial light.
There are in London kitchens equally dismal, though not
quite so much exposed to damp and noxious vapours. In
one of these, under ground, hidden from the cheerful light
of the sun, poor Agnes was doomed to toil from morning till
night, subjected to the command of a dissatisfied mistress;
who, not estimating as she ought the misery incurred by
serving her, constantly threatened her servants " with a
dismission;" at which the unthinking wretches would
tremble merely from the sound of the words ; for to have
reflected — to have considered what their purport was —
' ' to be released from a dungeon, relieved from continual
upbraidings, and vile drudgery," must have been a sub
ject of rejoicing ; and yet, because these good tidings were
delivered as a menace, custom had made the hearer fearful
of the consequence. So, death being described to children
as a disaster, even poverty and shame will start from it
with affright ; whereas, had it been pictured with its be
nign aspect, it would have been feared but by few, and
many, many would welcome it with gladness.

All the care of Agnes to please, her fear of offending,
her toilsome days, her patience, her submission, could not
prevail on her she served to retain her one hour after, by
chance, she had heard "that she was the mother of a
child; that she wished it should be kept a secret; and
that she stole out now and then to visit him."

NATURE AND ART. 401

Agnes, with swimming eyes and an almost breaking
heart, left a place — where, to have lived one hour, would
have plunged any fine lady in the deepest grief.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

AGNES was driven from service to service — her deficiency
in the knowledge of a mere drudge, or her lost character,
pursued her wherever she went : — at length, becoming
wholly destitute, she gladly accepted a place where the
latter misfortune was not of the least impediment.

In one fof those habitations, where continual misery is
dressed in continual smiles ; where extreme of poverty is
concealed by extreme of finery; where wine dispenses mirth
only by dispensing forgetfulness ; and where female beauty
is so cheap, so complying, that, while it inveigles, it dis
gusts, the man of pleasure : in one of those houses, to attend
upon its wretched inhabitants, Agnes was hired. Her
feelings of rectitude submitted to those of hunger; her
principles of virtue (which the loss of virtue had not de
stroyed) received a shock when she engaged to be the
abettor of vice, from which her delicacy, morality, and re
ligion shrunk ; but persons of honour and of reputation
would not employ her : was she then to perish ? That
perhaps was easy to resolve ; but she had a child to leave be
hind ! a child, from whom to part for a day was a torment.
Yet, before she submitted to a situation which filled her
mind with a kind of loathing horror, often she paced up and
down the street in which William lived, looked wistfully
at his house, and sometimes, lost to all her finer feelings of
independent pride, thought of sending a short petition to
him ; but, at the idea of a repulse, and of that frowning
brow which she knew William could dart on her petitions,
she preferred death, or the most degrading life, to the
trial.

It was long since that misfortune and dishonour had

1> D

402 NATURE AND ART.

made her callous to the good or ill opinion of all the
world, except his ; and the fear of drawing upon her his
increased contempt was still, at the crisis of applying, so
powerful, that she found she dared not hazard a reproof
from him even in the person of his father, whose rigour
she had already more than once experienced, in the fre
quent harsh messages conveyed to her with the poor sti
pend for her hoy.

Awed by the rigid and pious character of the new
bishop, the growing reputation and rising honours of his
son, she mistook the appearance of moral excellence for
moral excellence itself, and felt her own unworthiness even
to become the supplicant of those great men.

Day after day she watched those parts of the town
through which William's chariot was accustomed to drive :
but to see the carriage was all to which she aspired — a
feeling, not to be described, forced her to cast her eyes up
on the earth as it drew near to her; and when it had
passed, she beat her breast and wept, that she had not
seen him.

Impressed with the superiority of others, and her own
abject and disgustful state, she cried, " Let me herd with
those who won't despise me — let me only see faces where
on I can look without confusion and terror — let me as
sociate with wretches like myself, rather than force my
shame before those who are so good, they can but scorn
and hate me."

With a mind thus languishing for sympathy in disgrace,
she entered a servant in the house just now described.
There, disregarding the fatal proverb against "evil com,'
munications," she had not the firmness to be an exception
to the general rule. That pliant disposition, which had
yielded to the licentious love of William, stooped to still
baser prostitution in company still more depraved.

At first she shuddered at those practices she saw, at
those conversations she heard; and blest herself that po
verty, not inclination, had caused her to be a witness of
such profligacy, and had condemned her in this vile abode
to be a servant, rather than in the lower rank of mistress.
Use softened those horrors every day — at length self-de-

NATURE AND ART. 4-03

fence, the fear of ridicule, and the hope of favour, induced
her to adopt that very conduct from which her heart re
volted.

In her sorrowful countenance, and fading charms, there
yet remained attraction for many visiters ; and she now
submitted to the mercenary profanations of love — more
odious, as her mind had been subdued by its most capti
vating, most endearing joys.

While incessant regret whispered to her ee that she ought
to have endured every calamity rather than this," she thus
questioned her nice sense of wrong: — "Why, why respect
myself, since no other respects me ? Why set a value on
my own feelings, when no one else does ?"

Degraded in her own judgment, she doubted her own
understanding, when it sometimes told her she had deserved
better treatment — for she felt herself a fool in comparison
with her learned seducer and the rest who despised her.
" And why," she continued, " should I ungratefully per
sist to contemn women, who alone are so kind as to accept
me for a companion ? Why refuse conformity to their
customs, since none of my sex besides will admit me to
their society a partaker of virtuous habits ?"

In speculation, these arguments appeared reasonable,
and she pursued their dictates : but in the practice of the
life in which she plunged, she proved the fallacy of the
system ; and at times tore her hair with frantic sorrow —
that she had not continued in the mid-way of guilt, and so
preserved some portion of self-approbation, to recompense
her, in a small degree, for the total loss of the esteem of all
the reputable world.

But she had gone too far to recede. Could she now have
recalled her innocence, even that remnant she brought with
her to London, experience would have taught her to have
given up her child, lived apart from him, and once more
with the brute creation, rather than to have mingled with
her present society. Now, alas ! the time for flying was
past — all prudent choice was over — even all reflection
was gone for ever — or only admitted on compulsion,
when it imperiously forced its way amidst the scenes of
tumultuous mirth, or licentious passion, of distracted riot,

D D 2

404 NATURE AND ART.

shameless effrontery, and wild intoxication — when it
would force its way — even through the walls of a hrothel.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Is there a reader so little experienced in the human heart,
so forgetful of his own, as not to feel the possibility of the
following fact ?

A series of uncommon calamities had been for many
years the lot of the elder Henry — a succession of pros
perous events had fallen to the share of his brother Wil
liam. The one was the envy, while the other had the
compassion, of all who thought about them. For the last
twenty years, William had lived in affluence bordering
upon splendour, his friends, his fame, his fortune daily
increasing; while Henry, throughout that very period, had,
by degrees, lost all he loved on earth, and was now exist,
ing apart from civilised society — and yet, during those
twenty years, where William knew one happy moment,
Henry tasted hundreds.

