 Volume 2 Chapter 10 of A Simple Story Two whole days passed in the bitterest suspense on the part of Miss Milner, while neither one word or look from Lord Elmwood denoted the most trivial change of the sentiments he had declared on the night of the masquerade. Still those sentiments, or intentions, were not explicitly delivered. They were more like intimations than solemn declarations, for though he had said he would never reproach her for the future, and that, she might expect they should part, he had not positively said they should, and upon this doubtful meaning of his words she hung with the strongest agitation of hope and of fear. Miss Woodley, seeing the distress of her mind, much as she endeavored to conceal it, entreated, nay implored of her, to permit her to be a mediator, to suffer her to ask for a private interview with Lord Elmwood, and if she found him inflexible, to behave with a proper spirit in return. But if he appeared not absolutely averse to a reconciliation, to offer it in so cautious a manner, that it might take place without farther uneasiness on either side. But Miss Milner preemptorily forbade this, and acknowledging to her friend every weakness she felt on the occasion, yet concluded with solemnity, declaring that after what had passed between her and Lord Elmwood, he must be the first to make a concession, before she herself would condescend to be reconciled. I believe I know Lord Elmwood's temper, replied Miss Woodley, and I do not think he will be easily induced to beg pardon for a fault which he thinks you have committed. Then he does not love me. Pasha, Miss Milner, this is the old argument. He may love you too well to spoil you. Consider that he is your guardian as well as your lover. He means also to become your husband, and he is a man of such nice honor that he will not indulge you with any power before marriage, to which he does not intend to submit hereafter. But tenderness, affection, the politeness due from a lover to his mistress demands his submission, and as I now despair of enticing, I will oblige him to it. At least I'll make the trial, and know my fate at once. What do you mean to do? Invite Lord Frederick to the house, and ask my guardian's consent for our immediate union. He will then see what effect that will have upon his pride. But you will then make it too late for him to be humble. If you resolve on this, my dear Miss Milner, you are undone at once. You must thus hurry yourself into a marriage with a man you do not love, and the misery of your whole future life may be the result. Or would you force Mr. Doraforth, I mean Lord Elmwood, to another duel with my Lord Frederick? No, call him Doraforth, answered she, with the tears stealing from her eyes. I thank you for calling him so, for by that name alone is he dear to me. Nay, Miss Milner, with what rapture did you not receive his love as Lord Elmwood? But under this title he has been barbarous. Under the first he was all friendship and tenderness. Notwithstanding Miss Milner indulged herself in all these soft bewailings to her friend. Before Lord Elmwood she maintained a degree of pride and steadiness which surprised even him, who perhaps thought less of her love for him than any other person. She now began to fear she had gone too far in discovering her affection, and resolved to make trial of a contrary method. She determined to retrieve that haughty character which had inspired so many of her admirers with passion, and take the chance of its effect upon this only one to whom she ever acknowledged a mutual attachment. But although she acted this character well, so well that everyone but Miss Woodley thought her in earnest, yet with nice and attentive anxiety she watched even the slightest circumstances that might revive her hopes or confirm her despair. Lord Elmwood's behavior was calculated only to produce the latter. He was cold, polite, and perfectly indifferent. Yet whatever his manners now were they did not remove from her recollection what they had been. She recalled with delight the ardor with which he had first declared his passion to her and the thousand proofs he had since given of its reality. From the constancy of his disposition she depended that sentiments like these were not totally eradicated, and from the extreme desire which Mr. Sandford now, more than ever, discovered of depreciating her in his patron's esteem, from the now more than common zeal which urged him to take Lord Elmwood from her company, whenever he had it in his power she was led to believe that while his friend entertained such strong fears of his relapsing into love she had reason to indulge the strongest hopes that he would. But the reserve and even indifference that she had so well assumed for a few days, and which might perhaps have affected her design, she had not the patience to persevere in without calling levity to their aid. She visited repeatedly without saying where or with whom, kept later hours than usual, appeared in the highest spirits, sung, laughed, and never heaved aside, but when she was alone. Still Lord Elmwood protracted a resolution that he was determined he would never break when taken. Miss Woodley was excessively uneasy and with cause. She saw her friend was providing herself with a weight of cares that she would soon find infinitely too much for her strength to bear. She would have reasoned with her, but all her arguments had long since proved unavailing. She wished to speak to Lord Elmwood upon the subject, and, unknown to her, plead her excuse, but he apprehended Miss Woodley's intention and evidently shunned her. Mr. Sandford was now the only person to whom she could speak of Miss Milner, and the delight he took to expatiate on her faults was more sorrow to her friend than not to speak of her at all. She therefore sat a silent spectator, waiting with dread for the time when she, who now scorned her advice, would fly to her in vain for comfort. Sandford had, however, said one thing to Miss Woodley which gave her a ray of hope. During their conversation on the subject, not by way of consolation to her, but as a reproach to Lord Elmwood, he one day angrily exclaimed, and yet, notwithstanding all this provocation, he has not come to the determination that he will think no more of her. He lingers and he hesitates, I never saw him so weak upon any occasion before. This was joyful hearing to Miss Woodley. Still, she could not but reflect, the longer he was in coming to this determination, the more irrevocable it would be when once taken. And every moment that passed she trembled lest it should be the very moment in which Lord Elmwood should resolve to banish Miss Milner from his heart. Amongst her unpardonable indiscretions, during this trial upon the temper of her guardian, was the frequent mention of many gentlemen who had been her professed admirers, and the mention of them with partiality. Teased, if not tortured by this, Lord Elmwood still behaved with a manly evenness of temper, and neither appeared provoked on the subject, nor insolently careless. In a single instance, however, this calmness was near deserting him. And during the drawing room one evening, he started on seeing Lord Frederick longly there in earnest conversation with Miss Milner. Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley were both indeed present, and Lord Frederick was talking in an audible voice upon some indifferent subjects, but with that impressive manner in which a man never fails to speak to the woman he loves, be the subject what it may. The moment Lord Elmwood started, which was the moment he entered, Lord Frederick arose. I beg your pardon, my lord, said Lord Elmwood. I protest I did not know you. I ought to entreat your lordship's pardon, returned Lord Frederick, for this intrusion, which an accident alone has occasioned, Miss Milner has been almost overturned by the carelessness of a lady's coachman in whose carriage she was, and therefore suffered me to bring her home in mine. I hope you are not hurt, said Lord Elmwood to Miss Milner, but his voice was so much affected by what he felt that he could scarce articulate the words. Not with the apprehension that she was hurt was he thus agitated, for the gaiety of her manners convinced him that could not be the case, nor did he indeed suppose any accident of the kind mentioned had occurred, but the circumstance of unexpectedly seeing Lord Frederick had taken him off his guard, and being totally unprepared he could not conceal indications of the surprise and of the shock it had given him. Lord Frederick, who had heard nothing of his intended union with his ward, for it was even kept a secret at present from every servant in the house, imputed this discomposure to the personal resentment he might bear him in consequence of their dual, for though Lord Elmwood had assured the uncle of Lord Frederick, who once waited upon him on the subject of Miss Milner, while resentment was, on his part, entirely at an end, and that he was willing to consent to his ward's marriage with his nephew, if she would concur, yet Lord Frederick doubted the sincerity of this, and would still have had the delicacy not to have entered Lord Elmwood's house had he not been encouraged by Miss Milner and emboldened by his love. Personal resentment was therefore the construction he put upon Lord Elmwood's emotion on entering the room. But Miss Milner and Miss Woodley knew his agitation to arise from a far different cause. After his entrance Lord Frederick did not attempt once to resume his seat, but having bowed most respectfully to all present, he took his leave, while Miss Milner followed him as far as the door and repeated her thanks for his protection. Lord Elmwood was hurt beyond measure, but he had a second concern, which was, that he had not the power to conceal how much he was affected. He trembled. When he attempted to speak, he stammered. He perceived his face burning with confusion, and thus one confusion gave birth to another till his state was pitiable. Miss Milner, with all her assumed gaiety and real insolence, had not, however, the insolence to seem as if she observed him. She had only the confidence to observe him by stealth, and Mrs. Horton and Miss Woodley, having opportunely begun a discourse upon some trivial occurrences, gave him time to recover himself by degrees. Yet still it was merely by degrees, for the impression which this incident had made was deep and not easily to be erased. The entrance of Mr. Sandford, who knew nothing of what had happened, was, however, another relief, for he began a conversation with him, which they very soon retired into the library to terminate. Miss Milner, taking Miss Woodley with her, went directly to her own apartment, and there exclaimed in rapture, He is mine, he loves me, and he is mine for ever. Miss Woodley congratulated her upon believing so, but confessed she herself had her fears. What fears! cried Miss Milner. Don't you perceive that he loves me? I do, said Miss Woodley, but that I always believed, and I think, if he loves you now, he has yet the good sense to know that he has reason to hate you. What has good sense to do with love? returned Miss Milner. If a lover of mine suffers his understanding to get the better of his affection, the same arguments were going to be repeated, but Miss Woodley interrupted her by requiring an explanation of her conduct as to Lord Frederick, whom, at least, she was treating with cruelty if she only made use of his affection to stimulate that of Lord Elmwood. By no means, my dear Miss Woodley, returned she, I have, indeed, done with my Lord Frederick from this day, and he has certainly given me the proof I wanted of Lord Elmwood's love, but then I did not engage him to this by the smallest ray of hope. No, do not suspect me of that while my heart was in others, and I assure you, seriously, that it was from the circumstance we described he came with me home, yet I must own that if I had not had this design upon Lord Elmwood's jealousy and idea I would have walked on foot through the streets rather than have suffered his rival civilities. But he pressed his services so violently, and my Lady Evans, in whose coach I was when the accident happened, pressed me so violently to accept them that he cannot expect any farther meaning from this acquiescence than my own convenience. Miss Woodley was going to reply, when she resumed, Nay, if you intend to say I have done wrong, still I am not sorry for it, when it has given me such convincing proof of Lord Elmwood's love. Did you see him? I am afraid you did not see how he trembled, and that manly voice faltered, as mine does sometimes, his proud heart was humbled too, as mine is now and then. Oh, Miss Woodley, I have been counterfeiting indifference to him. I now find that all his indifference to me has been counterfeit, and that we not only love, but love equally. Suppose this all as you hope, I think yet it highly necessary that your guardian should be informed, seriously informed, it was mere accident, for at present that plea seems but as a subterfuge, which brought Lord Frederick hither. No, that will be destroying the work so successfully begun. I will not suffer any explanation to take place, but let my Lord Elmwood act just as his love shall dictate, and now I have no longer a doubt of its excess, instead of stooping to him, I wait in the certain expectation of his submission to me. End of Volume 2, Chapter 10, recording by Rosie. Volume 2, Chapter 11, of a simple story. