 Volume 3, Chapter 8 of A Simple Story. When Lord Elmwood had been at his country's seat about six weeks, Mr. Rushbrook, his nephew, and his adopted child, that friendless boy whom poor Lady Elmwood first introduced into his uncle's house, and by her kindness preserved there, arrived from his travels, and was received by his uncle with all the marks of affection due to the man he thought worthy to be his heir. Rushbrook had been a beautiful boy, and was now an extremely handsome young man. He had made unusual progress in his studies, had completed the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned home with the air and address of a perfect man of fashion. There was, besides an elegance and persuasion in his manner, almost irresistible. Yet with all those accomplishments, when he was introduced to Sandford, and put forth his hand to take his, Sandford with evident reluctance gave it to him, and when Lord Elmwood asked him in the young man's presence if he did not think his nephew greatly improved, he looked at him from head to foot, and muttered, he could not say he observed it. The color heightened in Mr. Rushbrook's face upon the occasion, but he was too well-bred not to be in perfect good humor. Sandford saw this young man treated in the house of Lord Elmwood with the same respect and attention as if he had been his son, and it was but probable the old priest would make a comparison between the situation of him and of Lady Matilda Elmwood. Before her it was Sandford's meaning to have concealed his thoughts upon the subject, and never to have mentioned it but with composure, that was, however, impossible. Unused to hide his feelings at the name of Rushbrook, his countenance would always change in 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 goodwill, was upon this occasion induced to limit their excess, and they did not extend so far as to reach poor Rushbrook. She even, in reality, did not think him handsome or engaging in his manners. She thought his gaity, frivolousness, his complacence, affection, and his good humor, impertinence. It was impossible to conceal those unfavorable sentiments entirely from Matilda, for when the subject arose as it frequently did, Miss Woodley's undisguised heart and Sandford's undisguised countenance told them instantly. Matilda had the understanding to imagine that she was perhaps the object who had thus deformed Mr. Rushbrook, and frequently, though he was a stranger to her, and one who had caused her many a jealous heartache, frequently she would speak in his vindication. You are very good, said Sandford, one day to her. You like him, because you know your father loves him. This was a hard sentence for the daughter of Lord Elmwood to hear, to whom her father's love would have been more precious than any other blessing. She, however, checked the assault of Envy and kindly replied, My mother loved him too, Mr. Sandford. Yes, answered Sandford, he has been a grateful man to your poor mother. She did not suppose when she took him into the house, when she entreated your father to take him, and threw her caresses and officious praises of him. First gave him that power which he now possesses over his uncle. She little foresaw that the time is in gratitude and its effects. Very true, said Miss Woodley, with a heavy sigh. What in gratitude, asked Matilda, do you suppose Mr. Rushbrook is the cause that my father will not see me? Oh, do not pay Lord Elmwood's motive so ill a compliment. I do not say that he is the absolute cause, returned Sandford, but if a parent's heart is void I would have it remain so, till its lawful owner is replaced. You surpers, I detest. No one could take Lord Elmwood's heart by force, replied his daughter. It must, I believe, be a free gift to the possessor, and as such, whoever has it, has a right to it. In this manner she would plead the young man's excuse, perhaps but to hear what could be said in his disfavor, for secretly his name was bitter to her, and once she exclaimed in vexation on Sandford saying Lord Elmwood and Mr. Rushbrook were gone out shooting together, all that pleasure is now eclipsed, which I used to take in listening to the report of my father's gun, for I cannot now distinguish his from his parasites. Sandford, much as he disliked Rushbrook, for this expression which comprised her father in the reflection, turned to Matilda in extreme anger, but as he saw the color mount into her face, for what in the strong feelings of her heart had escaped her lips he did not say a word, and by her tears that followed he rejoiced to see how much she reproved herself. Miss Woodley vexed to the heart, and provoked every time she saw Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook together, and saw the familiar terms on which this young man lived with his benefactor, now made her visits to him very seldom. If Lord Elmwood observed this he did not appear to observe it, and though he received her politely when she did pay him a visit, it was always very coldly, nor did she suppose if she never went he would 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 impossible that with all his apparent indifference he could ever see her without thinking for a moment on his child, and what one fortunate thought might sometime bring about was an object much too serious for her to overlook. She therefore remained confined to her apartments near three weeks, accepting those anxious walks she and Matilda stole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before he rose in the morning, went one-four noon into his apartments where as usual she found him with Mr. Sandford and Mr. Rushbrook. After she had sat about half an hour, conversing with them all, though but very little with the latter, Lord Elmwood was called out of the room upon some business, presently after Sandford, and now by no means pleased with the companion with whom she was left. She rose and was going likewise, when Rushbrook fixed his speaking eyes upon her and cried, Miss Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going to say? Certainly, sir, you can, I am sure, say nothing but what I must forgive, but she made this reply with a distance and a reserve, very unlike the usual manners of Miss Woodley. He looked at her earnestly and cried, Ah, Miss Woodley, you don't behave so kindly to me as you used to do. I do not understand you, sir. She replied very gravely. Times are changed, Mr. Rushbrook, since you were last here. You were then but a child. Yet I love all those persons now, that I loved then, replied he, and so I shall forever. But you mistake, Mr. Rushbrook, I was not even then so very much the object of your affections. There were other ladies you loved better. Perhaps you don't remember Lady Elmwood? Don't I, cried he. Oh! clasping his hands and lifting up his eyes to heaven, shall I ever forget her? That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door. The conversation of course that moment ended, but confusion at the sudden surprise was on the face of both parties. He saw it and looked at each of them by turns, with the sternness that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint, while Rushbrook, with the most natural and happy laugh that ever was affected, cried, No, don't tell my Lord. Pray, Miss Woodley. She was more confused than before, and Lord Elmwood turning to him asked what the subject was. By this time he had invented one and continuing his laugh, said, Miss Woodley, my Lord, will till 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 disliked to do anything to please us that from this very circumstance she formed more unfavorable opinion of Mr. Rushbrook than she had done before. She saw in this little incident the art of dissimilation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape, and detested the method by which they had each escaped Lord Elmwood's suspicion, and perhaps angered the more because it was so dexterously managed. Lady Matilda and Sanford were both in their turns informed of this trait in Mr. Rushbrook's character, and although Miss Woodley had the best of dispositions, and upon every occasion spoke the strictest truth, yet in relating this occurrence she did not speak all the truth, for every circumstance that Wood have told to the young man's advantage literally had slipped her memory. The 29th of October arrived, on which a dinner, a ball, a supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighboring gentry. The peasants also dined in the park off a roasted bullock, several casks of ale were distributed, and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who heard and saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired the cause, but even the servant who waited upon her had too much sensibility to tell her, and answered, he did not know. Miss Woodley, however, soon learned the reason, and groaning with the painful secret informed her, Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age. My 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 had gently rung, and in walked Sanford. Why are you not among the revelers, Mr. Sanford? 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 Sanford, 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. End of Chapter 8, Volume 3, Recorded by Pam Moscato. 