That the state of the mind, and not outward circum
stances, is the nice point on which happiness depends, is
but a trite remark; but that intellectual power should have
the force to render a man discontented in extraordinary
prosperity such as that of the present bishop, or contented
in his brother's extreme of adversity, requires illustration.

The first great affliction to Henry was his brother's in
gratitude ; but reasoning on the frailty of man's nature,
and the force of man's temptations, he found excuses for
William, which made him support the treatment he had
received with more tranquillity than William's proud mind
supported his brother's marriage. Henry's indulgent dis
position made him less angry with William, than William
was with him.

The next affliction Henry suffered was the loss of his

NATURE AND ART. 405

beloved wife. That was a grief which time and change of
objects gradually alleviated ; while William's wife was to
him a permanent grief: her puerile mind, her talking va
nity, her affected virtues, soured his domestic comfort ;
and, in time, he had suffered more painful moments from
her society, than his brother had experienced, even from
the death of her he loved.

In their children, indeed, William was the happier —
his son was a pride and pleasure to him, while Henry
never thought upon his without lamenting his loss with
bitterest anguish. But if the elder brother had in one in
stance the advantage, still Henry had a resource to over
balance this article. Henry, as he lay imprisoned in his
dungeon, and when, his punishment being remitted, he
was again allowed to wander and seek his subsistence
where he would, — in all his tedious walks and solitary
resting-places, during all his lonely days and mournful
nights, had this resource to console him : —

" I never did an injury to any one ; never was harsh,
severe, unkind, deceitful : I did not merely confine myself
to do my neighbour no harm, I strove to do him service."

This was the resource that cheered his sinking heart
amidst gloomy deserts and a barbarous people ; lulled him
to peaceful slumber in the hut of a savage hunter, and in
the hearing of the lion's roar ; at times impressed him with
a sense of happiness ; and made him contemplate, with a
longing hope, the retribution of a future world.

The bishop, with all his comforts, had no comfort like
this : he had his solitary reflections too j but they were of
a tendency the reverse of these. " I used my brother ill,"
was a secret thought of most powerful influence : it kept
him waking upon his safe and commodious bed ; was sure
to recur with every misfortune by which he was threatened,
to make his fears still stronger ; and came, with invidious
stabs, upon every successful event, to take from him a part
of his joy. In a word, it was conscience which made
Henry's years pass happier than William's.

But though, comparatively with his brother, William
was the less happy man, yet his self-reproach was not of
such magnitude, for an offence of that atrocious nature, as
D D 3

406 KATURE AND ART.

to banish from his hreast a certain degree of happiness, a
sensibility to the smiles of fortune ; nor was Henry's self-
acquittal of such exquisite kind as to chase away the feel
ing of his desolate condition.

As he fished or hunted for his daily dinner, many a time
in full view of his prey, a sudden burst of sorrow at his
fate, a sudden longing for some dear associate, for some
friend to share his thoughts, for some kind shoulder on
which to lean his head, for some companion to partake of his
repast, would make him instantaneously desist from his
pursuit, cast him on the ground in a fit of anguish, till a
shower of tears, and his conscience, came to his relief.

It was after an exile of more than twenty-three years —
when, on one sultry morning, after pleasant dreams during
the night, Ptenry had waked with more than usual percep
tion of his misery — that, sitting upon the beach, his wishes
and his looks all bent on the sea towards his native land, he
thought he saw a sail swelling before an unexpected breeze.

' ( Sure I am dreaming still ! " he cried. " This is the
very vessel I saw last night in my sleep ! Oh, what cruel
mockery, that my eyes should so deceive me !"

Yet, though he doubted, he leaped upon his feet in trans
port : held up his hands, stretched at their length, in a
kind of ecstatic joy; and as the glorious sight approached,
was near rushing into the sea to hail and meet it.

For a while hope and fear kept him in a state bordering
on distraction.

Now he saw the ship making for the shore, and tears
flowed for the grateful prospect. Now it made for another
point, and he vented shrieks and groans from the disappoint
ment.

It was at those moments, while hope and fear thus pos
sessed him, that the horrors of his abode appeared more
than ever frightful. Inevitable afflictions must be borne ;
but that calamity which admits the expectation of relief,
and then denies it, is insupportable.

After a few minutes passed in dreadful uncertainty,
which enhanced the wished-for happiness, the ship evi
dently drew near the land — a boat was launched from her
— and while Henry, now upon his knees, wept, and prayed

NATURE AND ART. 407

fervently for the event, a youth sprang from the barge on
the strand, rushed towards him, and falling on his neck,
then at his feet, exclaimed, " My father ! oh, my father !"
William ! dean ! bishop ! what are your honours, what
your riches, what all your possessions, compared to the
happiness, the transport bestowed by this one sentence on
your poor brother Henry ?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE crosses at land, and the perilous events at sea, had
made it now two years since young Henry first took the
vow of a man, no longer dependent on the will of another,
to seek his father. His fatigues, his dangers, were well
recompensed. Instead of weeping over a silent grave, he
had the inexpressible joy to receive a parent's blessing for
his labours. Yet the elder Henry, though living, was so
changed in person, that his son would scarcely have known
him in any other than the favourite spot, which the younger
(keeping in memory every incident of his former life) knew
his father had always chosen for his morning contempla
tions ; and where, previously to his coming to England,
he had many a time kept him company. It was to that
particular corner of the island that the captain of the ship
had generously ordered they should steer, out of the general
route, to gratify the filial tenderness he expressed. But
scarcely had the interview between the father and the son
taken place, than a band of natives, whom the appear
ance of the vessel had called from the woods and hills, came
to attack the invaders. The elder Henry had no friend
with whom he wished to shake hands at his departure : the
old negro servant who had assisted in young Henry's escape
was dead ; and he experienced the excessive joy of bidding
adieu to the place, without one regret for all he left behind.
On the night of that day, whose morning had been
marked by peculiar sadness at the lowering prospect of
many exiled years to come, he slept on board an English

D D 4

408 NATURE AND ART.

vessel, with Englishmen his companions, and his son, his
beloved son — who was still more dear to him for that mind
which had planned and executed his rescue — this son,
his attentive servant, and most affectionate friend.

Though many a year passed, and many a rough en
counter was destined to the lot of the two Henrys before
they saw the shores of Europe, yet to them, to live or to
die together was happiness enough : even young Henry for
a time asked for no greater blessing — but, the first glow
of filial ardour over, he called to mind, " Rebecca lived
in England ; " and every exertion which love, founded on
the highest reverence and esteem, could dictate, he em
ployed to expedite a voyage, the end of which would be
crowned by the sight of her.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE contrast of the state of happiness between the two
brothers was nearly resembled by that of the two cousins
— the riches of young William did not render him happy;
nor did the poverty of young Henry doom him to misery.
His affectionate heart, as he had described in his letter to
Rebecca, loved persons rather than things ; and he would
not have exchanged the society of his father, nor the pros
pect of her hand and heart, for all the wealth and splendour
of which his cousin William was the master.