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Pam Muscato. A Simple Story by Elizabeth Ingebald. Volume 2, Chapter 11. In vain for three long days did Miss Milner wait impatiently for this submission. Not a sign, not a symptom appeared, nay. Lord Elmwood had, since the evening of Lord Frederick's visit, which at the time it happened seemed to affect him so exceedingly, become just the same man he was before the circumstance occurred, except indeed that he was less thoughtful and now and then cheerful, but without any appearance that his cheerfulness was affected. Miss Milner was vexed. She was alarmed, but was ashamed to confess those humiliating sensations, even to Miss Woodley. She supported, therefore, when in company, the vaivé city she had so long assumed, but gave way when alone, to a still greater degree of melancholy than usual. She no longer applauded her scheme of bringing Lord Frederick to the house, and trembled, lest on some pretense he should dare to call again. But as these feelings which her pride would not suffer her to disclose, even to her friend, who would have condoled with her, their effects were doubly poignant. Sitting in her dressing-room, one forenoon with Miss Woodley, and birthing with a load of grief that she blushed to acknowledge, while her companion was charged with apprehensions that she, too, was loathed to disclose, one of Lord Elmwood's valets tapped gently at the door, and delivered a letter to Miss Milner, by the person who brought it, as well as by the address, she knew it came from Lord Elmwood, and laid it down upon her toilet, as if she was fearful to unfold it. "'What is that?' said Miss Woodley. "'A letter from Lord Elmwood,' replied Miss Milner. "'Good Heaven!' exclaimed Miss Woodley. "'Nay,' returned she. "'It is. I have no doubt a letter to beg my pardon. But her reluctance to open it plainly evinced. She did not think so. "'Do not read it yet,' said Miss Woodley. "'I do not intend it,' replied she, trembling extremely. "'Will you dine first?' said Miss Woodley. "'No. For not knowing its contents I shall not know how to conduct myself towards him.' Here a silence followed. Miss Milner took up the letter, looked earnestly at the handwriting on the outside, at the seal, inspected into its folds, and seemed to wish, by some equivocal method, the guests of the contents, without having the courage to come at the certain knowledge of them. Curiosity at length got the better of her fears. She opened the letter, and scarce able to hold it while she read. She read the following words. "'Madam, while I consider you only as my ward, my friendship for you was unbounded. When I looked upon you as a woman formed to grace a fashionable circle, my admiration equalled my friendship. And when fate permitted me to behold you in the tender light of my betrothed wife, my soaring love left those humbler passions at a distance, that you have still my friendship, my admiration, and even my love, I will not attempt to deceive either myself or you by disavowing. But still, with a firm assurance, I declare that prudence outweighs them all, and I have not, from hence forward, a wish to be regarded by you in any other respect than as one who wishes you well. That you ever beheld me in the endearing quality of a destined and an affectionate husband as I would have proved was a deception upon my hopes. They acknowledged the mistake and are humbled. But I entreat you to spare their farther trial and for a single week do not insult me with the open preference of another. In the short space of that period I shall have taken my leave of you, for ever. I shall visit Italy and some other parts of the Continent, from whence I propose passing to the West Indies in order to inspect my possessions there, nor shall I return to England till after a few years' absence, in which time I hope to become once more reconciled to the change of state I am enjoined, a change I now most fervently wish could be entirely dispensed with. The occasion of my remaining here a week longer is to settle some necessary affairs among which the principle is that of delivering to a friend a man of worth and of tenderness all those writings which have invested me with the power of my guardianship. He will, the day after my departure, without one upbraiding word, resign them to you in my name, and even your most respected father, could he behold the resignation, would concur in its propriety. And now, my dear Miss Milner, let not affected resentment contempt or levity oppose that serenity which for the week to come I wish to enjoy. By complying with this request give me to believe that since you have been under my care you think I have at least faithfully discharged some part of my duty, and wherever I have been inadequate to your wishes, attribute my demerits to some infirmity of mind rather than to a negligence of your happiness. Yet be the cause what it will, since these faults have existed I do not attempt to disavow or extenuate them and I beg your pardon. However time and a succession of objects may eradicate more tender sentiments I am sure never to lose the liveliest anxiety for your welfare and with all that solicitude which cannot be described I entreat for your own sake, for mine, when we shall be far asunder, and for the sake of your dead father's memory that upon every important occasion you will call your serious judgment to direct you. I am, madam, your sincerest friend, Elmwood. After she had read every syllable of this letter it dropped from her hands, but she uttered not a word. There was, however, a paleness in her face, a deadness in her eye, and a kind of palsy over her frame which Miss Woodley, who had seen her in every stage of her uneasiness, never had seen before. I do not want to read the letter, said Miss Woodley, your looks tell me its contents. They will then discover to Lord Elmwood, replied she, what I feel, but heaven forbid, that would sink me even lower than I am. Scarce able to move she rose, and looked in her glass as if to arrange her features, and impose upon him alas, it was of no avail. A serenity of mine could alone affect what she desired. You must endeavor, said Miss Woodley, to feel the disposition you wished to make appear. I will, replied she. I will feel a proper pride and a proper scorn of this treatment. And so desirous was she to attain the appearance of these sentiments that she made the strongest efforts to calm her thoughts in order to acquire it. I have but a few days to remain with him, she said to herself, and we part forever. During those few days it is not only my duty to obey his commands, or rather comply with his request, but it is also my wish to leave upon his mind an impression, which may not add to the ill opinion he has formed of me, but perhaps serve to diminish it. If in every other instance my conduct has been blamable, he shall at least in this acknowledge its merit. The fate I have drawn upon myself he shall find I can be resigned to, and he shall be convinced that the woman of whose weakness he has had so many fatal proofs is yet in possession of some fortitude, fortitude to bid him farewell without discovering one affected or one real paying, though her death should be the immediate consequence. Thus she resolved and thus she acted. The severest judge could not have arraigned her conduct, from the day she received Lord Elma's letter to the day of his departure. She had indeed involuntary weaknesses, but none with which she did not struggle, and in general her struggles were victorious. The first time she saw him after the receipt of his letter was on the evening of the same day. She had a little concert of amateurs of music, and was herself singing and playing when he entered the room. The connoisseurs immediately perceived she made a false cadence, but Lord Elmwood was no connoisseur in the art, and he did not observe it. They occasionally spoke to each other through the evening, but the subjects were general, and though their manners every time they spoke were perfectly polite, they were not marked with the smallest degree of familiarity. To describe his behavior exactly it was the same as his letter, polite, friendly, composed, and resolved. Some of the company stayed supper, which prevented the embarrassment that must unavoidably have arisen, had the family been by themselves. The next morning each breakfasted in his separate apartments, more company dined with them, in the evening and at supper Lord Elmwood was from home. Thus all passed on as peaceably as he had requested, and Miss Milner had not betrayed one particle of frailty. When the third day at dinner some gentleman of his acquaintance, being at table, one of them said, and so my lord, you absolutely set off on Tuesday morning? This was Friday. Sanford and he both replied at the same time, yes, and Sanford, but not Lord Elmwood, looked at Miss Milner when he spoke. Her knife and fork gave a sudden spring in her hand, but no other emotion witnessed what she felt. I, Elmwood, cried another gentleman at the table, you'll bring home, I am afraid, a foreign wife, and that I shan't forgive. It is his errand abroad, I make no doubt, said another visitor. Before he could return an answer, Sanford cried, and what objection to a foreigner for a wife? Do not crown heads all merry foreigners? And who happier in the married state than some kings? Lord Elmwood directed his eyes to the side of the table, opposite to that where Miss Milner sat. Nay! answered one of the guests, who was a country gentleman. What do you say, ladies? Do you think my lord ought to go out of his own nation for a wife? And he looked at Miss Milner for the reply. Miss Woodley, uneasy at her friends, being thus forced to give an opinion upon so delicate a subject, endeavored to satisfy the gentleman by answering to the question herself. Whoever my lord Elmwood marries, sir, said Miss Woodley, he no doubt will be happy. But what say you, madam? asked the visitor, still keeping his eyes on Miss Milner. That whoever lord Elmwood marries, he deserves to be happy, returned she with the utmost command of her voice and looks, for Miss Woodley, by replying first, had given her time to collect herself. The color flew to lord Elmwood's face as she delivered this short sentence, and Miss Woodley persuaded herself. She saw a tear start in his eye. Miss Milner did not look that way. In an instant he found means to change a subject. But that of his journey still employed the conversation. And what horses, servants, and carriages he took with him was minutely asked, and so accurately answered either by himself or by Mr. Sanford, that Miss Milner, although she had known her doom before, till now had received no circumstantial account of it, and as circumstances increase or diminish, all we feel, the hearing these things told, increase the bitterness of their truth. Soon after dinner the ladies retired, and from that time, though Miss Milner's behavior continued the same, yet her looks and her voice were totally altered. For the world she could not have looked cheerfully. For the world she could not have spoken with a sprightly accent. She frequently began in one, but not three words could she utter, before her tones sunk into dejection. Not only her color but her features became changed. Her eyes lost their brilliancy. Her lips seemed to hang without the power of motion. Her head drooped, and her dress was neglected. Conscious of this appearance, and conscious of the cause from whence it arose, it was her desire to hide herself from the only object she could have wished to have charmed. Suddenly she sat alone, or with Miss Woodley, in her own apartment, as much as was consistent with that civility which her guardian had requested, and which forbade her totally absenting herself. Miss Woodley felt so acutely the torments of her friend, that had not her reason told her that the inflexible mind of Lord Elmwood was fixed beyond her power to shake. She had cast herself at his feet, and implored the return of his affection and tenderness, as the only means to save his once-beloved ward from an untimely death. But her understanding, her knowledge of his firm and immovable temper, and of all his provocations, her knowledge of his word long since given to Sanford, that if once resolved he would not recall his resolution. The certainty of the various plans arranged for his travels all convinced her that by any interference she would only expose Miss Milner's love and delicacy to a contemptuous rejection. If the conversation did not every day turn upon the subject of Lord Elmwood's departure, a conversation he evidently avoided himself, yet every day some new preparation for his journey struck either the ear or the eye of Miss Milner. And had she beheld a frightful specter, she could not have shuddered with more horror than when she unexpectedly passed his large trunks in the hall, nailed and courted, ready to be sent off to meet him at Venice. At the sight she flew from the company that chanced to be with her and stole to the first lonely corner of the house to conceal her tears. She reclined her head upon her hands and bedewed them with the sudden anguish that had overcome her. She heard a footstep advancing towards the spot where she hoped to have been concealed. She lifted up her eyes and saw Lord Elmwood. Pride was the first emotion his presence inspired, pride which arose from the humility into which she was plunged. She looked at him earnestly as if to imply, What now, my lord? He only answered with a bow which expressed, I beg your pardon, and immediately withdrew. Thus each understood each other's language without either having uttered a word. The just construction she put upon his looks and behavior upon his occasion