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 to shooting, and returning about noon inquired of Sanford, who was sitting in the room if he had taken up a volume of plays left upon the table. I read no such things, replied Sanford, and quitted the room abruptly. Rushbrook then rang for his servant, and desired him to look for the book, asking him angrily, who had been in the apartment, for he was sure he had left it there when he went out. The servant withdrew to inquire, and presently returned with the volume in his hand, and Miss Woodley's compliments she begs your pardon, sir, she did not know the book was yours, and hopes you will excuse the liberty she took. Miss Woodley, cried Rushbrook with surprise, she comes so seldom into these apartments. I did not suppose it was her who had it. Take it back to her instantly with my respects, and I beg she will keep it. The man went, but returned with the book again, and laying it on the table without speaking, was going away, when Rushbrook hurt at receiving no second message. Said I am afraid, sir, you did everything 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, unfounded, more than ever, and to conceal what he felt instantly ordered the man out of the room. In the meantime, Miss Woodley and Matilda were talking over this trifling occurrence, and frivolous as it was, drew from it strong conclusions of Rushbrook's insolence and power. In spite of her pride, the daughter of Lord Elmwood even wept at the insult she had received on this insignificant occasion, for the volume being merely taken from her at Mr. Rushbrook's command she felt an insult, and the manner in which it was done by the servant might contribute to the offence. While Miss Woodley and she were upon this conversation, a note came from Rushbrook to Miss Woodley, wherein he entreated he might be permitted to see her. She sent a verbal answer. She was engaged. He sent again, begging she would name her own time. But sure of a second denial he followed the servant who took the last message, and as Miss Woodley came out of her apartment into a gallery to speak to him, Rushbrook presented himself and told the man to retire. Mr. Rushbrook said Miss Woodley, this intrusion is insupportable, and destitute as you may think me of the friendship of Lord Elmwood. In the ardor with which Rushbrook was waiting to express himself, he interrupted her and caught hold of her hand. She immediately snatched it from him and withdrew into her chamber. He followed, saying in a low voice, Dear Miss Woodley, hear me! And that juncture, Lady Matilda, who was in an inner apartment, came out of it into Miss Woodley's. Perceiving a gentleman, she stopped short at the door. Rushbrook cast his eyes upon her and stood motionless, his lips only moved. Do not depart, madam, said he, without hearing my apology for being here. Though Matilda had never seen him since her infancy, there was no occasion to tell her who it was that addressed her. His elegant and youthful person, joined to the incident which had just occurred, convinced her it was Rushbrook. She looked at him with an error 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 pre-possess you with the same unfavorable sentiments. Still Matilda did not speak, but looked at him with the same error 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 upon Miss Woodley, and seemed in doubt what reply she was to give. Rushbrook immediately fell upon his knees. Oh, lady Matilda," cried he, if you knew the sensations of my heart, you would not treat me with this disdain. We can only judge of those sensations, Mr. Rushbrook," said Miss Woodley, by the effect they have upon your conduct, and while you ensort Lord and Lady Elmwood's daughter by an intrusion like this, and then ridicule her abject state by mockeries like these, he rose from his knees instantly and interrupted her, crying, What can I do? What am I to say to make you change your opinion of me? While Lord Elmwood has been at home, I have kept an awful distance, and though every moment I breathed was a wish to cast myself at his daughter's feet, yet as I feared, Miss Woodley, that you were incensed against me by what means was I to procure an interview, but by stratagem or force. This accident has given a third method, and I had not strength, I had not courage to let it pass. Lord Elmwood will soon return, and we made both of us be hurried to town immediately. Then how, for a tedious winter, could I endure the reflection that I was despised, nay perhaps considered an object of ingratitude by the only child of my deceased benefactress?" Matilda replied with all her father's haughtiness. Depend upon it, sir. If you should ever enter my thoughts, it will only be as an object of envy. Suffer me then, madam," said he, as an earnest that you do not think worse of me than I merit. Suffer me to be sometimes admitted into your presence. She would scarce permit him to finish the period before she replied. This is the last time, sir, we shall ever meet. Depend upon it, unless indeed Lord Elmwood should delegate to you the control of me, his commands I never dispute, and here she burst into tears. Shushbrook walked towards the window and did not speak for some time. Then turning himself to make a reply, both Matilda and Miss Woodley were somewhat surprised to see that he had been shedding tears himself. Having conquered them, he said, I will not offend you, madam, by remaining one moment longer, and I give you my honour that upon no pretense whatever will I presume to intrude here again. Professions I find have no weight, and only by this obedience to your orders can I give a proof of that respect which you inspire, and let the agitation I now feel convince you, lady Matilda, that with all my seeming good fortune I am not happier than yourself. And so much was he agitated, while he delivered this, that it was with difficulty he came to the conclusion. When he did, he bowed with reverence as if leaving the presence of a deity, and retired. Matilda immediately entered the chamber she had left, and without casting a single look at Miss Woodley, by which she might guess of the opinion she had formed of Mr. Rushbrook's conduct. The next time they met, they did not even mention his name, for they were ashamed to own a partiality in his favour, and were too just to bring any accusation against him. But Miss Woodley the day following communicated the intelligence of this visit to Mr. Sandford, who not being present and a witness of those remarks of humility and respect which were conspicuous in the deportment of Mr. Rushbrook, was highly offended at his presumption, and threatened if he ever dared to force his company there again. He would acquaint Lord Elmwood with his arrogance whatever might be the event. Miss Woodley, however, assured him she believed he would have no cause for such a complaint, as the young man had made the most solemn promise never to commit the like offence. And she thought at 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 error, 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, the grandeur of her mean, not only confirmed, but improved. The exalted idea he had formed of her previous to their meeting, in which his affection to both her parents had inspired. The next time he saw his benefactor, he began to feel a new esteem in regard for him, for his daughter's sake, as he had at first an esteem for her, on the foundation of his love for Lord and Lady Elmwood. He gazed with wonder at his uncle's insensibility to his own happiness, and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast away, though even his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence. Such was the youthful, warm, generous, grateful, but unreflecting mind of Rushbrook. CHAPTER X After this incident, Miss Woodley left her apartments less frequently than before. She was afraid, though till now mistrust had been a stranger to her heart, she was afraid that duplicity might be concealed under the apparent friendship of Rushbrook. It did not indeed appear so from any part of his behaviour, but she was apprehensive for the fate of Matilda. She disliked him too, and therefore she suspected him. Near three weeks she had not now paid a visit to Lord Elmwood, and though to herself every visit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight in hearing of her father, what he had said, what he did, what his attention seemed most employed on, and a thousand other circumstantial information in which Sanford would scorn to be half so particular, it was a deprivation to her that Miss Woodley did not go oftener. Now too the middle of November was come, and it was expected her father would soon quit the country. Partly therefore to indulge her hapless companion, and partly because it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again paid Lord Elmwood a morning visit and stayed 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. Tell me of my father, said Matilda. I was going, my dear, but don't be concerned, don't let it vex you. What, what! cried Matilda, frightened by the preface. Why, on my observing, that I thought Mr. Rushbrook looked paler than usual, and appeared not to be in perfect health, which was really the case. Your father expressed the greatest anxiety imaginable. He said he could not bear to see him look so ill, begged him with all the tenderness of a servant, to take the advice of a physician, and added a thousand other affectionate things. I detest Mr. Rushbrook, said Matilda with her eyes flashing, indignation. Nay, for shame, returned Miss Woodley, do you suppose I told you this to make you hate him? No, there was no occasion for that, replied Matilda. My sentiments, though I have never before avowed them, were long ago formed. He was always an object which added to my unhappiness, but since his daring intrusion into my apartments, he has been an object of my hatred. But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please you, cried Miss Woodley. And what is that, said Matilda, with indifference for the first intelligence, had hurt her spirits too much to suffer her to listen with pleasure to anything. Mr. Rushbrook, continued Miss Woodley, replied to your father that his indisposition was but a slight nervous fever, and he would defer a physician's advice till he went to London. In 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. Sanford, with surprise, you have not past your Christmas here these many years. No, returned your father, but I think I feel myself more attached to this house at present than I ever did in my life. You imagine, then, my father thought of me when he said this, replied Matilda eagerly. But I may be mistaken, replied Miss Woodley. I leave you to judge, though I am sure Mr. Sanford imagined he thought of you, for I saw a smile over his whole face immediately. Did you, Miss Woodley? Yes, it appeared on every feature except his lips. Those he kept fast closed for fair 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 Sanford half asleep at the other end of it, and inquired respectfully but anxiously for her, adding, It is my concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed. I suffer more than she does, but I am not permitted to tell her so, nor can I hope, Miss Woodley, you will. She replied, You are right, sir. Nor did she reveal this conversation, while not a sentence that passed except that, was omitted. When Christmas arrived, Lord Elmwood had many convivial days at Elmwood House, but Matilda was never mentioned by one of his guests, and most probably was never thought of. During all those holidays she was unusually melancholy, but sunk into the deepest ejection when she was told the day was fixed, on which her father was to return to town. On the morning of that day she wept incessantly, and all her consolation was, she would go to the chamber window that was fronting the door