He was right. Young William, though he viewed with
contempt Henry's inferior state, was far less happy than
he. His marriage had been the very counterpart of his
father's; and, having no child to create affection to his
home, his study was the only relief from that domestic
incumbrance called his wife ; and though, by unremitting
application there (joined to the influence of the potent re
lations of the woman he hated), he at length arrived at
the summit of his ambitious desires, still they poorly repaid
him for the sacrifice he had made in early life of every
tender disposition.

NATURE AND ART. 409

Striding through a list of rapid advancements in the
profession of the law, at the age of thirty-eight he found
himself raised to a preferment such as rarely falls to the
share of a man of his short experience — he found himself
invested with a judge's robe ; and, gratified by the exalted
office, curbed more than ever that aversion which her want
of charms or sympathy had produced against the partner
of his honours.

While William had thus been daily rising in fortune's
favour, poor Agnes had been daily sinking deeper and
deeper under fortune's frowns ; till at last she became a
midnight wanderer through the streets of London, solicit
ing, or rudely demanding, money of the passing stranger.
Sometimes, hunted by the watch, she affrighted fled from
street to street, from portico to portico — and once, un
knowing in her fear which way she hurried, she found her
trembling knees had sunk, and her wearied head was re
clined, against the stately pillars that guarded William's door.

At the sudden recollection where she was, a swell of
passion, composed of horror, of anger, of despair, and love,
gave re-animated strength to her failing limbs ; and, re
gardless of her pursuer's steps, she ran to the centre of the
street, and, looking up to the windows of the mansion,
cried, " Ah ! there he sleeps in quiet, in peace, in ease —
he does not even dream of me — he does not care how the
cold pierces, or how the people persecute, me ! He does
not thank me for all the lavish love I have borne him and
his child ! His heart is so hard, he does not even recol
lect that it was he who brought me to ruin."

Had these miseries, common to the unhappy prostitute,
been alone the punishment of Agnes — had her crimes and
sufferings ended in distress like this — her story had not,
perhaps, been selected for a public recital ; for it had been
no other than the customary history of thousands of her
sex. But Agnes had a destiny yet more fatal. Unhappily,
she was endowed with a mind so sensibly alive to every joy,
and every sorrow, to every mark of kindness, every token
of severity, so liable to excess in passion, that, once per
verted, there was no degree of error from which it would
revolt.

410 NATURE AND ART.

Taught by the conversation of the dissolute poor, with
whom she now associated, or by her own observation on
the worldly reward of elevated villany, she began to suspect
<c that dishonesty was only held a sin to secure the property
of the rich ; and that, to take from those who did not want,
by the art of stealing, was less guilt than to take from those
who did want, by the power of the law."

By false yet seducing opinions such as these, her reason
estranged from every moral and religious tie, her necessities
urgent, she reluctantly accepted the proposal to mix with
a band of practised sharpers and robbers, and became an
accomplice in negotiating bills forged on a country banker.

But though ingenious in arguments to excuse the deed
before its commission, in the act she had ever the dread of
some incontrovertible statement on the other side of the
question. Intimidated by this apprehension, she was the
veriest bungler in her vile profession — and on the alarm
of being detected, while every one of her confederates
escaped and absconded, she alone was seized, was arrested
for issuing notes they had fabricated, and committed to the
provincial gaol, about fifty miles from London, where the
crime had been perpetrated, to take her trial for — life or
death.

CHAPTER XL.

THE day at length is come, on which Agnes shall have a
sight of her beloved William ! She who has watched for
hours near his door, to procure a glimpse of him going
out, or returning home ; who has walked miles to see his
chariot pass ; she now will behold him, and he will see her
by command of the laws of their country. Those laws,
which will deal with rigour towards her, are in this one
instance still indulgent.

The time of the assizes, at the county-town in which
she is imprisoned, is arrived — the prisoners are demanded
at the shire hall — the gaol doors are opened — they go in

NATURE AND ART. 411

sad procession; — the trumpet sounds — it speaks the ar
rival of the judge — and that judge is William.

The day previous to her trial, Agnes had read, in the
printed calendar of the prisoners, his name as the learned
justice before whom she was to appear. For a moment
she forgot her perilous state in the excess of joy which
the still unconquerable love she bore to him permitted her
to taste even on the brink of the grave ! After-reflection
made her check those worldly transports, as unfit for the
present solemn occasion. But, alas! to her, earth and
William were so closely united, that, till she forsook the
one, she could never cease to think, without the con
tending passions of hope, of fear, of joy, of love, of
shame, and of despair, on the other.

Now fear took place of her first immoderate joy : — she
feared, that although much changed in person since he
had seen her, and her real name now added to many an
alias — yet she feared that some well-known glance of the
eye, turn of the action, or accent of speech, might recall
her to his remembrance ; and at that idea shame overcame
all her other sensations — for still she retained pride, in
respect to his opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was
that wretch she felt she was. Once a ray of hope beamed
on her, " that if he knew her, if he recognised her, he
might possibly befriend her cause;" and life bestowed
through William's friendship seemed a precious object!
But again, that rigorous honour she had often heard him
boast, that firmness to his word, of which she had fatal
experience, taught her to know, he would not, for any im
proper compassion, any unmanly weakness, forfeit his
oath of impartial justice.

In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless
night.

When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar, and
her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-
seat of William, imagination could not form two figures,
or two situations, more incompatible with the existence of
former familiarity, than the judge and the culprit ; and
yet, these very persons had passed together the most bliss
ful moments that either ever tasted ! Those hours of ten-

412 NATURE AND ART. *

der dalliance were now present to her mind. His thoughts
were more nobly employed in his high office ; nor could
the haggard face, hollow eye, desponding countenance, and
meagre person of the poor prisoner, once call to his me
mory, though her name was uttered among a list of others
which she had assumed, nis former youthful, lovely Agnes !

She heard herself arraigned, with trembling limbs and
downcast looks ; and many witnesses had appeared against
her, before she ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful
judge. She then gave one fearful glance, and discovered
William, unpitying but beloved William, in every feature !
It was a face she had been used to look on with delight,
and a kind of absent smile of gladness now beamed on her
poor wan visage.

When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had
been examined, the judge addressed himself to her : —

" What defence have you to make ?"

It was William spoke to Agnes ! The sound was sweet ;
the voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging!
It almost charmed her to a love of life ! — not such a
voice as when William last addressed her ; when he left
her undone and pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to
her more.

She could have hung upon the present words for ever !
She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect
of practice, the art of his occupation ; which, at times, is
but a copy, by the unfeeling, from his benevolent brethren
of the bench. In the present judge, tenderness was not
designed for the consolation of the culprit, but for the ap
probation of the auditors.

There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side, when
last he parted from you : if there had, the awful William
had been awed to marks of pity.

Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known
tongue directed to her, she stood like one just petrified —
all vital power seemed suspended.