kept up her spirits for some little time, and she blessed heaven repeatedly for the singular favor of showing to her clearly by this accident his negligence of her sorrows, his total indifference. The next day was the eve of that on which he was to depart, of the day on which she was to bid adieu to Doriforth, her guardian to Lord Elmwood, to all her hopes at once. The moment she awoke on Monday morning, the recollection that this was perhaps the last day she was ever again to see him, softened all the resentment his yesterday's conduct had raised, forgetting his austerity, and all she had once termed cruelties, she now only remembered his friendship, his tenderness, and his love. She was impatient to see him, and promised herself for this last day to neglect no one opportunity of being with him. For that purpose she did not breakfast in her own room, as she had done for several mornings before, but went into the breakfast room, where all the family and general met. She was rejoined on hearing his voice, as she opened the door, yet the sound made her tremble so much that she could scarcely totter to the table. Miss Woodley looked at her, as she entered, and was never so shocked at seeing her, for never had she yet seen her look so ill. As she approached she made an inclination of her head to Miss Horton, then to her guardian, as was her custom, when she first saw them in a morning. He looked at her face as he bowed in return, then fixed his eyes upon the fireplace, rubbed his forehead, and began talking with Mr. Sandford. Sandford, during breakfast, by accident cast a glance upon Miss Milner. His attention was caught by her deadly countenance, and he looked earnestly. He then turned to Lord Elmwood to see if he was observing her appearance. He was not, and so much were her thoughts engaged on him alone, that she did not once perceive Sandford gazing at her. Mrs. Horton, after a little while, observed, it was a beautiful morning, Lord Elmwood said, he thought he heard it rain in the night. Sandford cried, for his part he slept too well to know. And then, unasked, held a plate with biscuits to Miss Milner. It was the first civility he had ever in his life offered her. She smiled at the whimsicality of the circumstance, but she took one in return for his attention. He looked grave beyond his usual gravity, and yet not with his unusual ill temper. She did not eat what she had so politely taken, but laid it down soon after. Lord Elmwood was the first who rose from breakfast, and he did not return to dinner. At dinner, Mrs. Horton said, she hoped he would, however, order them with his company at supper. To which Sandford replied, No doubt, for you will hardly any of you see him in the morning, as we shall be off by six or soon after. Sandford was not going abroad with Lord Elmwood, but was to go with him as far as Dover. These words of his, not see Lord Elmwood in the morning, never again to see him after this evening, were like the knell of death to Miss Milner. She felt the symptoms of fainting, and eagerly snatched a glass of water, which the servant was holding to Sandford, who had called for it and drank it off. As she returned the glass to the servant, she began to apologize to Mr. Sandford for her seeming rudeness, but before she could utter what she intended. He said good-naturedly, Never mind, you are very welcome, I am glad you took it. She looked at him to observe, whether he had really spoken kindly or ironically, but before his countenance could satisfy her, her thoughts were called away from that trivial matter, and again fixed upon Lord Elmwood. The moment seemed tedious, till he came home to supper, and yet when she reflected how short the remainder of the evening would be after that time, she wished to defer the hour of his return for months. At ten o'clock he arrived, and at half after ten the family, without any visitor, met at supper. Miss Milner had considered that the period for her to counterfeit appearances was diminished now to a most contracted one, and she rigorously enjoined herself not to shrink from the little which remained. The certain end that would be so soon put to this painful deception encouraged her to struggle through it with redoubled zeal, and this was but necessary as her weakness increased. She therefore listened, she talked, and even smiled with the rest of the company. Nor did their vivacity seem to arise from a much less compulsive source than her own. It was past twelve when Lord Elmwood looked at his watch, and rising from his chair went up to Mrs. Horton, and taking her hand said, till I see you again, madam, I sincerely wish you every happiness. Miss Milner fixed her eyes upon the table before her. My lord, replied Mrs. Horton, I sincerely wish you health and happiness likewise. He then went to Miss Woodley, and taking her hand repeated much the same as he had said to Mrs. Horton, Miss Milner now trembled beyond all power of concealment. My lord, replied Miss Woodley, a good deal affected, I sincerely hope my prayers for your happiness may be heard. She and Mrs. Horton were both standing as well as Lord Elmwood, but Miss Milner kept her seat till his eye was turned upon her, and he moved slowly towards her. She then rose, everyone who was present, attentive to what he would now say, and how she would receive what he said, here cast their eyes upon them, and listened with impatience. They were all disappointed. He did not utter a syllable, yet he took her hand and held it closely between his. He then bowed most respectfully and left her. No, I wish you well, I wish you health and happiness, no prayers for blessings on her, not even the word farewell escaped his lips. Perhaps to have attempted any of these might have choked his utterance. She had behaved with fortitude the whole evening, and she continued to do so till the moment he turned away from her. Her eyes were then overflowed with tears, and in the agony of her mind, not knowing what she did, she laid her cold hand upon the person next to her. It happened to be Sanford, but not observing it was he. She grasped his hand with violence, yet he did not snatch it away, nor look at her with his wanted severity, and thus she stood silent and motionless, while Lord Elmwood, now at the door, bowed once more to all the company, and retired. Sanford had still Miss Milner's hand fixed upon his, and when the door was shut after Lord Elmwood he turned his head to look in her face, and turned it with some marks of apprehension for the grief he might find there. She strove to overcome that grief, and after a heavy sigh sat down as if resigned to the fate to which she was decreed. Instead of following Lord Elmwood as usual, Sanford poured out a glass of wine and drank it. A general silence ensued for near three minutes. At last turning himself round on his seat, towards Miss Milner, who sat like a statue of despair at his side. Will you breakfast with us tomorrow? said he. She made no answer. We shan't breakfast before half after six continued he. I daresay, and if you can rise so early, why do? Miss Milner said Miss Woodley, for she caught eagerly at the hope of her passing this night in less unhappiness than she had foreboded. Pray rise at that hour to breakfast. Mr. Sanford would not invite you if he thought it would displease Lord Elmwood. Not I, replied Sanford, churlishly. Then desire her maid to call her, said Mrs. Horton to Miss Woodley. Nay, she will be awake. I have no doubt returned her niece. No, replied Miss Milner, since Lord Elmwood has thought proper to take his leave of me without even speaking a word. By my own design never will I see him again, and her tears burst forth as if her heart burst at the same time. Why did not you speak to him? cried Sanford. Pray, did you bid him farewell? And I don't see why one is not as much to be blamed, in that respect as the other. I was too weak to say I wished him happy, cried Miss Milner, but heaven is my witness. I do wish him so from my soul. And do you imagine he does not wish you so? cried Sanford. You should not judge him by your own heart, and what you feel for him. And he feels for you, my dear, though my dear is a trivial phrase, yet from certain people, and upon certain occasions, it is a phrase of infinite comfort and assurance. Mr. Sanford seldom said my dear to any one, to Miss Milner never, and upon this occasion, and from him, it was an expression most precious. She turned to him with a look of gratitude, but as she only looked and did not speak, he rose up, and soon after said, with a friendly tone he had seldom used in her presence, I sincerely wish you a good night. As soon as he was gone Miss Milner exclaimed, however my fate may have been precipitated by the unkindness of Mr. Sanford, yet for that particle of concern which he has shown for me this night, I will always be grateful to him. I, cried Mrs. Horton, good Mr. Sanford may show his kindness now without any danger from its consequences. Now Lord Elmwood is going away for ever, and he is not afraid of your seeing him once again, and she thought she praised him by this suggestion. End of Chapter 11 of Volume 2, Recording by Pam Muscato. Volume 2, Chapter 12 of A Simple Story. When Miss Milner retired to her bed-chamber, Miss Woodley went with her, nor would leave her the whole night, but in vain did she persuade her to rest. She absolutely refused, and declared she would never, from that hour, indulge repose. The part I undertook to perform, cried she, is over. I will now, for my whole life, appear in my own character, and give a loose to the anguish I endure. As daylight showed itself, and yet I might see him once again, said she, I might see him within these two hours, if I pleased, for Mr. Sanford invited me. If you think, my dear Miss Milner, said Miss Woodley, that a second parting from Lord Elmwood would but give you a second agony, in the name of heaven, do not see him any more. But if you hope your mind would be easier, were you to bid each other adieu in a more direct manner than you did last night, let us go down and breakfast with him. I'll go before and prepare him for your reception. You shall not surprise him. And I will let him know it is by Mr. Sanford's invitation you are coming. She listened with a smile to this proposal, yet objected to the indelicacy of her wishing to see him, after he had taken his leave. But as Miss Woodley perceived that she was inclined to infringe this delicacy, of which she had so proper a sense, she easily persuaded her. It was impossible for the most suspicious person, and Lord Elmwood was far from a character, to suppose that the paying him a visit at that period of time could be with the most distant idea of regaining his heart, or of altering one resolution he had taken. But though Miss Milner acquiesced in this opinion, yet she had not the courage to form the determination that she would go. Daylight now no longer peeped, but stared upon them. Miss Milner went to the looking-glass, breathed upon her hands and rubbed them on her eyes, smoothed her hair and adjusted her dress. Yet said after all, I dare not see him again. You may do as you please, said Miss Woodley, but I will, I that have lived for so many years under the same roof with him, and on the most friendly terms, and he going away perhaps for these ten years, perhaps for ever, I should think at a disrespect not to see him to the last moment of his remaining in the house. Then do you go, said Miss Milner eagerly, and if he should ask for me I will gladly come, you know. But if he does not ask for me I will not, and pray don't deceive me. Miss Woodley promised her not to deceive her, and soon after, as they heard the servants pass about the house, and the clock had struck six, Miss Woodley went to the breakfast-room. She found Lord Elmwood there in his travelling-dress, standing pensively by the fireplace, and as he did not dream of seeing her he started when she entered, and with an appearance of alarm said, Dear Miss Woodley, what's the matter? She replied, Nothing, my Lord, but I could not be satisfied without seeing your lordship once again, while I had it in my power. I thank you, he returned with a sigh. The heaviest and most intelligent sigh she ever heard him condescend to give. She imagined to last that he looked as if he wished to ask how Miss Milner did, but would not allow himself the indulgence. She was half inclined to mention her to him, and was debating in her mind whether she should or not, when Mr. Sanford came into the room saying as he entered, For heaven's sake, my lord, where did you sleep last night? Why do you ask? said he, because, replied Sanford, I went into your bed-chamber just now, and I found your bed made. You have not slept there to-night. I have slept nowhere, returned he. I could not sleep, and having some papers to look over, and to set off early, I thought I might as well not go to bed at all. Miss Woodley was pleased at the frank manner in which he made this confession, and could not resist the strong impulse to say, You have done just then, my lord, like Miss Milner, for she has not been in bed the whole night. Miss Woodley spoke this in a negligent manner, and yet Lord Elmwood echoed back the words with solicitude. Has not Miss Milner been in bed the whole night? If she is up, why does she not come and take some coffee? said Sanford, as he began to pour it out. If she thought it would be agreeable, returned Miss Woodley, I dare say she would, and she looked up at Lord Elmwood while she spoke, though she did not absolutely address him. But he made no reply. Agreeable, returned Sanford angrily, has