through which he was to pass, to his carriage, and for the first time, and most probably for the last time in her life, behold him. This design was soon forgot in another. She would rush boldly into the apartment where he was, and at his feet take leave of him for ever. She would lay hold of his hands, clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her, which would be joy in comparison to this cruel indifference. In the bitterness of her grief, she once called upon her mother and reproached her memory, but the moment she recollected this offense, which was almost instantaneously, she became all mildness in resignation. What have I said? cried she, dear, dear, saint, forgive me, and for your sake I will bear all with patience. I will not groan, I will not even sigh again. This task I set myself to atone for what I have dared to utter. While Lanie Matilda labored under this variety of sensations, Miss Woodley was occupied in bewailing and endeavouring to calm her sorrows, and Lord Elmwood, with Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The Earl, however, loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone. When at last he got up to depart, Sanford thought he pressed his hand, and shook it with more warmth than ever he had done in his life. Encouraged by this supposition, Sanford said, My Lord, won't you condescend to take your leave of Miss Woodley? Certainly Sanford, replied he, and seemed glad of an excuse to sit down again. Impressed with the idea of the state in which she had left his only child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord Elmwood, to bid him farewell, was pale, trembling, and in tears. Sanford, notwithstanding his patrons' apparently kind humour, was shocked at the construction he must put upon her appearance, and cried, What, Miss Woodley, are you not recovered of your illness yet? Lord Elmwood, however, took no notice of her looks, but after wishing her, her health, walked slowly out of the house, returning back frequently and speaking to Sanford, or to some other person who was behind him, as if part of his thoughts were left behind, and he went with reluctance. When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was, Rushbrook, timid before her, as she had been before her benefactor, went up to her, all humility, and said, Miss Woodley, we ought to be friends, our concern, our devotion is paid to the same objects, and one common interest should teach us to be friendly. She made no reply. Will you permit me to write you when I am away? He said, You may wish to hear of Lord Elmwood's health, and of what changes may take place in his resolutions. Will you permit me? At that moment a servant came and said, Sir, my lord is in the carriage and waiting for you. He hastened away, and Miss Woodley was relieved from the pain of giving him a denial. No sooner was the shays with all its attendants out of sight than Lady Matilda was conducted by Miss Woodley, from her lonely retreat into the 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 meantime Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were proceeding on the road with hearts not less heavy than those which they had left at Elmwood House. Though neither of them could so well define the cause of this oppression, as Matilda could account for the weight which oppressed hers. 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. This count 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 neighbors called, a man of spirit. He was an excellent fox-hunter, and as excellent a companion over his bottle at the end of the chase. 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 their house, when chanced through Lord Margrave in their way during a thunderstorm 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 inquire occasionally after their health, and would sometimes see him. The story of Lady Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave, and as he beheld her daughter with a passion such as he had been unused to overcome, he indulged it with the probable hope that, on the death of the mother, Lord Elmwood would receive his child and perhaps accept him as his son-in-law. Wedlock was not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever proposed to himself for happiness, but the excess of his love on this new occasion subdued all the resolutions he had formed against the married state, and not daring to hope for the consummation of his wishes by any other means, he suffered himself to look forward to that as his only resource. No sooner was the long-expected death of Lady Elmwood arrived than he waited with impatience to hear that Lady Matilda was sent for and acknowledged by her father, for he meant to be the first to lay before Lord Elmwood his pretensions as a suitor, but those pretensions were founded on the vague hopes of a lover only, and Miss Woodley, to whom he first declared them, said everything possible to convince him of their fallacy. As to the object of his passion, she was not only insensible but wholly inattentive to all that was said to her on the subject. Lady Elmwood died without ever being disturbed with it, for her daughter did not even remember his proposals so as to repeat them again, and Miss Woodley thought it prudent to conceal from her friend every new incident which might give her cause for new anxieties. When Sanford and the ladies left the North and came to Elmwood House, so much were their thoughts employed with other ideas that Lord Margrave did not occupy a place, and during the whole time they had been at their new abode they had never once heard of him. He had, nevertheless, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and had placed spies in the neighborhood to inform him of every circumstance relating to her situation. Having imbibed an aversion to matrimony, he heard with but little regret that there was no prospect of her ever becoming her father's heir, while such an information gave him the hope of obtaining her upon the terms of a mistress. Elmwood's departure to town forwarded this hope, and flattering himself that the humiliating state in which Matilda must feel herself in the house of her father might gladly induce her to take shelter under any other protection, he boldly advanced as soon as the earl was gone to make such overture as his wishes and his vanity told him could not be rejected. Inquiring for Miss Woodley, he easily gained admittance, but at the sight of so much modesty and dignity in the person of Matilda, the appearance of so much goodwill, and yet such circumspection in her companion, and charmed at the good sense and proper spirit which were always apparent in the manners of Sandford, he fell once more into the despondency of never becoming to Lady Matilda anything of more importance to his reputation than a husband. And 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 discount's penetration, small as it was, discovered in his fair one, more to discourage than to favour his wishes. Plunged, however, too deep in his passion to emerge from it in haste, he meant still to visit and wait for a change to happier circumstances, when he was preemptually desired by Mr. Sandford to desist from ever coming again. And why, Mr. Sandford cried he, for two reasons, my Lord, in the first place, your visits might be displeasing to Lord Elmwood, in the next place, I know they are so to his daughter. Unaccustomed to be addressed so plainly, particularly in a case where his heart was interested, he nevertheless submitted with patience, but in his own mind determined how long this patient 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 who's eyes 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 of the old priest, but that was the very last method his lordship himself approved, as marriage must inevitably have followed Lord Elmwood's consent. Besides, though a peer, Lord Margrave was unused to rank with peers, and even the formality of an interview with one of his equals carried along with it a terror, or at least a fatigue, to a rustic baron. Others of his companions advised seduction, but happily the discount possessed no arts of this kind, to effect a heart joined with such an understanding as Matilda's. There were not wanting among his most favorite counsellors some who painted a superior triumph and gratification of force. Those assured him there was nothing to apprehend under this head. As from the behavior of Lord Elmwood to his child it was more than probable he would be utterly indifferent as to any violence that might be offered her. This last advice seemed inspired by the aid of wine, and no sinner had the wine freely circulated, then this was always the expedient which appeared by far the best. While Lord Margrave alternately cherished his hopes and his peers in the country, Rushbrook in town gave way to his peers only. Every day of his life made him more acquainted with the firm unshaken temper of Lord Elmwood, and every day whispered more forcibly to him that pity, gratitude, and friendship, strong and affectionate as these passions are, were weak and cold to that which had gained the possession of his heart. He doubted, but he did not long doubt that which he felt was love. And yet, he said to himself, it is love of such a kind, as arising from causes independent of the object itself, can scarce deserve that sacred name. Did I not love Lady Matilda before I beheld her, for her mother's sake I loved her, and even for her father's? Should I have felt the same affection for her had she been the child of other parents? No. Or should I have felt that sympathetic tenderness which now preys upon my health had not her misfortunes excited it? No. Yet the love which is the result of gratitude and pity only, he thought, had little claim to rank with his, and after the most deliberate and deep reflection he concluded with this decisive option. He had loved Lady Matilda in whatever state, in whatever circumstance, and that the tenderness he felt toward 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 demeanor had incited. And though he acknowledged that by the preceding sentiments his heart was soft and prepared and molded, as it were, to receive this last impression, yet the violence of his passion told him that genuine love, if not the basis on which it was founded, had been the certain consequence. With a strict scrutiny into his heart he sought this knowledge, but arrived at it with a regret that amounted to despair. To shield him from despondency he formed in his mind a thousand visions displaying the joys of his union with Lady