Again he put the question, and with these additional
sentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered, — ' ' Recol
lect yourself. Have you no witnesses ? No proof in your
behalf?"

NATURE AND ART. 413

A dead silence followed these questions.

He then mildly, but forcibly, added, — " What have
you to say ? "

Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she
fixed earnestly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while
she faintly articulated, —

<f Nothing, my Lord."

After a short pause, he asked her, in the same forcible
but benevolent tone, —

" Have you no one to speak to your character ? "

The prisoner answered, —

" No."

A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she
called to mind by whom her character had first been
blasted.

He summed up the evidence ; and every time he was
compelled to press hard upon the proofs against her, she
shrunk, and seemed to stagger with the deadly blow;
writhed under the weight of his minute justice, more
than from the prospect of a shameful death.

The jury consulted but a few minutes. The verdict
was, —

« Guilty/'

She heard it with composure.

But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head,
and rose to pronounce her sentence, she started with a
kind of convulsive motion ; retreated a step or two back,
and, lifting up her hands, with a scream exclaimed, —

" Oh, not from you ! "

The piercing shriek which accompanied these words
prevented their being heard by part of the audience ; and
those who heard them thought little of their meaning,
more than that they expressed her fear of dying.

Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been
uttered, William delivered the fatal speech, ending with,
" Dead, dead, dead."

She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried
back to prison in a swoon ; while he adjourned the court
to go to dinner.

414

NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER XLI.

IF, unaffected by the scene he had witnessed, William sat
down to dinner with an appetite, let not the reader con
ceive that the most distant suspicion had struck his mind,
of his ever having seen, much less familiarly known, the
poor offender whom he had just condemned. Still this
forgetfulness did not proceed from the want of memory
for Agnes. In every peevish or heavy hour passed with
his wife, he was sure to think of her : yet it was
self-love, rather than love of her, that gave rise to these
thoughts : he felt the lack of female sympathy and tender
ness, to soften the fatigue of studious labour ; to soothe a
sullen, a morose disposition — he felt he wanted comfort
for himself, but never once considered what were the wants
of Agnes.

In the chagrin of a barren bed, he sometimes thought,
too, even on the child that Agnes bore him ; but whether
it were male or female, whether a beggar in the streets, or
dead — various and important public occupations forbade
him to waste time to enquire. Yet the poor, the widow,
and the orphan, frequently shared William's ostentatious
bounty. He was the president of many excellent chari
ties ; gave largely ; and sometimes instituted benevolent
societies for the unhappy; for he delighted to load the
poor with obligations, and the rich with praise.

There are persons like him, who love to do every good,
but that which their immediate duty requires. There are
servants who will serve every one more cheerfully than
their masters : there are men who will distribute money
liberally to all, except their creditors ; and there are wives
who will love all mankind better than their husbands.
Duty is a familiar word, which has little effect upon an
ordinary mind ; and as ordinary minds make a vast ma
jority, we have acts of generosity, valour, self-denial, and
bounty, where smaller pains would constitute greater
virtues. Had William followed the common dictates of
charity — had he adopted private pity, instead of public

NATURE AND ART. 415

munificence — had he cast an eye at home, before he sought
abroad for objects of compassion, Agnes had been pre
served from an ignominious death, and he had been pre
served from — Remorse — the tortures of which he for the
first time proved, on reading a printed sheet of paper, acci
dentally thrown in his way, a few days after he had left
the town in which he had condemned her to die.

" March the 12th, 179-—.

" The last dying words, speech, and confession ; birth,
parentage, and education ; life, character, and beha
viour, of Agnes Primrose, who was executed this
morning, between the hours of ten and twelve, pur
suant to the sentence passed upon her by the Honour
able Justice Norwynne.

" Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the

village of Anfield, in the county of " [William

started at the name of the village and county] ; " but
being led astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man,
she fell from the paths of virtue, and took to bad com
pany, which instilled into her young heart all their evil
ways, and at length brought her to this untimely end.
So she hopes her death will be a warning to all young
persons of her own sex, how they listen to the praises and
courtship of young men, especially of those who are their
betters ; for they only court to deceive. But the said
Agnes freely forgives all persons who have done her
injury, or given her sorrow, from the young man who
first won her heart, to the jury who found her guilty,
and the judge who condemned her to death.

" And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not
only in respect of the crime for which she suffers, but in
regard to many other heinous sins of which she has been
guilty, more especially that of once attempting to commit a
murder upon her own helpless child, for which guilt she
now considers the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to
which she is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and
charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy
on her parting soul."

4* 1 6 NATURE AND ART.

K " Postscript to the Confession.

" So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death,
and the awful judgment that was* to follow, that when sen
tence was pronounced upon her, she fell into a swoon, from
that into convulsions, from which she never entirely re
covered, but was delirious to the time of her execution,
except that short interval in which she made her confession
to the clergyman who attended her. She has left one child,
a youth about sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother
during all the time of her imprisonment, but waited on her
with true filial duty ; and no sooner was her fatal sentence
passed, than he began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill
near the prison from which she is released by death.
During the loss of her senses, the said Agnes Primrose
raved continually on this child ; and, asking for pen, ink,
and paper, wrote an incoherent petition to the judge, recom
mending the youth to his protection and mercy. But not
withstanding this insanity, she behaved with composure
and resignation, when the fatal morning arrived in which
she was to be launched into eternity. She prayed devoutly
during the last hour, and seemed to have her whole mind
fixed on the world to which she was going. A crowd of
spectators followed her to the fatal spot, most of whom re
turned weeping at the recollection of the fervency with
which she prayed, and the impression which her dreadful
state seemed to make upon her."

*********

No sooner had the name of " Anfield" struck William,
than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on
his mind to give him full conviction, whom it was he had
judged and sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of
Agnes, such as he once had known her ; and now he won
dered how his thoughts could have been absent from an
object so pitiable, so worthy of his attention, as not to
give him even a suspicion who she was, either from her
name, or from her person, during the whole trial !

But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sen
sation, was absorbed by — Remorse: — it wounded, it

NATURE AND ART. 417

stabbed, it rent his hard heart, as it would do a tender one.
It havocked on his firm, inflexible mind, as it would on a
weak and pliant brain! — Spirit of Agnes! look down,
and behold all your wrongs revenged I William feels —
Remorse.

CHAPTER XLII.

A FEW momentary cessations from the pangs of a guilty
conscience were given to William, as soon as he had 'des
patched a messenger to the gaol in which Agnes had Been
confined, to enquire after the son she had left behind, and
to give orders that immediate care should be taken of him.
He likewise charged the messenger to bring back the peti
tion she had addressed to him during her supposed insanity ;
for he now experienced no trivial consolation in the thought,
that he might possibly have it in his power to grant her a
request.

The messenger returned with the written paper, which
had been considered by the persons to whom she had in
trusted it, as the distracted dictates of an insane mind ;
but proved to William, beyond a doubt, that she was per
fectly in her senses.

" To LORD CHIEF JUSTICE NORWYNNE.