she then a quarrel with anybody here, or does she suppose anybody here bears enmity to her? Is she not in peace and charity? Yes, replied Miss Woodley. That I am sure she is. Then bring her hither, cried Sanford, directly. Would she have the wickedness to imagine we are not all friends with her? Miss Woodley left the room and found Miss Milner almost in despair, lest she should hear Lord Elmwood's carriage drive off before her friends return. Did he send for me, were the words she uttered as soon as she saw her? Mr. Sanford did, in his presence, returned Miss Woodley, and you may go with the utmost decorum, or I would not tell you so. She required no protestations of this, but readily followed her beloved adviser, whose kindness never appeared in so amiable a light as at that moment. On entering the room, through all the dead white of her present complexion, she blushed to a crimson. Lord Elmwood rose from his seat and brought a chair for her to sit down. Sanford looked at her inquisitively, sipped his tea, and said, he never made tea to his own liking. Miss Milner took a cup, but had scarce strength to hold it. It seemed but a very short time they were at breakfast, when the carriage that was to take Lord Elmwood away drove to the door. Miss Milner started at the sound, so did he. But she had nearly dropped her cup and saucer, on which Sanford took them out of her hand, saying, perhaps you had rather have coffee? Her lips moved, but he could not hear what she said. A servant came in and told Lord Elmwood the carriage was at the door. He replied very well, but though he had breakfasted, he did not attempt to move. At last, rising briskly, as if it was necessary to go in haste when he did go, he took up his hat, which he had brought with him into the room, and was turning to Miss Woodley to take his leave when Sanford cried, my Lord, you are in a great hurry! And then, as if he wished to give poor Miss Milner every moment he could, added, looking about, I don't know where I have laid my gloves. Lord Elmwood, after repeating to Miss Woodley his last night's farewell, now went up to Miss Milner and, taking one of her hands, again held it between his, but still without speaking, while she, unable to suppress her tears, as here too for, suffered them to fall in torments. What is all this, cried Sanford, going up to them in anger? They neither of them replied, or changed their situation. Separate this moment, cried Sanford, or resolve to be separated only by death. The commanding in awful manner in which he spoke this sentence made them both turn to him in amazement, and as it were petrified with the sensation his words had caused. He left them for a moment and, going to a small book case in one corner of the room, took out of it a book, and, returning with it in his hand, said, Lord Elmwood, do you love this woman? More than my life, he replied, with the most heartfelt accents. He then turned to Miss Milner. Can you say the same by him? She spread her hands over her eyes and exclaimed, O heavens, I believe you can say so, returned Sanford, and in the name of God and your own happiness, since this is the state of you both, let me put it out of your power to part. Lord Elmwood gazed at him with wonder, and yet, as if enraptured by the sudden change this conduct gave to his prospects. She sighed with a kind of trembling ecstasy, while Sanford, with all the dignity of his official character, delivered these words. My Lord, while I thought my counsel might save you from the worst of misfortunes, conjugal strife, I impotuned you hourly, and set forth your danger in the light it appeared to me. But though old and a priest, I can submit to think I have been in an error, and I now firmly believe it is for the welfare of you both, to become man and wife. My Lord, take this woman's marriage vows. You can ask no fairer promises of her reform. She can give you none half so sacred, half so binding, and I see by her looks that she will mean to keep them. And my dear, continued he, addressing himself to her, act but under the dominion of those vows to a husband of sense and virtue like him, and you will be all that I, himself or even heaven, can desire. Now, then, Lord Elmwood, this moment give her up for ever, or this moment constrain her by such ties from offending you, as she shall not dare to violate. Lord Elmwood struck his forehead in doubt and agitation, but still holding her hand he cried, I cannot part from her. Then feeling this reply as equivocal, he fell upon his knees and cried, Will you pardon my hesitation and will you in marriage show me that tender love you have not shown me yet? Will you in possessing all my affections bear with all my infirmities? She raised him from her feet, and by the expression of her countenance, by the tears that bathed his hands, gave him confidence. He turned to Sanford, then placing her by his own side, as the form of matrimony requires, gave this first sign to Sanford that he should begin the ceremony, on which he opened the book and married them. With voice and manner so serious, so solemn, and so fervent, he performed these rites that every idea of just or even of lightness was absent from the mind of all who were present. Miss Milner covered with shame sunk on the bosom of Miss Woodley. When the ring was wanting, Lord Elmwood supplied it with one from his own hand, but throughout all the rest of the ceremony appeared lost and zealous devotion to heaven. Yet no sooner was it finished than his thoughts descended to this world. He embraced his bride with all the transport of the fondest, happiest bridegroom, and in raptures called her by the endearing name of wife. But still, my Lord, cried Sanford, you are only married by your own church and conscience, not by your wife's or by the law of the land. And let me advise you not to defer that marriage long, lest in the time you disagree, and she should refuse to become your legal spouse. I think there is danger, return, Lord Elmwood, and therefore our second marriage must take place tomorrow. To this the ladies objected, and Sanford was to fix their second wedding-day as he had done their first. He, after consideration, gave them four days. Miss Woodley then recollected for everyone else that forgot it, that the carriage was still at the door to convey Lord Elmwood far away. It was, of course, dismissed, and one of those great incidents of delight, which Miss Miller, that morning, tasted, was to look out of the window and see this very carriage drive from the door unoccupied. Never was there a more rapid change from despair to happiness, to happiness perfect and supreme, than was that which Miss Miller and Lord Elmwood experienced in one single hour. The few days that intervened between this and their lawful marriage were passed in the delightful care of preparing for that happy day. Yet with all its delights inferior to the first, when every unexpected joy was doubled by the once-expected sorrow. Nevertheless, on that first wedding-day, that joyful day, which restored her lost lover to her hopes again, even on that very day, after the sacred ceremony was over, Miss Miller, with all the fears, the tremors, the superstition of her sex, felt an excruciating shock when looking upon the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon her finger, in haste, when he mirrored her. She perceived it was a morning ring. Volume 3 Chapter 1 of A Thoughtful Mind more powerfully, or leaves so lasting an impression, as that of returning to a place after a few years' absence, and observing an entire alteration in respect to all the persons who once formed the neighborhood. To find that many, who but a few years before, were left in their bloom of youth and health, are dead. To find that children left at school are married and have children of their own, that some who are left in riches are reduced to poverty, that others who are in poverty are become rich. To find those once renowned for virtue, now detested for vice, roving husbands, grown constant, constant husbands, become rovers. The firmest friends changed to the most implacable enemies, beauty faded. In a word, every change to demonstrate that all is transitory, on this side the grave. Guided by a wish, that the reflecting reader may experience the sensation which in attention to circumstances like these must excite, he is desired to imagine seventeen years elapsed, since he has seen or heard of any of those persons who in the foregoing volumes have been introduced to his acquaintance, and then supposing himself at the period of those seventeen years follow the sequel of their history. To begin with the first female object of this story, the beautiful, the beloved Miss Milner. She is no longer beautiful, no longer beloved, no longer, tremble while you read it, no longer virtuous. Doraforth, the pious, the good, the tender Doraforth, is become a hard-hearted tyrant, the compassionate, the feeling, the just Lord Elmwood, an example of implacable rigor and injustice. Miss Woodley is grown old, but less with years than grief. The boy, Rushbrooke, is become a man, and the apparent error of Lord Elmwood's fortune, while his own daughter, his only child by his once adored Miss Milner, he refuses ever to see again in vengeance to her mother's crimes. The least wonderful change is the death of Mrs. Wharton, except Sanford, who remains much the same as here to fore. We left Lady Elmwood in the last volume at the summit of human happiness, a loving and beloved bride. We begin this volume and find her upon her deathbed. At thirty-five her course was run, a course full of perils, of hopes, of fears, of joys, and at the end of sorrows, all exquisite of their kind, for exquisite were the feelings of her susceptible heart. At the commencement of this story her father is described in the last moments of his life with all his cares fixed upon her, his only child, how vain these cares, how vain every precaution that was taken for her welfare. She knows she reflects upon this, and yet impelled by that instinctive power which actuates a parent, Lady Elmwood, on her dying day, has no worldly thoughts, but that of the future happiness of an only child. To every other prospect in her view, thy will be done, is her continual exclamation, but where the misery of her daughter presents itself, the expiring penitent with their combat the world of heaven. To detail the progression by which vice gains of predominancy in the heart may be a useful lesson, but it is one so little to the satisfaction of most readers that the degrees of misconduct by which Lady Elmwood fell are not meant to be related here, but instead of picturing every occasion of her fall to come briefly to the events that followed. There, nevertheless, some articles under the former class which ought not to be entirely omitted. Lord Elmwood, after four years' enjoyment of the most perfect happiness that marriage could give, after becoming the father of a beautiful daughter, whom he loved with a tenderness almost equal to his love of her mother, was under the indispensable necessity of leaving them both for a time, in order to rescue from the depredation of his own steward, his very large estates in the West Indies. His voyage was tedious, his residence there, from various accidents, prolonged from time to time, till near three years had at length passed away. Lady Elmwood at first only unhappy became at last provoked, and giving way to that irritable disposition which she had so seldom governed, resolved, in spite of his injunctions, to divert the melancholy hours caused by his absence by mixing in the gay circles of London. Lord Elmwood, at this time, and for many months before, had been detained abroad by a severe and dangerous illness, which a too cautious fear of her uneasiness had prompted him to conceal, and she received his frequent apologies for not returning, with a suspicion and resentment they were calculated, but not intended to inspire. To violent anger succeeded a degree of indifference still more fatal, Lady Elmwood's heart was not formed for such a state, there where all the tumultuous passions harbored by turns, one among them soon found the means to occupy all vacancies. A passion commencing innocently, but terminating in guilt. The dear object of her fondest, her truest affections, was away, and those affections painted the time so irksome that was past, so wearisome, that which was still to come, that she flew from the present tedious solitude to the dangerous society of one whose whole mind, depraved by fashionable vices, could not repay her for a moment's loss of him, whose absence he supplied, or if the delirium gave her a moment's recompense, that were her sufferings, her remorse, when she was awakened from the fleeting joy by the arrival of her husband, how happy, how transporting would have been that arrival a few months before, as it would then have been felicity unbounded, it was now. Language affords no word that can describe Lady Elmwood's sensations, on being told her lord was arrived, and that necessity alone had so long delayed his return. Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her shame were the more excessive. She fled from the place at his approach, fled from his house never again to return to a habitation where he was the master. She did not, however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter herself in the most dreary retreat, where she partook of no one comfort from society, or from life, but the still unremitting friendship of Miss Woodley. Even her infant daughter she left behind, nor would allow herself the consolation of her innocent, though reproachful smiles, she left her in her father's house, that she might be under his protection, parted with her as she thought, for ever, with all the agonies with which mothers part from their infant children, and yet even a mother can scarce conceive how much more sharp those agonies were on beholding the child sent after her as the perpetual outcast of its father. Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had been extravagant. The effect of his hate was the same. Beholding himself separated from her by a barrier never to be removed, he vowed in the deep torments of his revenge never to be reminded of her by one individual object, much less by one so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that child his affections would be, he imagined, still in some sort, to divide them with the mother. Firm in his resolution the beautiful Matilda was at the age of six years, sent out of her father's house, and received by her mother with all the tenderness, but with all the anguish of those parents, who behold their offspring visited by the punishment due only to their own offenses. While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood's agents at his command himself was engaged in an affair of still weightier importance, that of life or death. He determined upon his own death, or the death of the man who had wounded his honor and destroyed his happiness. A duel with his old antagonist was the result of this determination, nor was the Duke of Avon, who before the decease of his father and eldest brother, was Lord Frederick Lonley, a verse from giving him all the satisfaction he required, for it was no other than he whose passion for Lady Elmwood had still subsisted, and whose address in gallantry left no means unattempted for the success of his designs. No other than he, who next to Lord Elmwood had been of all her lovers the most favored, to whom Lady Elmwood sacrificed her own and her husband's future peace, and thus gave to his vanity a prouder triumph than if she had never bestowed her hand in marriage on another. His triumph, however, was but short, a month only, after the return of Lord Elmwood. The Duke was called upon to answer for his conduct, and was left where they met, so defaced with scars, as never again to endanger the honor of a husband. As Lord Elmwood was inexorable to all accommodation, their engagement continued for a long space of time, nor could anything but the assurance that his opponent was slain have at last torn him from the field, though he himself was dangerously wounded. Yet even during the period of his danger, while for days he lay in the continual expectation of his own death, not all the entreaties of his dearest, most intimate, and most respected friends could prevail upon him to pronounce forgiveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring his daughter to him, for his last blessing. Lady Elmwood, who was made acquainted with the minutest circumstance as it passed, appeared to wait the news of her husband's decease, with patience, but upon her brow and in every liniment of her face was marked that his death was an event she would not for a day survive, and she would have left her child an orphan to have followed Lord Elmwood to the tomb. She was prevented the trial, he recovered, and from the ample vengeance he had obtained upon the irresistible person of the Duke, in a short time seemed to regain his usual tranquility. He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and languished. Possessed of youth to struggle with her woes, she lingered on till ten years' decline brought her to that period with which the reader is now going to be presented. End of Chapter 1 of Volume 3, Recording by Pam Moscato. Volume 3, 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 In a Lonely Country on the Borders of Scotland, a single house by the side of a dreary heath, was the residence of the once-gay, volatile Miss Milner. In a large, gloomy apartment of this solitary habitation, the windows of which scarce rendered the light accessible, was laid upon her deathbed the once-lovely Lady Elmwood, pale, half-suffocated with the loss of breath, yet her senses perfectly clear and collected, which served but to sharpen the anguish of dying. In one corner of the room by the side of an old-fashioned stool kneels Miss Woodley, praying most aboutly for her still-beloved friend, but in vain endeavoring to pray composately, floods of tears pour down her furrowed cheeks, and frequent sobs of sorrow break through each pious ejaculation. Close by her mother's side, one hand supporting her head, the other wiping from her face the cold dew of death, behold Lady Elmwood's daughter, Lord Elmwood's daughter, too, yet he, far away, negligent of what either suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often in attempts to embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motionless. The daughter perceiving these ineffectual efforts has her whole face convulsed with grief, kisses her mother, holds her to her bosom and hangs upon her neck, as if she wished to cling there not to be parted even by the grave. On the other side of the bed sits Sandford, his hair grown white, his face wrinkled with age, his heart the same as ever, the reprover, the enemy of the vain, the idle, the wicked, but the friend and comforter of the forlorn and miserable. Upon those features were sarcasm, reproach, and anger-dwell, to threaten and alarm the sinner, mildness, tenderness, and pity-beamed to support and console the penitent. Compassion changed his language, and softened all those harsh tones that used to denounce perdition. In the name of God, said he to Lady Elmwood, of that God who suffered for you, and suffering, new, and pitied all our weaknesses. By him who has given his word to take compassion on the sinner's tears, I bid you hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived to be comforted. By the sorrows you have known since your degradation, hope, that in some measure you have atoned. By the sincerity that shone upon your youthful face when I joined your hands, and those thousand virtues you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were not born to die the death of the wicked. As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling hand clasped his, her dying eyes darted a ray of brightness, but her failing voice endeavored in vain to articulate. At length, fixing her looks upon her daughter as her last dear object, she was just understood to utter the word, Father. I understand you, replied Sanford, and by all that influence I ever had over him, by my prayers, my tears, and they flowed as he spoke. I will implore him to own his child. She could now only smile in thanks. And if I should fail, continued he, yet while I live she shall not want a friend or protector, all an old man like me can answer for. Here his tears interrupted him. Lady Elmwood was sufficiently sensible of his words and their import to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him, but finding her life leaving her fast, she reserved this last token of love for her daughter. With a struggle she lifted herself from her pillow, clung to her child, and died in her arms. End of Chapter 2, Volume 3, recording by Joyce Martin. Volume 3, Chapter 3, 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 Pam Moscato. A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbald, Volume 3, Chapter 3. Albert Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a serious thinking and philosophic turn of mind. His religious studies had completely taught him to consider this world but as a passage to another, to enjoy with gratitude what heaven in its bounty should bestow and to bear with submission whatever in its vengeance it might inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practiced this doctrine, and as soon as the shock he received from Lady Elmwood's conduct was abated, an entire calmness and resignation ensued. But still of that sensible and feeling kind that could never suffer him to forget the happiness he had lost. And it was this sensibility which urged him to fly from its more keen recollection as much as possible. This he alleged, as the reason why he would never permit Lady Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this injunction, which all his friends and even the servants in the house who attended his person had received, was by many people suspected rather to proceed from his resentment than his tenderness, nor did he deny that resentment cooperated with his prudence. For prudence he called it not to remind himself of happiness he could never taste again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred, and prudence he called it not to form another attachment near to his heart. Or especially so near as a parent's which might again expose him to all the torments of ingratitude from an object whom he affectionately loved. Upon these principles he formed the unshaken resolution never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child, or acknowledging her as such never to see, to hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death of her mother appeared a favorable time, had he been so inclined to have recalled this declaration which he had solemnly and repeatedly made. She was now destitute of the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty, at least, to provide her a guardian if he did not choose to take that tender title upon himself. But to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood was an equal offense, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his friends and household, and as he was an excellent goodmaster, a sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his acquaintance or dependents, were hardly enough to draw upon themselves his certain displeasure, which was always violent in the extreme, by even the official intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death. Sanford himself intimidated through age, or by the austere and morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of late years adopted. Sanford wished, if possible, that some other would undertake the dangerous task of recalling to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife. He advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him on the subject, but she reminded him that such a step would be more perilous to her than to any other person as she was the most destitute being on earth without the benevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs. Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lady Elmwood, and now her death had left her totally dependent upon the earl. For Lady Elmwood, though she had separate effects, had long before her death declared it was not her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the form of a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would wholly submit to Lord Elmwood's, and if it weren't even his will, that her child should live in poverty as well as banishment, it should be so. But perhaps in this implicit submission to him there was a distant hope that the necessitous situation of his daughter might plead more forcibly than his parental love, and that knowing her bereft of every support but through himself, that idea might form some little tie between them, and be at least a token of the relationship. But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle upon which she acted should be concealed from his suspicion, she included her friend Miss Woodley in the same fate, and thus the only persons dear to her she left, but at Lord Elmwood's pleasure to be preserved from perishing in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this subject, her friend too disinterested, and at this moment they were both without the smallest means of subsidence, except through the justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sanford had indeed promised his protection to the daughter, but his liberality had no other source than from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except during part of the winter when the Earl resided in town. He then mostly stole the visit to Lady Elmwood. On this last visit he stayed to see her buried. After some mature deliberations, Sanford was now preparing to go to Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and there to deliver himself the news that must sooner or later be told, and he meant also to venture, at the same time, to keep the promise he had made to his dying lady, but the news reached his lordship before Sanford arrived. It was announced in the public papers, and by that means first came to his knowledge. He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that first gave the intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death was laid before him. The paragraph contained these words. On Wednesday last died at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland, the right honorable Countess Elmwood. This lady, who has not been heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress and of extreme beauty, but although she received overtures from many men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord Elmwood, then Mr. Doraforth, to them all, and it is said their marriage was followed by an uncommon share of fallacy, until his lordship going abroad and remaining there some time, the consequences to a most captivating young woman left without a protector were such as to cause separation on his return. Her ladyship has left one child by the earl, a daughter, about fifteen. Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this as to lay down the paper and not take it up again for several minutes. Nor did he taste his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up, walked two or three times across the room, sat down again, took up the paper, and read as usual. Nor let the veracifist mourner or the perpetual weeper hear complain of his want of sensibility, but let them remember that Lord Elmwood was a man, a man of understanding, of courage, of fortitude, above all a man of the nicest feelings, and who shall say but that at the time he leaned his head upon his hand and rose to walk away the sense of what he felt he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her last moments. Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected by anyone, yet he passed that day the same as usual, the next day too and the day after. On the morning of the fourth he sent for his steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him, Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead? It is, my lord. His lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply fetched an involuntary sigh. Mr. Sanford, my lord, continued the steward, sent me word of the news, but left it to my own discretion whether I would make your lordship acquainted with it or not. I let him know I declined. Where is Sanford, asked Lord Elmwood. He is with my lady, replied the steward. When she died, asked he, Yes, my lord. I am glad of it. He will see that everything she desired is done. Sanford is a good man and would be a friend to everybody. He is a very good man indeed, my lord. There was now a silence. Mr. Gifford, then bowed, said, Has your lordship any further commands? Right to Sanford, said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke, and tell him to have everything performed as she desired, and whoever she may have selected for the guardian of her child has my consent to act as such, nor in one instance, where I, myself, am not concerned, shall I oppose her will. The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and caused them to start in the stewards, observing which he sternly resumed. Not supposed from this conversation that any of those resolutions I have long since taken are or will be changed. They are the same, and shall continue inflexible. I understand you, my lord, replied Mr. Gifford. Your express orders to me as well as to every other person remain just the same as formerly. Never to mention this subject to you again. They do, sir. My lord, I always obeyed you, and I hope I always shall. I hope so too, he replied with a threatening accent. Right to Sanford, he continued, to let him know my pleasure, and that is all you have to do. The steward bowed and withdrew. But before his letter arrived to Sanford, Sanford arrived in town, and Mr. Gifford related, word for word, what had passed between him and his lord, upon every occasion and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and her child. Sanford was just as free with Lord Elmwood as he had ever been, and as usual, after his interview with the steward, went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings, and yet, whether his fear suggested it or not, Sanford thought he appeared more cool and reserved with him than formerly. During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiously avoided, and not till the evening after Sanford had risen to retire and had wished Lord Elmwood good night, did he dare to mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and going to the door, turned back and said, My Lord, it was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak. His voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no further. I thought, said Lord Elmwood, angrily, I thought I had given my orders upon the subject. Did not my steward write them to you? He did, my Lord, said Sanford humbly, but I was set out before they arrived. Has he not told you my mind, then? cried he, more angrily still. He replied, Sanford. But— But what, sir? cried Lord Elmwood. Your lordship, continued Sanford. Was mistaken in supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will? She left none. No will? No will at all? returned he, surprised. No, my Lord, answered Sanford. She wished everything to be as you willed. She left me all the trouble, then, you mean. No great trouble, sir, for there are but two persons whom she has left behind her, to hope for your protection. And who are those two? cried he hastily. One, my Lord, I need not name. The other is Miss Woodley. There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sanford delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could not resent. And he only returned, Miss Woodley, is she yet living? She is. I left her at the house I came from. Well then, answered he, you must see that my steward provides for those two persons. That care I leave to you. And should there be any complaints, on you they fall. Sanford bowed and was going. And now, resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern voice, let me never hear again on this subject. You have powered to act in regard to the persons you have mentioned, and upon you their situation, the care, the whole management of them depends. But be sure you never let them be named before me, from this moment. Then said Sanford, as this must be the last time they are mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to disburden my mind of a charge. What charge, cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him? Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind her, she left a request. A request, said he, starting, if it is for me to see her daughter, I tell you now, before you ask, that I will not grant it. For by heaven, and he spoke and looked most solemnly, though I have no resentment against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see her. Never, for her mother's sake, suffer my heart again to be softened by an object I might doad upon. Therefore, sir, if that is the request, it is already answered. My will is fixed. The request, my Lord, replied Sanford. When he took out a pocket-book from whence he drew several papers, is contained in this letter, nor do I rightly know what its contents are, and he held it out to him. Is it Lady Elmwood's writing? Asked Lord Elmwood, extremely discomposed. It is, my Lord. She wrote it in a few days before she died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you with my own hands. I refuse to read it, cried he, putting it from him and trembling while he did so. She desired me, said Sanford, still presenting the letter, to conjure you to read it for her father's sake. Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he seemed distressed to know what he should do with it, in what place to go and read it, or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed, too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said by way of excuse. For Mr. Milner's sake I would do much, nay anything, but that to which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne a great deal. For his sake alone, his daughter died, my wife. You know, no other motive than respect for him prevented my divorcing her. Pray, and he hesitated. Was she buried with him? No, my Lord. She expressed no such desire. And as that was the case, I did not think it necessary to carry the corpse so far. At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked shocked beyond measure. But recovering himself said, I am sorry for it, for he loved her sincerely. If she did not love him, and I wish they had been buried together. It is not, then, too late, said Sanford, and was going on. But the other interrupted him. No, no, we will have no disturbing the dead. Read her letter, then, said Sanford, and bid her rest in peace. If it isn't my power, returned he, to grant what she asks, I will. But if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not bid her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you are seeking to befriend. Very maintenance I mean to allow her daughter, I can withdraw. Poor Sanford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy. My lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it again. I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that alone we are friends. Good night, sir," Sanford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate bedchambers. End of chapter 3, volume 3, recorded by Pam Moscato. Volume 3, chapter 4 of A Simple Story. After Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was some time before he read the letter Sanford had given him. He first walked backwards and forwards in the room. He then began to take off some part of his dress, but he did it slowly. At length he dismissed his valet, and sitting down took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the seal, but not at the direction, for he seemed to dread seeing Lady Elmwood's handwriting. Then he laid it on the table, and began again to undress. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly, with the kind of effort in making the resolution, broke it open. These were its contents. My Lord, who writes this letter, I well know. I well know also to whom it is addressed. I feel, with the most powerful force, both are situations, nor should I dare to offer you even this humble petition. But that at the time you receive it, there will be no such person as I am in existence. For myself, then, all concern will be over, but there is a care that pursues me to the grave, and threatens my want of repose even there. I leave a child. I will not call her mine. That has undone her. I will not call her yours. That will be of no avail. I present her before you as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner. O, do not refuse an asylum, even in your own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend, the last and only remaining branch of his family. Receive her into your household. Be her condition there ever so abject. I cannot write distinctly what I would. My senses are not impaired, but the powers of expression are. The complaint of the unfortunate child in the scriptures, a lesson I have studied, has made this wish cling so fast to my heart, that without the distant hope of its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors than my weak mind could support. I will go to my father, how many servants live in my father's house, and are fed with plenty while I starve in a foreign land. I do not ask a parent's festive rejoicing at her approach. I do not even ask her father to behold her, but let her live under his protection. For her grandfather's sake, do not refuse this. To the child of his child, whom he entrusted to your care, do not refuse it. Be her host. I remit the tie of being her parent. Never see her, but let her sometimes live under the same roof with you. It is Miss Milner, your ward, to whom you never refused a request, who supplicates you. Not now, for your nephew Rushbrook, but for one so much more dear, that a denial, she dares not suffer her thoughts, to glance that way. She will hope, and in that hope bids you farewell, with all the love she ever bore you. Farewell, Doryforth, farewell, Lord Elmwood, and before you throw this letter from you with contempt or anger, cast your imagination into the grave where I am lying. Upon all the days of my past life, the anxious moments I have known, and what has been their end. Behold me also, in my altered face there is no anxiety, no joy or sorrow. All is over. My whole frame is motionless, my heart beats no more. Look at my horrid habitation, too, and ask yourself whether I am an object of resentment. While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in his hand. He once or twice wiped the tears from his eyes as he read, and once laid the letter down for a few minutes. At its conclusion the tears flowed fast down his face, but he seemed both ashamed and angry they did, and was going to throw the paper upon the fire. He, however, suddenly checked his hand and, putting it hastily into his pocket, went to bed. 