Matilda, but her father's implacability confounded them all. Lord Elmwood was a man who made few resolutions, but those were the effect of deliberation, and as he was not the least capricious or inconsistent in his temper, they were resolutions which no probable event could shake. Love that produces wonders that seduces and subdues the most determined and rigid spirits had in two instances overcome the inflexibility of Lord Elmwood. He married Lady Elmwood contrary to his determination, because he loved, and for the sake of this beloved object he had, contrary to his resolution, taken under his immediate care, young rushbrook, but the magic which once enchanted away this spirit of immutability was no more. Lady Elmwood was no more, and the charm was broken. As Miss Woodley was deprived of the opportunity of desiring rushbrook not to write, when he asked her the permission, he passed one whole morning in the gratification of forming and writing a letter to her, which he thought might possibly be 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 tendency to magnify tribals, was discoverable the never-failing symptom of ardent love. A reply to this formal address was a reward he wished for with impatience, but he wished in vain, and in the midst of his chagrin at the disappointment, a sorrow little thought of occurred, and gave him a perturbation of mind he had never before experienced. Lord Elmwood proposed a wife to him, and in a way so assured of his acquiescence that if Rushbrook's life had depended upon his daring to dispute his benefactor's will he would not have had the courage to have done so. There was, however, in his reply and his embarrassment, something which his uncle distinguished from a free concurrence, and looking steadfastly at him he said in that stern manner which he now almost invariably adopted. You have no engagements, I suppose, have made no previous promises. None on earth, my Lord, replied Rushbrook candidly. Nor have you disposed of your heart? No, my Lord, replied he, but not candidly, nor with any appearance of candor. For though he spoke hastily it was rather like a man frightened than assured. He hurried to tell the falsehood he thought himself obliged to tell that the pain and shame might be over, but there he was deceived. The lie once told was as troublesome as in the conception, and added another confusion to the first. Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sullen contempt, and rising from his chair said, Rushbrook, if you have been so inconsiderate as to give away your heart tell me so at once and tell me the object. Rushbrook shuddered at the thought. I here, continued the earl, tolerate the first untruth you ever told me, as the false assertion of a lover, and give you an opportunity of recalling it. But after this moment it is a lie between man and man, a lie to your friend and father, and I will not forgive it. Rushbrook stood silent, confused, alarmed, and bewildered in his thoughts. Lord Elmwood proceeded, Name the person, if there is any, on whom you have bestowed your heart, and though I do not give you the hope that I shall not censor your folly, I will at least not reproach you for having it first denied it. To repeat these words in writing the reader must condemn the young man that he could hesitate to own he loved, if he was even afraid to name the object of his passion. But his interrogator had made the two answers inseparable, so that all evasions of the second Rushbrook knew would be fruitless, after having avowed the first. And how could he confess the latter? The absolute orders he received from the steward on his first return from his travels were, never to mention his daughter any more than his late wife before Lord Elmwood. The faults 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 continents while he delivered those moderate words, might have intimidated a man wholly independent and less used to fear than his nephew had been. You make no answers, sir, said Lord Elmwood, after waiting a few moments for his reply. I have only to say, my lord, return Rushbrook, that although my heart may be totally disengaged, I may yet be disinclined to marriage. May! May! Your heart may be disengaged, repeated he. Do you dare to reply to me equivocally while I have asked a positive answer? Perhaps I am not positive myself, my lord, but I will inquire into the state of my mind and make you acquainted with it very soon. As the angry demeanor of his uncle affected Rushbrook with fear, so that fear powerfully, but with proper manliness, expressed again softened the displeasure of Lord Elmwood, and seeing and pitying his nephew's sensibility he now changed his usher voice and said mildly but firmly, I give you a week to consult with yourself. At the expiration of that time I shall talk with you again, and I command you to be then prepared to speak, not only without deceit but without hesitation. He left the room at these words and left Rushbrook released from a fate which his apprehensions had beheld impending that moment. He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to weigh every circumstance, and to determine whether implicitly to submit to Lord Elmwood's recommendation of a wife, or to revolt from it and see another with more subserviency to his will appointed his heir. Undetermined how to act upon this trial which was to decide his future destiny, Rushbrook suffered so poignant an uncertainty that he became at length ill, and before the end of the week that was allotted him for his reply he was confined to his bed in a high fever. When Elmwood was extremely affectioned at his indisposition, he gave him every care he could bestow and even much of his personal attendance. This last favour had a claim upon the young man's gratitude superior to every other obligation which, since his infancy his benefactor had conferred, and he was at times so moved by those marks of kindness he received that he would form the intention of tearing from his heart every trace that Lady Matilda had left there, and as soon as his health would permit him obey to the utmost of his views every wish his uncle had conceived. Yet again her pitiable situation presented itself to his compassion, and her beauteous person to his love. Divided between the claims of obligation to the father and tender attachment to the daughter, his illness was increased by the tortures of his mind, and he once sincerely wished for that death of which he was in danger to free him from the dilemma in which his affections had involved him. At the time his disorder was at its height, and he lay complaining of the violence of his fever, Lord Elmwood taking his hand asked him if there was anything he could do for him. Yes, yes, my lord, a great deal he replied eagerly. What is it, Harry? Oh, my lord, replied he, that is what I must not tell you. Defer it then till you are well, said Lord Elmwood, afraid of being surprised or affected by the state of his health into any promises which he might hereafter find the impropriety of granting. And when I recover, my lord, you give me leave to reveal to you my wishes, let them be what they will? His uncle hesitated, but seeing an anxiety for the answer by his raising himself upon his elbow in the bed and staring wildly, Lord Elmwood said at last, certainly, yes, yes, as a child has answered for its quiet. That Lord Elmwood could have no idea what the real petition was which Rushbrook meant to present him is certain. But it is certain he expected he had some request to make with which it might be wrong for him to comply, and therefore he avoided hearing what it was. For greatest his compassion for him was, in his present state, it was not of sufficient force to urge him to give a promise he did not mean to perform. Rushbrook, on his part, was pleased with the assurance he might speak when he was restored to health. But no sooner was his fever abated and his senses perfectly recovered from the slight derangement his malady had occasioned, than the lively remembrance of what he had hinted alarmed him, and he was even afraid to look his kind but awful relation in the face. Lord Elmwood's cheerfulness, however, on his returning to health and his undiminished attention soon convinced him that he had nothing to fear, but alas he found, too, that he had nothing to hope. As his health re-established, his wishes re-established also, and with his wishes his despair. But now that his nephew had something on his mind which he feared to reveal, the Earl no longer doubted but that some youthful attachment had armed him against any marriage he should propose, but he had so much pity for his present weak state to delay that further inquiry which he had threatened before his illness to a time when he should be entirely restored. It was the end of May before Rushbrook was able to partake in the usual routine of the day. The country was now prescribed him as the means of complete restoration, and as Lord Elmwood designed to leave London for 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. End of Volume 3, Chapter 11, Recording by J. Martin. A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbald, Volume 3, Chapter 12 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 impertence 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 had never reflected on before, and Miss Woodley in particular reproached herself that she had been so severe and inattentive to him. Notwithstanding the prospects his death pointed out to her, it was with infinite joy she heard he had recovered. Nor was Sandford less satisfied, for he had treated the young man too unkindly not to dread lest any ill should befall him. But although he was glad to hear of his restored health, when he was informed he was coming down to Elmwood House for a few days in the style of its master, Sandford, with all his religious and humane principles, could not help thinking that if the lad had been properly prepared to die he had been as well out of the world as in it. He was still less his friend, when he saw him arrive with his usual florid complexion. When he come pale and sickly, Sandford had been kind to him, but in apparently good health and spirits he could not form his lips to tell him he was glad to see him. On his arrival Matilda, who for five months had been at large, secluded herself as she would have done upon the arrival of Lord Elmwood. But with far different sensations. Notwithstanding her restriction on the latter occasion, the residence of her father in that house had been a source of pleasure rather than of sorrow to her, but from the