" My Lord,

<e I am Agnes Primrose, the daughter of John and
Hannah Primrose, of Anfield. My father and mother
lived by the hill at the side of the little brook where you
used to fish., and so first saw me.

" Pray, my Lord, have mercy on my sorrows : pity me
for the first time, and spare my life. I know I have done
wrong — I know it is presumption in me to dare to apply
to you, such a wicked and mean wretch as I am ; but, my
Lord, you once condescended to take notice of me — and

418 NATURE AND ART.

though I have been very wicked since that time, yet if you
would be so merciful as to spare my life, I promise to
amend it for the future. But if you think it proper I
should die, I will be resigned ; but then I hope, I beg, I
supplicate, that you will grant my other petition. Pray,
pray, my Lord, if you cannot pardon me, be merciful to
the child I leave behind. What he will do when I am
gone, I don't know — for I have been the only friend he
has had ever since he was born. Pie was born, my Lord,
about sixteen years ago, at Anfield, one summer's morning,
and carried by your cousin, Mr. Henry Norwynne, to Mr.
Rymer's, the curate there — and I swore whose child he
was, before the dean, and I did not take a false oath.
Indeed, indeed, my Lord, I did not.

" I will say no more for fear this should not come safe to
your hand, for the people treat me as if I were mad. So
I will say no more, only this, that, whether I live or die,
I forgive every body, and I hope every body will forgive
me ; and I pray that God will take pity on my son, if you
refuse : but I hope you will not refuse.

" AGNES PRIMROSE."

William rejoiced as he laid down the petition, that she
had asked a favour he could bestow ; and hoped by his
protection of the son to redress, in some degree, the wrongs
he had done the mother. He instantly sent for the mes
senger into his apartment, and impatiently asked, " If he
had seen the boy, and given proper directions for his care."

ff I have given directions, sir, for his funeral."

" How!" cried William.

" He pined away ever since his mother was confined,
and died two days after her execution."

Robbed, by this news, of his only gleam of consolation
— in the consciousness of having done a mortal injury
for which he never now by any means could atone, he
saw all his honours, all his riches, all his proud, selfish
triumphs fade before him ! They seemed like airy no
things, which in rapture he would exchange for the peace
of a tranquil conscience !

He envied Agnes the death to which he first exposed,

NATURE AND ART. 41 9

then condemned her; he envied her even the life she
struggled through from his neglect, and felt that his future
days would be far less happy than her former existence,
He calculated with precision.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE progressive rise of William, and fall of Agnes, had
now occupied nearly the term of eighteen years. Added
to these, another year elapsed before the younger Henry
completed the errand on which his heart was fixed, and
returned to England. Shipwreck, imprisonment, and
other ills to which the poor and unfriended traveller is
peculiarly exposed, detained the father and son in various
remote regions until the present period; and, for the last
fifteen years, denied them the means of all correspondence
with their own country.

The elder Henry was now past sixty years of age, and
the younger almost beyond the prime of life. Still length
of time had not diminished, but rather had increased, their
anxious longings for their native home.

The sorrows, disappointments, and fatigues which
throughout these tedious years were endured by the two
Henrys are of that dull monotonous kind of suffering, bet
ter omitted than described ; mere repetitions of the exile's
woe, that shall give place to the transporting joy of return
from banishment ! Yet, often as the younger had reckon
ed, with impatient wishes, the hours which were passed
distant from her he loved, no sooner was his disastrous
voyage at an end, no sooner had his feet trod upon the
shore of Britain, than a thousand wounding fears made
him almost doubt whether it were happiness or misery he
had obtained by his arrival. If Rebecca were living, he
knew it must be happiness ; for his heart dwelt with con
fidence on her faith — her unchanging sentiments. " But
death might possibly have ravished from his hopes what
BE 2

420 NATURE AND ART.

no mortal power could have done." And thus the lover
creates a rival in every ill, rather than suffer his fears to
remain inanimate.

The elder Henry had less to fear or to hope than his
son ; yet he both feared and hoped with a sensibility that
gave him great anxiety. He hoped his brother would re
ceive him with kindness, after his long absence, and once
more take his son cordially to his favour. He longed im
patiently to behold his brother ; to see his nephew ; nay,
in the ardour of the renewed affection he just now felt, he
thought even a distant view of Lady Clementina would be
grateful to his sight ! But still, well remembering the
pomp, the state, the pride of William, he could not rely on
Ms affection, so much he knew that it depended on ex
ternal circumstances to excite or to extinguish his love.
Not .that he feared an absolute repulsion from his brother ;
but he feared, what, to a delicate mind, is still worse, re
served manners, cold looks, absent sentences, and all that
cruel retinue of indifference, with which those who are be
loved spjpitejLWOund the bosom that adores them.

By enquiring of their countrymen (whom they met as
they approached to the end of their voyage) concerning
their relation the dean, the two Henrys learned that he was
well, and had for some years past been exalted to the bi-
shoprick of * * *. This news gave them joy, while it in
creased their fear of not receiving an affectionate welcome.

The younger Henry, on his landing, wrote immediately
to his uncle, acquainting him with his father's arrival in
the most abject state of poverty : he addressed his letter to
the bishop's country residence, where he knew, as it was
the summer season, he would certainly be. He and his
father then set off on foot, towards that residence — a palace !

The bishop's palace was not situated above fifty miles
from the port where they had landed ; and at a small inn
about three miles from the bishop's, they proposed (as the
letter to him intimated) to wait for his answer, before they
intruded into his presence.

As they walked on their solitary journey, it was some
small consolation that no creature knew them.

"• To be poor and ragged, father/' the younger smilingly

NATURE AND ART. 421

said, " is no disgrace, no shame, thank Heaven, where the
object is not known."

" True, my son," replied Henry : tc and perhaps I feel
myself much happier now, unknowing and unknown to all
but you, than 1 shall in the presence of my fortunate
brother and his family ; for there, confusion at my ill
success through life may give me greater pain, than even
my misfortunes have inflicted."

After uttering this reflection which had preyed upon
his mind, he sat down on the road-side to rest his agitated
limbs, before he could proceed farther. His son reasoned
with him — gave him courage; and now his hopes pre
ponderated, till after two days' journey, on arriving at the
inn where an answer from the bishop was expected, no
letter, no message had been left.

11 He means to renounce us," said Henry trembling, and
whispering to his son.

Without disclosing to the people of the house who they
were, or from whom the letter or the message they enquired
for was to have come, they retired, and consulted what
steps they were now to pursue.

Previously to his writing to the bishop, the younger
Henry's heart, all his inclinations, had swayed him to
wards a visit to the village in which was his uncle's former
country seat — the beloved village of Anfield; but respect
to him, and duty to his father, had made him check those
wishes: now they revived again; and with the image of
Rebecca before his eyes, he warmly entreated his father
to go with him to Anfield, at present only thirty miles
distant, and thence write once more — then again wait the
will of his uncle.

The father consented to this proposal, even glad to
postpone the visit to his dignified brother.