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 Pam Moscato. A simple story by Elizabeth Ingebald. Volume 3 Chapter 5. The next morning, when Lord Elmwood and Sanford met at breakfast, the latter was pale with fear for the success of Lady Elmwood's letter. The earl was pale, too, but there was, besides upon his face, something which evidently marked he was displeased. Sanford observed it, and was all humbleness, both in his words and looks, in order to soften him. As soon as the breakfast was removed, Lord Elmwood drew the letter from his pocket, and holding it toward Sanford said, that, maybe of more value to you than it is to me, therefore I give it to you. Sanford called up a look of surprise as if he did not know the letter again. "'Tis Lady Elmwood's letter,' said Lord Elmwood, and I return it to you for two reasons. Sanford took it, and putting it up, asked fearfully, what those two reasons were? "'First,' he said, "'because I think it is a relic you may like to preserve. My second reason is, that you may show it to her daughter, and let her know why, and on what conditions I grant her mother's request. "'You do then grant it?' cried Sanford joyfully. "'I thank you. You are kind. You are considerate. Be not hasty in your gratitude. You may have caused to recall it.' "'I know what you have said,' replied Sanford. "'You have said you grant Lady Elmwood's request. You cannot recall these words, nor I my gratitude. "'Do you know what her request is?' returned he. "'Not exactly, my lord. I told you before I did not. But it is no doubt something in favor of her child.' "'I think not,' he replied. "'Such as it is, however, I grant it, but in the strictest sense of the word. No farther. And one neglect of my commands releases me from this promise totally. "'We will take care, sir, not to disobey them. Then listen to what they are. For to you I give the charge of delivering them again. Lady Elmwood has petitioned me in the name of her father. A name I reverence, to give his grandchild the sanction of my protection, in the literal sense, to suffer that she may reside at one of my seats, dispensing at the same time with my ever-seeing her. And you will comply? I will, till she encroaches on this concession, and dares to hope for a greater. I will, while she avoids my sight, or the giving me any remembrance of her. But if, whether by design or by accident, I ever see or hear from her, that moment my compliance to her mother's supplication ceases, and I abandon her once more.' Sanford sighed. Lord Elmwood continued. I am glad her request stopped, where it did. I would rather comply with her desires than not, and I rejoice they are such as I can grant with ease and honor to myself. I am seldom now at Elmwood Castle. Let her daughter go there. The few weeks or months I am down in the summer, she may easily in that extensive house avoid me. While she does, she lives in security. When she does not, you know my resolution. Sanford bowed. The Earl resumed. Nor can it be a hardship to obey this command. She cannot lament the separation from a parent whom she never knew. Sanford was going eagerly to prove the error of that assertion, but he prevented him, saying, in a word, without farther argument, if she obeys me in this, I will provide for her as my daughter during my life, and leave her a fortune at my death. But if she dares, Sanford interrupted the menace prepared for utterance, saying, and you still mean I supposed to make Mr. Rushbrook your heir? Have you not heard me say so? And do you imagine I have changed my determination? I am not given to alter my resolutions, Mr. Sanford, and I thought you knew I was not. Besides, will not my title be extinct, whoever I make my heir? Could anything but a son have preserved my title? Then it is yet possible, by marrying again, you mean? No, no, I have had enough of marriage, and Henry Rushbrook, I shall leave my heir. Therefore, sir, my lord, I do not presume, do not, Sanford, and we may still be good friends, but I am not to be controlled as formerly. My temper is changed of late, changed to what it was originally, till your religious precepts reformed it. You may remember how troublesome it was to conquer my stubborn disposition in my youth. Then indeed you did, but in my more advanced age you will find the task too difficult. Sanford again repeated, he should not presume, to which Lord Elmwood again made answer, do not, Sanford, and added, for I have a sincere regard for you, and should be loathe, at these years, to quarrel with you seriously. Sanford turned away his head to conceal his feelings. Nay, if we do quarrel, resumed Lord Elmwood, you know it must be your own fault, and as this is a theme, the most likely of any. Nay the only one on which we can have a difference, such as we cannot forgive, take care never from this day to resume it. Indeed that of itself would be an offense I could not pardon. I have been clear and explicit in all I have said. There can be no fear of mistaking my meaning. Therefore all future explanation is unnecessary, nor will I permit a word or a hint on the subject from anyone, without showing my resentment, even to the hour of my death. He was going out of the room. But before we bid adieu to the subject forever, my Lord, there was another person whom I named to you. Do you mean Miss Woodley? Oh, by all means, let her live at Elmwood House, too. On consideration I have no objection to see Miss Woodley at any time. I shall be glad to see her. Do not let her be frightened at me. To her I shall be the same, that I have always been. She is a good woman, my Lord, cried Sanford, pleased. You need not tell me that, Mr. Sanford. I know her worth. And he left the room. Sanford relieved Miss Woodley and her lovely charge from the suspense in which he had left them, prepared to set off for their habitation, in order himself to conduct them from thence to Elmwood Castle, and appoint some retired part of it for Lady Matilda, against the annual visit her father should pay there. But before he left London, Giffard, the steward, took an opportunity to wait upon him and let him know that his Lord had acquainted him with the consent he had given for his daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Castle, and upon what restrictions, that he had farther uttered the severest threats should these restrictions ever be infringed. Sanford thanked Giffard for his friendly information. It served him as a second warning of the circumspection that was necessary, and having taken leave of his friend and patron under the pretense that he could not live in the smoke of London, he set out for the North. It is unnecessary to say with what delight Sanford was received by Miss Woodley, and the hapless daughter of Lady Elmwood, even before he told his errand. They both loved him sincerely, more especially Lady Matilda, whose forlorn state and innocent sufferings had ever excited his compassion and caused him to treat her with affection, tenderness, and respect. She knew, too, how much he had been her mother's friend. For that she also loved him, and for being honored with the friendship of her father, she looked up to him with reverence. For Matilda, with an excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years, and early accustomed to the most private converse between Lady Elmwood and Miss Woodley, was perfectly acquainted with the whole fatal history of her mother, and was by her taught the respect and admiration of her father's virtues which they justly merited. Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sanford's presence, once more to cheer their solitary dwelling, no sooner were the first kind greetings over than the dread of what he might have to inform them of, possessed poor Matilda and Miss Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was changed into a fright. Their apprehensions were far more forcible than their curiosity. They dared not ask a question, and even began to wish he would continue silent upon the subject, on which they feared to listen. For near two hours he was so, at length after a short interval from speaking, during which they waited with anxiety for what he might next say, he turned to Lady Matilda and said, You don't ask for your father, my dear. I did not know it was proper, she replied timidly. It is always proper, answered Sanford, for you to think of him, though he should never think on you. She burst into tears and said that she did think of him, but she felt an apprehension of mentioning his name, and she wet bitterly, while she spoke. Do not think I reproved you, said Sanford. I only told you what was right. Nay, said Miss Woodley, she does not weep for that. She fears her father has not complied with her mother's request. Perhaps, not even read her letter? Yes, he has read it, returned Sanford. O heavens, exclaimed Matilda, clasping her hands together, and the tears falling still faster. Do not be so much alarmed, my dear, said Miss Woodley. You know we are prepared for the worst, and you know you promised your mother whatever your fate should be to submit with patience. Yes, replied Matilda, and I am prepared for everything, but my father's refusal to my dear mother. Your father has not refused your mother's request, replied Sanford. She was leaping from her seat in ecstasy. But, he continued, do you know what her request was? Not entirely, replied Matilda, and since it is granted I am careless, but she told me her letter, concerned none but me, to explain perfectly to Matilda, Lady Elmwood's letter, and that she might perfectly understand upon what terms she was admitted into Elmwood Castle, Sanford now read the letter to her, and repeated as nearly as he could remember, the whole of the conversation that passed between Lord Elmwood and himself. Not even sparing, through an erroneous delicacy, any of those threats her father had denounced, should she dare to transgress the limits he prescribed, nor did he try to soften in one instance a word he uttered. She listened sometimes with tears, sometimes with hope, but always with awe, and with terror, to every sentence in which her father was concerned. Once she called him cruel, then exclaimed, he was kind, but at the end of Sanford's intelligence concluded that she was happy and grateful for the boon bestowed. Even her mother had not a more exalted idea of Lord Elmwood's worth than his daughter had formed, and this little bounty just obtained, would not have been greater in her mother's estimation, than it was now in hers. Miss Woodley, too, smiled at the prospect before her. She esteemed Lord Elmwood beyond any mortal living. She was proud to hear what he had said in her praise, and overjoyed at the prospect of being once again in his company, painting at the same time a thousand bright hopes from watching every emotion of his soul, and catching every proper occasion to excite or increase his paternal sentiments. But she had the prudence to conceal those vague hopes from his child, lest a disappointment might prove fatal, and assuming a behavior neither too much elated or depressed, she advised that they should hope for the best, but yet, as usual, expect and prepare for the worst. After taking measures for quitting their melancholy abode, within the fortnight they all departed for Elmwood Castle, Matilda, Miss Woodley, and even Sanford, first visiting Lady Elmwood's grave and beddowing it with their tears. End of chapter 5 volume 3, recorded by Pammoscato. Volume 3 chapter 6 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. It was on a dark evening in the month of March that Lady Matilda, accompanied by Sanford and Miss Woodley, arrived at Elmwood Castle, the magnificent seat of her father. Sanford chose the evening rather to steal into the house privately than by any appearance of parade, to suffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of their arrival by the public prince or by any other accident. Nor would he give the neighbors or servants reason to suppose the daughter of their lord was admitted into his house in any other situation than that in which he was really permitted to be there. As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the carriage that brought them, Matilda felt an awful and yet gladsome sensation which no terms can describe. As she entered the door of the house this sensation increased, and as she passed along the spacious hall the splendid staircase and many stately apartments, wonder with a crowd of the tenderest yet most afflicting sentiments rushed to her heart. She gazed with astonishment. She reflected with still more. And is my father the master of this house? She cried. And was my mother once the mistress of this castle? Here tears relieved her from a part of that birthing which was before insupportable. Yes, replied Sanford, and you are the mistress of it now till your father arrives. Good God! exclaimed she. And will he ever arrive? And shall I live to sleep under the same roof with my father? My dear! replied Miss Woodley. Have not you been told so? Yes, said she. But though I heard it with extreme pleasure yet the idea never so forcibly affected me as at this moment, I now feel as the reality approaches, that to be admitted here is kindness enough. I do not ask for more, and I am now convinced from what this trial makes me feel, that to see my father would occasion emotions I could not survive. The next morning gave to Matilda more objects of admiration and wonder as she walked over the extensive gardens, groves, and other pleasure grounds belonging to the house. She who had never been beyond the dreary, ruinous groves which her deceased mother had made her residence was naturally struck with amazement and delight at the grandeur of a seat which travelers came for miles to see, nor thought their time misspent. There was one object, however, among all she saw, which attracted her attention above the rest, and she would stand for hours to look at it. This was a whole-length portrait of Lord Elmwood esteemed a very capital picture and a perfect likeness. To this picture she would sigh and weep, though when it was first pointed out to her she shrunk back with fear, and it was some time before she dared venture to cast her eyes completely upon it. In the features of her father she was proud to discern the exact mold in which her own appearance to have been modeled. Yet Matilda's person, shape, and complexion were so extremely like what her mother's once were that at first glance she appeared to have a still greater resemblance of her than of her father. But her mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood's, softened by the delicacy of her sex, the extreme tenderness of her heart, and the melancholy of her situation. She was now in her seventeenth year, of the same age within a year and a few months of her mother when she became the ward of Doraforth. She was just three years older when her father went abroad, and remembered something of bidding him farewell. But more of taking cherries from his hand as he pulled them from the tree to give to her. Educated in the school of adversity and inured to retirement from her infancy, she had acquired a taste for all those amusements which a recluse life affords. She was fond of walking and riding, was accomplished in the arts of music