abode of Rushbrook she derived punishment alone. When from inquiries Rushbrook found that on his approach Matilda had retired to her own confined apartments the thought was torture to him. It was the hope of seeing and conversing with her, of being admitted at all times to her society as the mistress of the house that had raised his spirits and affected his perfect cure beyond any other cause, and he was hurt to the greatest degree at this respect or rather contempt shown to him by her retreat. It was, nevertheless, a subject too delicate for him to touch upon in any one sense. An invitation for her company on his part might carry the appearance of superior authority and an affected condensation which he justly considered as the worst of all insults. And yet how could he support the idea that his visit had placed the daughter of his benefactor as a dependent stranger in the house, wherein reality he was the dependent and she the lawful heir. For two or three days he suffered the torment of these reflections hoping that he should come to an explanation of all he felt by a fortunate meeting with Miss Woodley, but when that meeting occurred though he observed she talked to him with less reserve than she had formerly done, and even gave some proofs of the native goodness of her disposition. Yet she scrupulously avoided naming Lady Matilda, and when he diffidently inquired of her health a cold restraint overspread Miss Woodley's face, and she left him instantly. To Sanford it was still more difficult for him to apply, for though frequently together they were never sociable. And as Sanford seldom disguised his feelings to Rushbrook he was always extremely severe and sometimes unmanorly. In this perplexed situation the country heir was rather of detriment than service to the invalid, and had he not like a true lover clung fast to hope, while he could perceive nothing but despair he would have returned to town rather than by his stay here have placed in a subordinate state the object of his adoration. Persisting in his hopes he one morning met Miss Woodley in the garden, and engaging her a longer time than usual in conversation at last obtained her promise. She would that day dine with him and Mr. Sanford, but no sooner had she parted from him than she repented of her consent. And upon communicating it, Matilda for the first time in her life darted upon her kind companion a look of the most cutting reproach and haughty resentment. Miss Woodley's own sentiments had uprated her before, but she was not prepared to receive so pointed a mark of disapprovation from her young friend. Till now judious and humble to her as to a mother and not less affectionate, her heart was too susceptible to bear this disrespectful and contomolious frown from the object to her long devoted care and concern. The tears instantly covered her face and she laid her hand upon her heart as if she thought it would break. Matilda was moved, but she possessed too much of the manly restraint of her father to discover what she felt for the first few minutes. Miss Woodley, who had given so many tears to her sorrow but never till now one to her anger, had a deeper sense of this indifference than of the anger itself, and to conceal what she suffered left the room. Matilda, who had been till this time working at her needle, seemingly composed, now let her work drop from her hand and sat for a while in a deep reverie. At length she rose up and followed Miss Woodley to the other apartment. She entered grave, majestic, and apparently serene while her poor heart fluttered with a thousand distressing sensations. She approached Miss Woodley, who was still in tears, with silence, and, awed by her manners, the faithful friend of her deceased mother exclaimed, Dear Lady Matilda, think no more on what I have done, do not resent it any longer, and on my knees I beg your pardon. Miss Woodley rose as she uttered these last words, but Matilda laid fast hold of her to prevent the posture she offered to take, and instantly assumed it herself. Oh, let this be my atonement, she cried with the most earnest supplication. They interchanged forgiveness, and as this reconciliation was sincere, they each, without reserve, gave their opinion upon the subject that had caused the misunderstanding, and it was agreed an apology should be sent to Mr. Rushbrook, that Miss Woodley had been suddenly indisposed, nor could this be said to differ from the truth. For since what had passed she was unfit to pay a visit. Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the advance he supposed he had made in that lady's favor, was highly disappointed, vexed, and angry when this apology was delivered, nor did he, nor perhaps could he, conceal what he felt, although his severe observer, Mr. Sanford, was present. I am a very unfortunate man, said he, as soon as the servant was gone who brought the message. Sanford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise and contempt. A very unfortunate man indeed, Mr. Sanford, repeated he, although you treat my complaint contemptuously. Mr. Sanford made no reply and seemed above making one. They sat down to dinner. Rushbrook ate, scarce anything, but drank frequently. Sanford took no notice of either, but had a book, which was his custom when he dined with persons whose conversation was not interesting to him, laid by the side of his plate which he occasionally looked into as the dishes were removing or other opportunities served. Rushbrook, now more hopeless than ever of forming an acquaintance with Lady Matilda, began to give way to symptoms of despondency, and they made their first attack by urging him to treat with the same level of familiarity that he himself was treated, Mr. Sanford, to whom he had till now ever behaved with the most profound tokens of respect. Come, said he to him, as soon as the dinner was removed, lay aside your book and be good company. Mr. Sanford lifted up his eyes upon him, stared in his face and cast them on the book again. Shaw, continued Rushbrook, I want a companion, and as Ms. Woodley has disappointed me I must have your company. Sanford 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 Ms. Woodley's company, when people expect what they have no right to hope, to his impertinent assurance to complain they are disappointed? I had a right to hope she would come, answered Rushbrook, for she promised she would, but what right had you to ask her? The right everyone has to make his time pass as agreeably as he can, but not at the expense of another. I believe, Mr. Sanford, it would be a heavy expense to you to see me happy. I believe it would cost you even your own happiness. That is a price I have not now to give, replied it Sanford, and began reading again. What, you have already paid it anyway? No wonder that, at your time of life, it should be gone. But what do you think of my having already squandered mine? I don't think about you, returned Sanford, without taking his eyes from the book. Can you look me in the face and say that, Mr. Sanford? 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. But I can tell you why you hate me, continued he. It is from a cause for which I often hate myself, Sanford read on. It is on Lady Matilda's account you hate me, and use me thus. Sanford put down the book hastily, and put both his hands by his side. Yes, resume Brushbook, you think I'm wronging her. I think you insult her, exclaimed Sanford, by this rude mention of her name, and I command you at your peril to desist. And my peril, Mr. Sanford, do you assume the authority of my Lord Elmwood? I do on this occasion, and if you dare give your tongue a freedom, Brushbook interrupted him. Why then I boldly say, and as her friend you ought rather to applaud them reason, I boldly say, that my heart suffers so much for her situation that I am regardless of my own. I love her father, I loved her mother more, but I love her beyond either. Hold your licentious tongue, cried Sanford, or quit the room. Licentious? Oh, the pure thoughts that dwell in her innocent mind are not less sensual than mine toward her. Do you upraid me with my respect, my pity for her? There are the sensations which impel me to speak this undisguised, into you my open, no even worse my secret enemy. Insult me as you please, Mr. Brushbook, but beware how you mention Lord Elmwood's daughter. Can it be to her dishonor that I pity her, that I would quit the house this moment never to return so that she supplied the place I withhold from her? Go then, cried Sanford. It would be of no use to her or I would. But come, Mr. Sanford, I will dare do as much as you, only second me, and I will entreat Lord Elmwood to be reconciled, to see and own her. Your vanity would be equal to your temerity. You entree? She must greatly esteem those paternal favors with your entreaties, Gander. Do you forget, young man, how short a time it is since you were entreated for? I prove that I do not, while this anxiety for Lady Matilda arises from what I feel on that account. Move your anxiety, then, from her to yourself, for where I to let Lord Elmwood know what has now passed. It is for your own sake, not for mine, if you do not. You shall not dare me to it, Mr. Rushbrook. And he rose from his seat. You shall not dare me to do you an injury. But to avoid the temptation I will never again come into your company, unless my friend Lord Elmwood be present to protect me and his child from your insults. Rushbrook rose in yet more warmth than Sanford. Have you the injustice to say that I have insulted Lady Matilda? To speak of her at all is in you an insult. But you have done more. You have dared to visit her, to force into her presence, and shock her with your offers of services which she scorns, and with your compassion which she is above. Did she complain to you? She or her friend did. I rather suppose, Mr. Sanford, that you have bribed some of the servants to reveal this. The suspicion becomes, Lord Elmwood's air. 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. Heeded with the wine he had drank and which Sanford engaged in his book had not observed, no sooner was he alone than he became by degrees cool and repentant. What had he done was the first question to himself. He had offended Sanford, 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 Sanford had said to provoke him. 