After a scanty repast, such as they had been long
inured to, they quitted the inn, and took the road towards
Anfield.

E E 3

422 NATURE AND ART.

CHAPTER XLIV.

IT was about five in the afternoon of a summer's day, that
Henry and his son left the sign of the Mermaid, to pursue
their third day's journey : the young man's spirits elated
with the prospect of the reception he should meet from
Rebecca; the elder dejected, at not having received a
speedy welcome from his brother.

The road which led to Anfield by the shortest course, of
necessity took our travellers within sight of the bishop's
palace. The turrets appeared at a distance ; and on the
sudden turn round the corner of a large plantation, the
whole magnificent structure was at once exhibited before
his brother's astonished eyes ! He was struck with the
grandeur of the habitation ; and, totally forgetting all the
unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had ever received
from its owner (like the same Henry in his earlier years),
smiled with a kind of transport, " that William was so
great a man."

After this first joyous sensation was over, ff Let us go
a little nearer, my son," said he ; cc no one will see us, I
hope : or, if they should, you can run and conceal your
self ; and not a creature will know me : even my brother
would not know me thus altered; and I wish to take a
little farther view of his fine house, and all his pleasure
grounds/'

Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not
object to his father's desire. They walked forward be
tween a shady grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in
odours from the jessamine banks, and listened to the
melody of an adjoining aviary.

The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the
elder Henry, and he at length sauntered to the very
avenue of the dwelling ; but just as he had set his daring
yet trembling feet upon the turf which led to the palace
gates, he suddenly stopped, on hearing, as he thought, the
village clock strike seven; which reminded him, that

NATURE AND ART. 423

evening drew on, and it was time to go. He listened
again, when he and his son, both together, said, " It is
the toll of the bell before some funeral."

The signals of death, while they humble the rich, in
spire the poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a
momentary sense of equality ; and he courageously stept
forward to the first winding of the avenue.

He started back at the sight which presented itself!

A hearse — mourning coaches — mutes — plumed horses
— with every oilier token of the person's importance, who
was going to be committed to the earth.

Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly
struck, when a coffin borne by six men issued from the
gates, and was deposited in the waiting receptacle ; while
gentlemen in mourning went into the different coaches.

A standard bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on
which the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry,
upon this, pathetically exclaimed, " My uncle ! it is my
uncle's funeral ! "

Henry, his father, burst into tears.

The procession moved along.

Tlie two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train,
followed at a little distance — in rags, but in tears.

The elder Henry's heart was nearly bursting : he longed
to clasp the dear remains of his brother, without the dread
of being spurned for his presumption. He now could no
longer remember him either as the dean or bishop ; but,
leaping over that whole interval of pride and arrogance,
called only to his memory William, such as he knew him
when they lived at home together, together walked to
London, and there together almost perished for want.

They arrived at the church ; and, while the coffin was
placing in the dreary vault, tl\e weeping brother crept
slowly after to the hideous spot. His reflections now
fixed on a different point. ef Is this possible ? " said he to
himself. " Is this the dean, whom 1 ever feared ? Is
this the bishop, of whom within the present hour I stood
in awe ? Is this A^illiam, whose every glance struck me
with his superiority ? Alas, my brother ! and is this
horrid abode the reward for all your aspiring efforts ? Are

£ £ 4

424 NATURE AND ART.

these sepulchral trappings the only testimonies of your
greatness, which you exhibit to me on my return ? Did
you foresee an end like this, while you treated me, and
many more of your youthful companions, with haughtiness
and contempt; while you thought it becoming of your
dignity to shun and despise us ? Where is the difference
now, between my departed wife and you ? or, if there be
a difference, she, perchance, has the advantage. Ah, my
poor brother ! for distinction in the other world, I trust,
some of your anxious labours have been employed ; for
you are now of less importance in this than when you and
I first left our native town, and hoped for nothing greater
than to be suffered to exist."

On their quitting the church, they enquired of the by
standers the immediate cause of the bishop's death, and
heard he had been suddenly carried off by a raging fever.

Young Henry enquired " if Lady Clementina was at
the palace, or Mr. Norwynne?"

ff The latter is there/' he was answered by a poor
woman; "but Lady Clementina has been dead these four
years."

"Dead! dead!" cried young Henry. "That worldly
woman ! quitted this world for ever !"

te Yes," answered the stranger : " she caught cold by
wearing a new-fashioned dress that did not half cover her,
wasted all away, and died the miserablest object you ever
heard of."

The person who gave this melancholy intelligence con
cluded it with a hearty laugh ; which would have sur
prised the two hearers, if they had not before observed,
that amongst all the village crowd that attended to see this
solemn show, not one afflicted countenance appeared, not
one dejected look, not one watery eye. The pastor was
scarcely known to his flock : it was in London that his
meridian lay, at the levee of ministers, at the table of
peers, at the drawing-rooms of the great ; and now his
neglected parishioners paid his indifference in kind.

• The ceremony over, and the mourning suite departed,
the spectators dispersed with gibes and jeering faces from
the sad spot ; while the Henrys, with heavy hearts, re-

NATURE AND AR*. 425

traced their steps back towards the palace. In their way,
at the crossing of a stile, they met a poor labourer return
ing from his day's work ; who,, looking earnestly at the
throng of persons who were leaving the churchyard, said
to the elder Henry, —

' ' Pray, master, what are all them folk gathered together
about ? What 's the matter there ? "

te There has been a funeral," replied Henry.

" Oh, zooks ! what ! a burying — ay, now I see it is ;
and I warrant, of our old bishop — I heard he was main
ill. It is he they have been putting into the ground ! is
not it ? "

" Yes," said Henry.

" Why then so much the better."

." The better!" cried Henry.

" Yes, master ; though I should be loath to be where
he is now."

Henry started — " He was your pastor, man!"

" Ha, ha, ha ! I should be sorry that my master's
sheep, that are feeding yonder, should have no better
pastor — the fox would soon get them all."

" You surely did not know him !"

" Not much, I can't say I did ; for he was above speak
ing to poor folks, unless they did any mischief — and then
he was sure to take notice of them."

<e I believe he meant well," said Henry.

" As to what he meant, God only knows ; but I know
what he did"

" And what did he ? "

" Nothing at all for the poor."

" If any of them applied to him, no doubt "

" Oh, they knew better than all that comes to ; for if
they asked for any thing, he was sure to have them sent to
bridewell, or the workhouse. He used to say, ' The work
house was a fine place for a poor man — the food good
enough, and enough of it ;' yet he kept a dainty table him
self. His dogs, too, fared better than we poor. He was
vastly tender and good to all his horses and dogs, I will
say that for him ; and to all brute beasts : he would not

426 NATURE AND ART.

suffer them to be either starved or struck — but he had no
compassion for his fellow-creatures."

" I am sensible you do him wrong."

" That he is the best judge of by this time. He has
sent many a poor man to the house of correction ; and now
'tis well if he has not got a place there himself. Ha, ha, ha!"

The man was walking away, when Henry called to him^
— <( Pray can you tell me if the bishop's son be at the
palace ? "

" Oh, yes ! you'll find master there, treading in the old
man's shoes, as proud as Lucifer."

' ' Has he any children ? "

" No, thank God ! There's been enow of the name; and,
after the son is gone, I hope we shall have no more of the
breed."

" Is Mrs. Norwynne, the son's wife, at the palace ? "

"What, master! did not you know what's become of
her?"

" Any~accident ? "

" Ha, ha, ha ! yes. I can't help laughing — why, mas
ter, she made a mistake, and went to another man's bed —
and so her husband and she were parted — and she has
married the other man."

" Indeed ! " cried Henry, amazed.

" Ay, indeed ; but if it had been my wife, or yours, the
bishop would have made her do penance in a white sheet :
but, as it was a lady, why, it was all very well — and any
one of us that had been known to talk about it would have
been sent to bridewell straight. But we did talk, notwith
standing."

The malicious joy with which the peasant told this story
made Henry believe (more than all the complaints the man
uttered) that there had been \vant of charity and Christian
deportment in the whole conduct of the bishop's family.
He almost wished himself back on his savage island, where
brotherly love could not be less than it appeared to be in
this civilised country.

NATURE AND ART. 427

CHAPTER XLV.

As Henry and his son, after parting from the poor labourer,
approached the late bishop's palace, all the charms of its
magnificence, its situation, which, but a few hours before,
had captivated the elder Henry's mind, were vanished ; and,
from the mournful ceremony he had since been witness of,
he now viewed this noble edifice but as a heap of rubbish
piled together, to fascinate weak understandings, and to
make even the wise and religious man, at times, forget why
he was sent into this world.

Instead of presenting themselves to their nephew and
cousin, they both felt an unconquerable reluctance to enter
under the superb, the melancholy roof. A bank, a hedge,
a tree, a hill, seemed, at this juncture, a pleasanter shelter ;
and each felt himself happy in being a harmless wanderer
on the face of the earth, rather than living in splendour,
while the wants, the revilings of the hungry and the naked,
were crying to Heaven for vengeance.

They gave a heart-felt sigh to the vanity of the rich and
the powerful ; and pursued a path where they hoped to
meet with virtue and happiness.

They arrived at Anfield.

Possessed by apprehensions, which his uncle's funeral
had served to increase, young Henry, as he entered the
well-known village, feared every sound he heard would
convey information of Rebecca's death. He saw the par
sonage house at a distance, but dreaded to approach it, lest
Rebecca should no longer be an inhabitant. His father
indulged him in the wish to take a short survey of the
village, and rather learn by indirect means, by observation,
his fate, than hear it all at once from the lips of some
blunt relater.

Anfield had undergone great changes since Henry left it.
He found some cottages built where formerly there were
none ; and some were no more where he had frequently
called, and held short conversations with the poor who
dwelt in them. Amongst the latter number was the house
of the parents of Agnes — fallen to the ground! He

428 NATURE AND ART.

wondered to himself where that poor family had taken up
their abode. Henry, in a kinder world !

He once again cast a look at the old parsonage house :
his inquisitive eye informed him, there no alteration had
taken place externally ; but he feared what change might
be within.

At length he obtained the courage to enter the church
yard, in his way to it. As he slowly and tremblingly moved
along, he stopped to read here and there a grave-stone ;
as mild, instructive, conveyers of intelligence, to which he
could attend with more resignation than to any other re
porter.

The second stone he came to he found was erected To
the memory of the Reverend Thomas Rymer, Rebecca's
father. He instantly called to mind all that poor curate's
quick sensibility of wrong towards himself: his unbridled
rage in consequence; and smiled to think — how trivial
now appeared all for which he gave way to such excess of
passion !

But, shocked at the death of one so near to her he loved,
he now feared to read on ; and cast his eyes from the
tombs, accidentally, to the church. Through the window
of the chancel, his sight was struck with a tall monument
of large dimensions, raised since his departure, and adorned
with the finest sculpture. His curiosity was excited — he
drew near, and he could distinguish (followed by elegant
poetic praise) " To the memory of John Lord Viscount
Bendham"

Notwithstanding the solemn, melancholy, anxious bent
of Henry's mind, he could not read these words, and be
hold this costly fabric, without indulging a momentary fit
of indignant laughter.

"Are sculpture and poetry thus debased," he cried, " to
perpetuate the memory of a man whose best advantage is
to be forgotten ; whose no one action merits record, but as
an example to be shunned ?"

An elderly woman, leaning on her staff, now passed along
the lane by the side of the church. The younger Henry
accosted her, and ventured to enquire " where the daughters
of Mr. Rymer, since his death, were gone to live ?"

NATURE AND ART. 429

" We live," she returned, " in that small cottage across
the clover field."

Henry looked again, and thought he had mistaken the
word we ; for he felt assured that he had no knowledge of
the person to whom he spoke.

But she knew him, and, after a pause, cried, — " Ah !
Mr. Henry, you are welcome back. I am heartily glad to
see you — and my poor sister Rebecca will go out of her
wits with joy."

" Is Rebecca living, and will be glad to see me ?" he
eagerly asked, while tears of rapture trickled down his face.
" Father," he continued, in his ecstacy, "we are now come
home to be completely happy; and I feel as if all the
years I have been away were but a short week ; and as if
all the dangers I have passed had been light as air. But
is it possible," he cried, to his kind informer, " that you
are one of Rebecca's sisters ?"

"Well might he ask ; for, instead of the blooming woman
of seven-and-twenty he had left her, her colour was gone,
her teeth impaired, her voice broken. She was near fifty.

<f Yes, I am one of Mr. Rymer's daughters," she replied.

<fBut which?" said Henry.

" The eldest, and once called the prettiest," she returned :
" though people now tell me I am altered ; yet I cannot
say I see it myself."

" And are you all living ? " Henry enquired.

f< All but one : she married and died. The other three,
on my father's death, agreed to live together, and knit or
spin for our support. So we took that small cottage, and
furnished it with some of the parsonage furniture, as you
shall see ; and kindly welcome I am sure you will be to all
it affords, though that is but little."

As she was saying this, she led him through the clover
field towards the cottage. His heart rebounded with joy
that Rebecca was there : yet, as he walked, he shuddered
at the impression which he feared the first sight of her
would make. He feared, what he imagined (till he had
seen this change in her sister) he should never heed. He
feared Rebtc:a would look no longer young. He was not
yet so far master over all his sensual propensities, as, when

430 NATURE AND ART.

the trial came, to think he could behold her look like her
sister, and not give some evidence of his disappointment.

His fears were vain. On entering the gate of their little
garden, Rehecca rushed from the house to meet them, just
the same Rebecca as ever.

It was her mind, which, beaming on her face, and
actuating her every motion, had ever constituted all her
charms : it was her mind, which had gained her Henry's
affection. That mind had undergone no change ; and she
was the self-same woman he had left her.