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 Sanford formerly entertained of him he received a letter from Lord Elmwood, kindly inquiring after his health and saying that he should be down early in the following week. Never were the friendly expressions of his uncle half so welcome to him, for they served to soothe his imagination wracked with Sanford's wrath and his own displeasure. CHAPTER XIII When Sanford acted deliberately he always acted up to his duty. It was his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did so, but he had declared he would never be again in his company unless Lord Elmwood was present, and with all his forgiveness he found an unforgiving gratification in the duty of being obliged to keep his word. The next day Rushbrook dined alone while Sanford gave his company to the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud to seek to conciliate Sanford by abject concessions. But he endeavored to meet him as by accident and met to try what, in such a case, a submissive apology might affect. For two days all the schemes he formed on that had proved fruitless. He could never procure even a sight of him, but in 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, Sanford, accompanied by Miss Woodley, and, what agitated him infinitely more, Lady Matilda was with him. He knew not whether to proceed or to quit the path and palpably shun them. To one he 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 nearer to Matilda, could he have known what conduct would have been deemed the most respectful whatever painful denial it had cost him. That he would have adopted. But undetermined whether to go forward or to cross to another path he still walked on till he came too nigh to recede. He then, with a diffidence not affected, but most powerfully felt, pulled off his hat and, without bowing, stood respectfully silent while the company passed. Sanford walked on some paces before and took no further notice as he went by him, then just touching the forepart of his hat with his finger. Miss Woodley curtsied as she followed, but Lady Matilda made a full stop and said in the gentlest accents, I hope, Mr. Rushbrook, you are perfectly recovered. It was the sweetest music he had ever listened to, and he replied with the most reverential bow. I am better a great deal, ma'am, than instantly pursued his way as if he did not dare to utter another syllable. Sanford seldom found fault with Lady Matilda, not because he loved her, but because she seldom did wrong. On this occasion, however, he was half inclined to reprimand her, but yet he did not know what to say. The subsequent humility of Rushbrook had taken from the indiscretion of her speaking to him, and the event could by no means justify his censor. When hearing her begin to speak, Sanford had stopped, and as Rushbrook, after replying, walked away, Sanford called to her crossly. She had come along, but at the same time he put out his elbow for her to take hold of his arm. She hastened her steps and did so. Then turning to Miss Woodley, she said, I expected you would have spoken to Mr. Rushbrook. It might have prevented me. Miss Woodley replied, I was at a loss what to do, when we met formally he always spoke first. And he ought now, cried Sanford 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, replied Sanford. Some people can put on what looks they please. Then, while he looked so pale, replied Matilda, and so dejected, I can never forbear speaking to him when we meet, whatever he may think of it. And were he and I to meet a hundred, nay, a thousand times, return Sanford, I don't think I should ever speak to him again. Bless me, what for, Mr. Sanford, cried Matilda, for Sanford, 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 meantime, Rushbrook, happier than he had been for months, intoxicated with a joy at that voluntary mark of civility he had received from Lady Matilda, felt his heart so joyous and so free from every particle of malice that he resolved in the humblest manner to make atonement for the violation of decorum he had lately committed against Mr. Sanford. Too happy at this time to suffer a mortification from any indignities he might receive, he sent his servant to him, into his study, and as soon as he was returned home to beg to know if he might be permitted to wait upon him with a message he had to deliver from Lord Elmwood. The servant returned. Mr. Sanford desired he would send the message by him or the house steward. This was highly affronting, but Rushbrook was not in a humor to be offended, and he sent again begging he would admit him, but the answer was he was busy. Once wholly defeated in his hopes of reconciliation his new transports felt an ally, and the few days that remained before Lord Elmwood came he passed in solitary musing and ineffectual walks and looks toward 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 went 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. Sanford was now under the necessity of being in Rushbrook's company, yet he would never speak to him but when he was obliged or look at him, but when he could not help it. Lord Elmwood observed this conduct, yet he neither wondered nor was offended by it. He had perceived what little esteem Sanford showed his nephew from his first return, but he forgave in Sanford's humor 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 year to four to the attempt of Matilda all that passed. While this time Lord Margrave, deprived by the season of all the sports of the field, felt his love for Matilda which had been violent even though divided with the love of hunting, now too strong to be subdued, and he resolved, though reluctantly, to apply to her father for his consent to their union. But writing to Sanford this resolution he was once more repulsed and charged as a man of honor to forbear to disturb the tranquility of the family by any application of the kind. To this Sanford received no answer, for the peer highly incensed by his mistress's repugnance to him determined more firmly than ever to consult his own happiness alone, and as that depended merely upon his obtaining her he cared not by what method it was affected. About a fortnight later 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-chase and Matilda heard of the accident with more grief than would perhaps on such an occasion appertain to the most fondled child. In consequence of the pain he suffered his fever was one night very high, and Sanford who seldom quitted his apartment went frequently to his bedside every time with the secret hope that he should hear him asked 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 for short duration and his sudden recovery succeeded. Matilda, who had wept, moaned, and watched during the crisis of his illness, when she heard he was amending exclaimed, was a kind of surprise at the novelty of the sensation. And this is joy that I feel, oh, I never till now knew what those persons felt who experienced joy. Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sanford and Ms. Woodley, that 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 that there was no one person he evidently showed so much satisfaction at seeing as Ms. Woodley. She waited upon him timorously and with more than ordinary distaste at his late conduct, when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth to receive her, drew her to him, saluted her in honor that he had never in his life conferred before with signs of the sincerest friendship and affection. Sanford was present and ever associating the idea of Matilda with Ms. Woodley. He felt his heart bound with a triumph it had not enjoyed for many a day. Matilda listened with delight to the recital Ms. Woodley gave on her return, and many times, while at last it 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. Sanford was sitting with her and Ms. Woodley one evening about a week after, a person rang at the bell and inquired for him. On being told of it, by the servant, he went to the door of the apartment and cried, "'Oh! It is you! Come in!' An elderly man entered, who had been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood Hills, the 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 Sanford, knew him well, and they all almost at once asked, what was the matter? For his looks told them something distrustful had befallen him. "'Oh, sir!' he said to Sanford, I come to entreat your interest. "'In what?' said Sanford, 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!' And Edward was trembling, and the tears starting in his eyes. "'I am undone, Mr. Sanford, unless you plead for me.' "'I will!' said Sanford. "'I will.' "'And yet I am almost afraid of your success,' replied the man. "'For my lord has odored me out of the 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 offense?' cried Sanford. The man hesitated, then looking at Matilda said, "'I'll tell you, sir, some other time.' "'Did you name me before Lord Elmwood?' cried she eagerly, and terrified. "'No, madam,' replied he, but I unthinkingly spoke of my poor lady who is dead and gone.' Matilda burst into tears. "'How came you to do so mad a thing?' cried Sanford, and the encouragement which his looks had once given him now fled from his face. "'It was unthinkingly,' repeated Edwards. "'I was showing my lord some plans for the new walks, and told him, among other things, that her ladyship had many years ago approved of them.' "'Who?' cried he. "'Still I did not call to mind, but said, "'Lady Elmwood, sir, while you were abroad. "'As soon as these words were delivered, I saw my doom in his looks, and he commanded me to quit his house and service that instant. "'I am afraid,' said Sanford, shaking his head, "'I can do nothing for you.' "'Yes, sir, you know you have more power over my lord than anybody, and perhaps you may be able to save me in all mine from misery.' "'I would if I could,' replied Sanford quickly. "'You can, but try, sir.' Matilda was all this while bathed in tears, nor was Miss Woodley much less affected. "'Lady Elmwood was before their eyes. "'Matilda beheld her in her dying moments. "'Miss Woodley saw her as the gay ward of Doraforth. "'Ask Mr. Rushbrooks at Sanford. "'Proveil on him to speak for you. "'He has more power than I have.' "'He has not enough,' then,' replied Edwards, "'for he was in the room with my lord, "'when what I have told you happened.' "'And did he say nothing?' "'Yes, sir, he offered to speak on my behalf. "'My lord interrupted him and ordered him out of the room. "'He instantly went.' "'Sanford, now observing the effect which this narration "'had on the two ladies, led the man to his own apartments, "'and there assured him he dared not undertake his cause. "'But that if time or chance should happily make an alteration "'in his lord's disposition, he would be the first "'who would endeavor to replace him.' "'Edwards was obliged to submit, "'and before the next day at noon, "'his pleasant house by the side of the park, "'his garden, and his orchard, which he had occupied above twenty "'years, were cleared of their old inhabitant, "'and all his wretched family.' End of Chapter 13 of Volume 3 Volume 3, Chapter 14 of A Simple Story This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin. A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbald Volume 3, Chapter 14 Chapter 14 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 the circumstance, Miss Woodley, in order to divert the disconsolent mind of Lady Matilda, and in the hope of bringing her some little antidotes 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 respect for her. But what gave her pleasure beyond any other attention was that after she had taken, by the aid of Rushbrook, about a dozen volumes from different shells, and had laid them together, saying she would send her servant to fetch them. Lord Elmwood went eagerly to the place where they were, and, taking up each book, examined minutely what it was. One author he complained was too light, another too depressing, and put them on the shelves again. Another was erroneous, and he changed it for a better. Thus he warned her against some and selected other authors as the most cautious preceptor calls for his pupil, or a fond father for his darling child. She thanked him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked him for his attention to his daughter. For as she had herself never received such a proof of his care since all their long acquaintance, she reasonably supposed Matilda's readings, and not hers, was the object of his solicitude. She reasonably supposed Matilda's reading, and not hers, was the object of his solicitude. Having in these books store of comfort for poor Matilda, she eagerly returned with them, and, in reciting every particular circumstance, made her consider the volumes, almost like presents from her father. The month of September was now arrived, and Lord Elmwood, accompanied by Rushbrook, went to a small shooting-seat near twenty miles distant from Elmwood Castle, for a week's particular sport. Matilda was once more at large, and one beautiful morning about eleven o'clock, seeing Miss Woodley walking on the lawn before the house, she hastily took her hat to join her, and not wanting to put it on went nimbly down the great staircase, with it hanging on her arm. When she had descended a few stairs, she heard a footstep walking slowly up, and, from what emotion she could not tell, she stopped short, half resolved to turn back. She hesitated a single instant whether she should or not. Then, when a few steps further till she came to the second landing-place, which, by the sudden winding of the staircase, Lord Elmwood was immediately before her. She had felt something like a front before she saw him, but her reason told her she had nothing to fear as he was away. But now, the appearance of a stranger whom she had never before seen, the authority in his looks, as well as in the sound of his steps, a resemblance to the portrait she had been shown of him, a start of astonishment which he gave on beholding her, but above all her fears confirmed her that it was him. She gave a scream of terror, put out her trembling hands to catch the balustrades for support, missed them, and fell motionless into her father's arms. He caught her, as, by the same impulse, he would have caught any other person falling for one of eight, yet when he found her in his arms he still held her there, gazed at her attentively, and once pressed her to his bosom. At length, trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he was going to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened and she uttered, Save me! Her voice unmanned him. His long restrained tears now burst forth, and seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he cried out eagerly to recall her, her name did not, however, come to his recollection, nor any name but this. Miss Milner, dear Miss Milner! That sound did not awaken her, and now again he wished to leave her in this senseless state, that not remembering what had passed she might escape the punishment. But at this instant Gifford, with another servant, passed by the foot of the stairs on which Lord Elm would call to them, and into Gifford's hands delivered his apparently dead child without one command respecting her nor one word of any kind, while his face was agitated with shame, with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderness. As Gifford 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 difficulty released. On attempting to take the hand away, he trembled, faltered. Then bade Gifford do it. Who I, my lord, I separate you, cried he, but recollecting himself, my lord, I will obey your commands whatever they are, and, seizing her hands, 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 hastened to attend her after listening to the recital of what had passed. When Lady Elmwood's old and affectionate friend entered the room and saw her youthful charge lying pale and speechless, yet no father bide a comforter soothe her. She lifted up her hands to heaven, exclaiming, with a burst of tears. And this is the end of thee, my poor child. Is this the end of all our hopes, of thy own fearful hopes, and of thy mother's supplications? Oh, Lord Elmwood, Lord Elmwood! At that name Matilda started and cried. Where is he? Is it a dream, or have I seen him? It is all a dream, my dear, said Miss Woodley. And yet I thought he held me in his arms, she replied. I thought I felt his hands pressed mine. Let me sleep and dream again. Now thinking it best to undeceive her. It is no dream, my dear, returned Miss Woodley. Is it not, cried she, starting up and leaning on her elbow? Then I suppose I must go away, go for ever away. Sanford now entered, having been told the news. He came to condole, but at the sight of him Matilda was terrified and cried. Do not reproach me, do not upraid me. I know I have done wrong. I know I had but one command from my father, and that I have disobeyed. Sanford 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, blessed should be a messenger to pronounce Matilda's destiny. Lord Elmwood did not stay upon this visit above three hours at Elmwood House. He then set off again for the seat he had left, where Rushbrooke still remained, and from whence his lordship had merely come by accident to look over some writings which he wanted dispatched to town. During his short continuance here, Sanford cautiously avoided his presence, for he thought, in a case like this, what nature would not of her self-effect, no arguments of his could accomplish. To nature and providence he left the whole. What these two powerful principles brought about, the reader will judge when he peruses the following letter received early the next morning by Miss Woodley. And of Chapter 14, Volume 3, Recording by Joyce Martin. Volume 4, Chapter 1, of A Simple Story. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin. A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbald. Volume 4, Chapter 1. A letter from Gifford, Lord Elmwood's house steward, to Miss Woodley. Madam, my lord, above a twelfth month ago, acquainted me he had permitted his daughter to reside in his house, but at the same time he informed me the grant was under a certain restriction, which, if ever broken, I was to see his then determination, of which he also acquainted me, to put in execution. In consequence of Lady Matilda's indisposition, Madam, I have ventured to delay this notice till morning. I need not say with what concern I now give it, or mention to you, I believe, what is forfeited. My lord stayed 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 anything 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 witnessed to you in my lord's house, since I first lived in it, have increased my age in many years, and I have not the strength to see you upon this occasion. I love to my deceased lady. I love my lord, and I love their child. Nay, so I am sure does my lord himself, but there is no accounting for his resolutions, or for the alteration his disposition has lately undergone. I beg pardon, Madam, for this long intrusion, and am, and ever will be, while you and my lord's daughter are so, your afflicted humble servant, Robert Gifford, Elmwood House, September 12. When this letter was brought to Miss Woodley, she knew what it contained before she opened it, and therefore took it with an air of resignation. Yet, though she guessed the momentous part of its contents, she dreaded in what words it might be related, and having now no essential good to expect, hope that will never totally expire, clung at this crisis to little circumstances, and she hoped most fervently the terms of the letter might not be harsh, but that Lord Elmwood had delivered his commands in gentle language. The event proved he had, and lost to every important comfort she felt grateful to him for this small one. Matilda, too, was cheered by this letter, for she expected something worse, and the last line in which Gifford said he knew his lordship loved her, she thought repaid her for the purport of the other part. Samford 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 endeavors, and he sunk into grief. Nor was the fortitude of Matilda, which came to her assistance on the first onset of this trial, sufficient to arm her, when the moment came she was to quit the house, her father's house, never to see that, or him again. When word was brought that the carriage was at the door, which was to convey her from all she held so dear, and she saw before her the prospect of a long, youthful, and healthful life in which misery and despair were all she could discern that despair seized her at once. Then gaining courage from it, she cried, What have I to fear if I disobey my father's commands once more? He cannot use me worse. I'll stay here till he returns, again throw myself in his way, and then I will not faint but plead for mercy. Perhaps were I to kneel to him, kneel like other children to their parents, and beg his blessing he would not refuse me. You must not try, said Stanford mildly. Who, cried she, shall prevent me from flying at my father? Have I another friend on earth? Have I one relation in the world but him? This is the second time I have been turned out of his house. In my infant state my cruel father turned me out, but then he sent me to a mother. Now I have none, and I will stay with him. Again the stewards sent to let them know the coach was waiting. Stanford, now with the determined continence, went coolly up to Lady Matilda, and taking her hand seemed resolved to lead her to the carriage. Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she yet resisted this, and cried, Would you be the minister of my father's cruelty? Then, said Stanford solemnly to her, Farewell, from this moment you and I part. I will take my leave, and do you remain where you are, at least till you are forced away, but I'll not stay to be driven hence. For it is impossible your father will suffer any friend of yours to continue here after this disobedience. I do. I'll go this moment, said she, and rose hastily. Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her immediately out of the room. Stanford 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 impressed me to his heart. But I now find I was mistaken. So, Samford came forward to hand her into the coach. Now you behave well, said he. By this behavior you do not entirely close all prospect of reconciliation with your father. Do you think it is not yet impossible, cried she, clinging his hand? Gifford says he loves me, continued she. And do you think he might yet be brought to forgive me? Forgive you, cried Samford. Suppose I was to write to him and entreat his forgiveness. Do not write yet, said Samford, with no cheering accent. The carriage drove off, and as it went, Matilda leaned her head from the window to survey Elmwood House from the roof to the bottom. She cast her eyes upon the gardens, too, upon the fish ponds, even the coach houses, and all the offices adjoining, which, as objects that she should never see again, she contemplated as objects of importance. End of Chapter 1, Volume 4, Recording by Joyce Martin Volume 4, Chapter 2 of A Simple Story This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joyce Martin A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbald Volume 4, Chapter 2 A Simple Story, Chapter 2 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 chase back. He did so, and getting into the carriage told him eagerly the sport he had had during the day, laughed at an accident that had befallen one of his dogs, and for some time did not perceive but that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At length, observing, he answered more negligently than usual to what he said, Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him and cried, My Lord, you are not well? Yes, perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook, and he leaned back against the carriage. I thought, sir, return Rushbrook, you spoke languidly. I beg your pardon. I have the headache a little, answered he, and then taking off his hat, brushed the powder from it, as he put it on again, fetched a most heavy sigh which no sinner had escaped him then to drown its sound, he said briskly. And so you tell me, you have had good sport today. No, my Lord, I said, but indifferent. True, so you did. Bid the man drive faster. It will be dark before we get home. You will shoot tomorrow, my Lord? Certainly. How does Mr. Sanford do, sir? I did not see him. Not see Mr. Sanford, my Lord? But he was out, I suppose, for they did not expect to at Elmwood House. No, they did not. In such conversation Rushbrook and his uncle continued to the end of their journey. Dinner was then immediately served, and Lord Elmwood appeared much in his usual spirits, at least not suspecting any cause for their abatement. Rushbrook did not observe any alteration. Lord Elmwood went, however, earlier to bed than ordinary, or rather to his bed chamber, for though he retired some time before his nephew, when Rushbrook passed his chamber door, it was open, and he not in bed, but sitting in amusing 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 meant Lady Matilda, replied the man. How? Where? What's the consequence? We don't know yet, sir, but all the servants suppose her ladyship will not be suffered to remain there any longer. They all suppose wrong, returned Rushbrook. My Lord loves sir, I am certain, and this event may be the happy means of his treating her as his child from this day. The servant smiled and shook his head. Why? What more do you know? Nothing more than I have told you, sir, except that his lordship took no kind of notice of her ladyship that appeared like love. Rushbrook was all uneasiness and anxiety to know the particulars of what had passed, and now Lord Elmwood's inquietude, which he had but slightly noticed before, came full to his observation. He was going to ask more questions, but he recollected Lady Matilda's misfortunes were too sacred to be talked of thus familiarly by the servants of the family. Besides, it was evident this man thought, but naturally it might not be for his master's interest the father and the daughter should be united, and therefore would certainly give to all, he said, the opposite coloring. In spite of his prudence, however, and his delicacy toward Matilda, Rushbrook could not let his valet leave him till he had inquired and learned all the circumstantial account of what had happened, except indeed the order received by Gifford, which being given after Lord Elmwood was in his carriage and in concise terms the domestics who attended him, and from whom this man had gained his intelligence, were unacquainted with it. When the servant had left Rushbrook alone, the perturbation of his mind was so great that he was, at length, undetermined whether to go to bed or to Rush into his uncle's apartment, and at his feet begged for that compassion upon his daughter, which he feared he had denied her. But then, to what peril would he not expose himself by such a step? Nay, he might perhaps even injure her whom he wished to serve, for if his uncle was at present unresolved, whether to forgive or to resent this disobedience to his commands, another's interference might enrage and precipitate him on the latter. This consideration was so weighty it resigned Rushbrook to the suspense he was compelled to endure till the morning. When he flattered himself that by watching every look and motion of Lord Elmwood his penetration would be able to discover the state of his heart and how he meant to act. But the morning came, and he found all his prying curiosity was of no avail. Lord Elmwood did not drop one word, give one look, or use one action that was not customary. On first seeing him Rushbrook blushed at the secret with which wasn't trusted him. Then, as he gazed on the earl, contemplated the joy he ought to have known in clasping in his arms a child like Matilda, whose tenderness, reverence, and duty had deprived her of all sensation at his sight, which was in Rushbrook's mind an honor that rendered him superior to what he was before. They were in the fields all day as usual, Lord Elmwood now cheerful and complaining no more of the headache. Yet once being separated from his nephew Rushbrook crossed over a style into another field and found him sitting by the side of a bank, his gun lying by him, and himself lost in thought. He rose on seeing him and proceeded to the sport as before. At dinner he said he should not go to Elmwood house the next day as he had appointed, but stay where he was three or four days longer. From these two small occurrences Rushbrook would faint have extracted something by which to judge the state of his mind, but upon the test that was impossible, for 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 anything more material swayed him who could penetrate whether it was the effect of the lenity or the severity he had dealt toward his child, whether his confidence 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 continence change as they entered the avenue, yet he did not appear less in spirits when Samford joined them at dinner. The Earl went with his usual aclarity to him, and as was his custom after any separation put out his hand cheerfully to take his. Samford said, How do you do, my lord? Cheerfully in return, but put both his hands into his bosom and walked to the other side of the room. Lord Elmwood did not seem to observe this affront, nor was it done as an affront. It was merely what poor Samford felt, and he felt he could not shake hands with him. Rushbrook soon learned the news that Matilda was gone, and Elmwood house was to him a desert. He saw there no real friend of hers except poor Samford, 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 Samford more odious than he had ever been. In alleviation of their banishment, Miss Woodley, with her charge, had not returned to their old retreat, but were gone to a farmhouse, not further than thirty miles from Lord Elmwood's. Here Samford, with little inconvenience, visited them. Nor did his patron ever take notice of his occasional absence, for as he had before given his daughter in some measure to his charge, so honor, delicacy, and the common ties of duty made him approve rather than condemn his attention to her. Though Samford's frequent visits soothed Matilda, they could not comfort her, for he had no consolation to bestow that was suited to her mind. Her father had given no one token of regret for what he had done. He had even inquired sternly of Gifford on his returning home. If Miss Woodley had left the house? The steward guessing the whole of his meaning answered, yes, my lord, and all your commands in that respect had been obeyed. He replied, I am satisfied, and to the grief of the old man appeared really so. To the farmhouse, the place of Matilda's residence, there came, beside Samford, another visitor far less welcome, Viscount Margrave. He had heard with surprise and still greater joy that Lord Elmwood had once more shut his doors against his daughter. In this her discarded state he no longer birthed his lively imagination with the dull thoughts of marriage, but once more formed the idea of making her his mistress. Ignorant of a certain decorum which attended all Lord Elmwood's actions, he suspected that his child might be in want, and in acquiescence, with the worst part of her sex, informed him. That relief from poverty was the sure bargain for his success. With these hopes he again paid Miss Woodley and her a visit, but the coldness of the former and the haughtiness of the latter still kept him at a distance, and again made him fear to give one allusion to his purpose. But he returned home, resolved to write what he durst not speak. He did so. He offered his services, his purse, his house. They were rejected with contempt and a stronger prohibition than ever given to his visits.