He was entranced with joy.

CHAPTER XL VI.

THE fare which the Henrys partook at the cottage of the
female Rymers was such as the sister had described — mean,
and even scanty ; but this did not in the least diminish
the happiness they received in meeting, for the first time
since their arrival in England, human beings who were
glad to see them.

At a stinted repast of milk and vegetables, by the glim
mering light of a little brushwood on the hearth, they yet
could feel themselves comparatively blest, while they
listened to the recital of afflictions which had befallen
persons around that very neighbourhood, for whom every
delicious viand had been procured to gratify the taste,
every art devised to delight the other senses.

It was by the side of this glimmering fire, that Rebecca
and her sisters told the story of poor Agnes's fate, and of
the thorn it had for ever planted in William's bosom — of
his reported sleepless, perturbed nights ; and his gloomy,
or half-distracted days ; when, in the fulness of remorse,
he has complained — "of a guilty conscience! of the
weariness attached to continual prosperity .' the misery of
wanting an object of affection !"

They told of Lord Bendham's death from the effects of
intemperance; from a mass of blood infected by high-

NATURE AND ART. 431

seasoned dishes, mixed with copious draughts of wine —
repletion of food and liquor, not less fatal, to the existence
of the rich, than the want of common sustenance to the
lives of the poor.

They told of Lady Bendham's ruin since her lord's
death, by gaming. They told, lt that now she suffered
beyond the pain of common indigence, by the cutting tri
umph of those whom she had formerly despised."

They related (what has been told before) the divorce of
William, and the marriage of his wife with a libertine;
the decease of Lady Clementina, occasioned by that incor
rigible vanity which even old age could not subdue.

After numerous other examples had been recited of the
dangers, the evils that riches draw upon their owner, the
elder Henry rose from his chair, arid, embracing Rebecca
and his son, said, " How much indebted are we to Provi
dence, my children, who, while it inflicts poverty, bestows
peace of mind ; and in return for the trivial grief we meet
in this world, holds out to our longing hopes the reward of
the next!"

Not only resigned, but happy in their station, with
hearts made cheerful rather than dejected by attentive me
ditation, Henry and his son planned the means of their
future support, independent of their kinsman William —
nor only of him, but of every person and thing but their
own industry.

" While I have health and strength," cried the old man,
and his son's looks acquiesced in all the father said, « I
will not take from any one in affluence what only belongs
to the widow, the fatherless, and the infirm ; for to such
alone, by Christian laws — however custom may subvert
them — the overplus of the rich is due."

CHAPTER XLVII.

BY forming an humble scheme for their remaining life,
a scheme depending upon their own exertions alone, on no

432 NATURE AND ART.

light promises of pretended friends, and on no sanguine
hopes of certain success, but with prudent apprehension,
with fortitude against disappointment, Henry, his son, and
Rebecca (now his daughter), found themselves, at the end
of one year, in the enjoyment of every comfort which such
distinguished minds knew how to taste.

Exempt both from patronage and from control —
healthy — alive to every fruition with which nature blesses
the world ; dead to all out of their power to attain, the
works of art — susceptible of those passions which endear
human creatures one to another, insensible to those which
separate man from man — they found themselves the
thankful inhabitants of a small house or hut, placed on the
borders of the sea.

Each morning wakes the father and the son to cheerful
labour in fishing, or the tending of a garden, the produce
of which they carry to the next market town. The even
ing sends them back to their home in joy, where Rebecca
meets them at the door, affectionately boasts of the warm
meal that is ready, and heightens the charm of convers
ation with her taste and judgment.

It was after a supper of roots from their garden, poultry
that Rebecca's hand had reared, and a jug brewed by young
Henry, that the following discourse took place: —

" My son," said the elder Henry, " where, under hea
ven, shall three persons be met together, happy as we three
are ? It is the want of industry, or the want of reflection,
which makes the poor dissatisfied. Labour gives a value
to rest, which the idle can never taste ; and reflection gives
to the mind a degree of content, which the unthinking
never can know/'

Cf I once," replied the younger Henry, " considered
poverty a curse ; but after my thoughts became enlarged,
and I had associated for years with the rich, and now mix
with the poor, my opinion has undergone a total change —
for I have seen, and have enjoyed, more real pleasure at
work with my fellow-labourers, and in this cottage, than
ever I beheld, or experienced, during my abode at my
uncle's; during all my intercourse with the fashionable
and the powerful of this world."

NATURE AND ART. 433

" The worst is," said Rebecca, " the poor have not
always enough."

" Who has enough ?" asked her husband. " Had my
uncle ? No : he hoped for more — and in all his writings
sacrificed his duty to his avarice. Had his son enough,
when he yielded up his honour, his domestic peace, to gra
tify his ambition? Had Lady Bendham enough, when
she staked all she had, in the hope of becoming richer ?
Were we, my Rebecca, of discontented minds, we have
now too little. But conscious, from observation and expe
rience, that the rich are not so happy as ourselves, we
rejoice in our lot."

The tear of joy which stole from her eye expressed,
more than his words, a state of happiness.

He continued : — "I remember, when I first came a boy
to England, the poor excited my compassion ; but now
that my judgment is matured, I pity the rich. I know
that in this opulent kingdom, there are nearly as many
persons perishing through intemperance, as starving with
hunger ; there are as many miserable in the lassitude of
having nothing to do, as there are of those bowed down
to the earth with hard labour ; there are more persons
who draw upon themselves calamity by following their
own will, than there are who experience it by obeying the
will of another. Add to ^his, that the rich are so much
afraid of dying, they have no comfort in living."

" There the poor have another advantage," said Re
becca ; " for they may defy not only death, but every
loss by sea or land, as they have nothing to lose."

({ Besides," added the elder Henry, " there is a certain
joy, of the most gratifying kind that the human mind is
capable of tasting, peculiar to the poor ; and of which
the rich can but seldom experience the delight."

" What can that be ?" cried Rebecca.

" A kind word, a benevolent smile, one token of
esteem from the person whom we consider as our superior."

To which Rebecca replied, " And the rarity of obtain
ing such a token is what increases the honour."

" Certainly," returned young Henry ; " and yet those

P F

NATURE AND ART.

in poverty, ungrateful as they are, murmur against that
government from which they receive the blessing/'

<f But this is the fault of education, of early prejudice,"
said the elder Henry. "Our children observe us pay
respect, even reverence, to the wealthy, while we slight
or despise the poor. The impression thus made on their
minds in youth is indelible during the more advanced
periods of life; and they continue to pine after riches,
and lament under poverty : nor is the seeming folly wholly
destitute of reason ; for human beings are not yet so
deeply sunk in voluptuous gratification, or childish vanity,
as to place delight in any attainment which has not for
its end the love or admiration of their fellow-beings."

" Let the poor, then," cried the younger Henry, " no
more be their own persecutors — no longer pay homage
to wealth — instantaneously the whole idolatrous worship
will cease — the idol will be broken."

THE END.

LONDON « "

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