and drawing, by the most careful instructions of her mother. And as a scholar she excelled most of her sex from the pains which Sandford had taken with that part of her education and the superior abilities he possessed for the task. In devoting certain hours of the day to study with him, others to music, riding and such amusements, Matilda's time never appeared tedious at Elmwood Castle, although she received and paid no one visit. For it was soon divulged in the neighborhood upon what stipulation she resided at her father's, and studiously intimated that the most prudent and friendly behavior of her true friends would be to take no notice whatever that she lived among them. And as Lord Elmwood's will was a law all around, such was the consequence of that will, known or merely supposed. Neither did Miss Woodley regret the want of visitors, but found herself far more satisfied in her present situation than her most sanguine hopes could have formed. She had a companion whom she loved with an equal fondness, with which she had loved her deceased mother, and frequently in this charming mansion where she had so often beheld Lady Elmwood her imagination represented Matilda as her friend risen from the grave in her former youth, health, and exquisite beauty. In peace, in content, though not in happiness, the days and weeks passed away till about the middle of August when preparations began to be made for the arrival of Lord Elmwood. The week in which he was to come was at length fixed, and some part of his retinue was arrived before him. When this was told, Matilda, she started, and looked just as her mother at her age had often done, when in spite of her love she was conscious that she had offended him and was terrified at his approach. Sanford, observing this, put out his hand in taking hers, shook it kindly, and bade her, but it was not in a cheering tone, not be afraid. This gave her no confidence, and she began, before her father's arrival, to seclude herself in the apartments allotted for her during the time of his stay, and in the timorous expectation of his coming, her appetite declined and she lost all her color. Even Miss Woodley, whose spirits had been for some time elated with the hopes she had formed on drawing near to the test, found these hopes vanished, and though she endeavored to conceal it, she was full of apprehensions. Sanford had certainly fewer fears than earlier, yet upon the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he was evidently cast down. Lady Matilda once asked him, Are you certain, Mr. Sanford, you made no mistake in respect to what Lord Elmwood said when he granted my mother's request? Are you sure he did grant it? Is there nothing equivocal on which he may ground his displeasure should he be told that I am here? Oh, do not let me hazard being once again turned out of this house. Oh, save me from provoking him, perhaps to curse me, and here she clasped her hands together with the most fervent petition in the dread of what might happen. If you doubt my words or my senses, said Sanford, call Gaffard, and let him inform you. The same words were repeated to him as to me. Though from her reason Matilda could not doubt of any mistake from Mr. Sanford, yet her fear suggested a thousand scruples, and this reference to the steward she received with the utmost satisfaction, though she did not think it necessary to apply to him, as it perfectly convinced her of the folly of the suspicions she had entertained. And yet, Mr. Sanford, she said, if it is so, why are you less cheerful than you were? I cannot help thanking, but it must be your expectation of Lord Elmwood, which has occasioned this change. I don't know, replied Sanford carelessly, but I believe I am grown afraid of your father. His temper is a great deal altered from what it once was. He raises his voice and uses harsh expressions upon the least provocation. His eyes flash lightning and his face is distorted with anger upon the slightest motives. He turns away his old servants at a moment's warning, and no concession can make their peace. In a word I am more at my ease when I am away from him, and I really believe, added he with a smile, but with a tear at the same time, I really believe I am more afraid of him in my age than he was of me when he was a boy. Miss Woodley was present. She and Matilda looked at one another, and each of them saw the other turn pale at this description. The day at length came on which Lord Elmwood was expected to dinner. It would have been a high gratification to his daughter to have gone to the topmost window of the house, and have only beheld his carriage enter the avenue. But it was a gratification which her fears, her tremor, her extreme sensibility would not permit her to enjoy. Miss Woodley and she sat down that day to dinner in their retired apartments, which were detached from the other part of the house by a gallery, and of the door leading to the gallery they had a key to impede anyone from passing that way, without first ringing a bell, to answer which was the sole employment of a servant, who was placed there during the Earl's residence, lest by any accident he might chance to come near that unfrequented part of the house, on which occasion the man was to give immediate notice to his lady. Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did not dine. Sanford dined as usual with Lord Elmwood. When tea was brought, Miss Woodley asked the servant, who attended, if he had seen his lord. The man answered, Yes, madam, and he looks vastly well. Matilda wept with joy to hear it. About nine in the evening, Sanford rang at the bell and was admitted. Never had he been so welcome. Matilda hung upon him, as if his recent interview with her father had endeared him to her more than ever. And staring anxiously in his face seemed to inquire of him something about Lord Elmwood, and something that should not alarm her. Well, how do you find yourself, said he, to her? How are you, Mr. Sanford? She returned with a sigh. Oh, very well, replied he. Is my lord in a good temper? asked Miss Woodley. Yes, very well, replied Sanford with indifference. Did he seem glad to see you, asked Matilda. He shook me by the hand, replied Sanford. That was a sign he was glad to see you, was it not? said Matilda. Yes, but he could not do less. Nor more, replied she. He looks very well, our servant tells us, said Miss Woodley. Extremely well indeed, answered Sanford, and to tell the truth I never saw him in better spirits. That is well, said Matilda, inside a weight of fears from her heart. Where is he now, Mr. Sanford? Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and I stole here in the meantime. What was your conversation during dinner, asked Miss Woodley? Horses, hay, farming, and politics. Won't you sup with him? I shall see him again before I go to bed. And again tomorrow, cried Matilda, what happiness! He has visitors tomorrow, said Sanford, coming for a week or two. Thank heaven, said Miss Woodley, he will then be diverted from thinking on us. Do you know, returned Sanford, it is my firm opinion that his thinking of ye at present is the cause of his good spirits. Oh heavens! cried Matilda, lifting up her hands with rapture. Nay, do not mistake me, said Sanford, I would not have you build a foundation for joy upon this surmise, for if he is in spirits that you are in this house, so near him, positively under his protection, yet he will not allow himself to think it is the cause of his content, and the sentiments he has adopted, and which are now become natural to him, will remain the same as ever. Nay, perhaps with greater force, should he suspect his weakness, as he calls it, acting in opposition to them. If he does but think of me with tenderness, cried Matilda, I am recompensed. And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to you? said Sanford, were he to turn you out to beggary. A great deal, a great deal, she replied. But how are you to know he has these kind thoughts if he gives you no proof of them? Now Mr. Sanford, but supposing we could know them without proof. But as that is impossible, answered he, I shall suppose till proof appears that I have been mistaken in my conjectures. Matilda looked deeply concerned that the argument should conclude in her disappointment, for to have believed herself thought of with tenderness by her father would have alone constituted her happiness. When the servant came up with something by way of supper, he told Mr. Sanford that his lord was returned from his walk, and had inquired for him. Sanford immediately bade his companions good night and left them. How strange is this, cried Matilda, when Miss Woodley and she were alone. My father, within a few rooms of me, and yet I am deburred from seeing him, only by walking a few paces I could be at his feet, and perhaps receive his blessing. You make me shudder, cried Miss Woodley, but some spirits less timid than mine might perhaps advise you to the experiment. Not for worlds, returned Matilda. No council could tempt me to such temerity, and yet to entertain the thought that is possible I could do this is a source of infinite comfort. This conversation lasted till bedtime and later, for they sat up beyond their usual hour to indulge it. Miss Woodley slept little, but Matilda less. She awaked repeatedly during the night, and every time sighed to herself, I sleep in the same house with my father. Its spirit of my mother looked down and rejoiced. The next day the whole castle appeared to Lady Matilda, though she was in some degree retired from it, all to molt and bustle, as was usually the case, while Lord Elmwood was there. She saw from her windows the servants running across the yards and park, horses and carriages driving with fury, all the suite of a nobleman, and at some times elated, at other times depressed her. These impressions, however, and others of fear and anxiety, which her father's arrival had excited, by degrees wore off, and after some little time she was in the same tranquil state that she enjoyed before he came. He had visitors who passed a week or two with him, he paid visits himself for several days, and thus the time stole away, till it was about four weeks from the time that he had arrived, in which long period, Sanford, with all his penetration, could never clearly discover whether he had once called to mind that his daughter was living in the same house. He had not once named her. That was not extraordinary. Consequently, no one dared name her to him. But he had not even mentioned Miss Woodley, of whom he had so lately spoken in the kindest terms, and had said he should take pleasure in seeing her again. From these contradictions in Lord Elmwood's behavior, in respect to her, it was Miss Woodley's plan neither to throw herself in his way nor avoid him. She therefore frequently walked about the house while he was in it, not indeed entirely without restraint, but at least with the show of liberty. Miss Freedom, indulged for some time without peril, became at last less cautious, and as no ill consequences had arisen from its practice, her scruples gradually ceased. One morning, however, as she was crossing the large hall, thoughtless of danger, a footstep at a distance alarmed her, almost without knowing why. She stopped for a moment, thinking to return. The steps approached quicker, and before she could retreat, she beheld Lord Elmwood at the other end of the hall, and perceived that he saw her. It was too late to hesitate what was to be done. She could not go back, and had not courage to go on. She therefore stood still, disconcerted and much affected at his sight, their former intimacy coming to her mind, with the many years and many sad occurrences past since she last saw him. All her intentions, all her meditated plans how to conduct herself on such an occasion, gave way to a sudden shock. And to make the meeting yet more distressing, her very fright she knew would serve to recall more powerfully to his mind the subject she most wished him to forget. The steward was with him, and as they came up close by her side, Giffard observing him look at her earnestly, said softly, but so as she heard him, my lord this is Miss Woodley. Lord Elmwood took off his hat instantly, and with an apparent friendly warmth, laying hold of her hand, he said, indeed, Miss Woodley, I did not know you, I am very glad to see you. And while he spoke shook her hand with a cordiality which her tender heart could not bear, and never did she feel so hard a struggle as to restrain her tears. But the thought of Matilda's fate, the idea of awakening in his mind a sentiment that might irritate him against his child, wrought more forcibly than every other effort, and though she could not reply distinctly she replied without weeping. Whether he saw her embarrassment, and wished to release her from it, or was in haste to conceal his own, he left her almost instantly. But not till he had entreated she would dine that very day with him and Mr. Sanford, who were to dine without other company. She curtsied assent, and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred. After listening with anxiety and with joy to all she told, Matilda laid hold of that hand which she said Lord Elmwood had held, and pressed it to her lips with love and reverence. And Miss Woodley made her appearance at dinner, Sanford, who had not seen her since the invitation, and did not know of it, looked amazed, on which Lord Elmwood said, Do you know, Sanford, I met Miss Woodley this morning, and had it not been for Giffard, I should have passed her without knowing her. But Miss Woodley, if I am not so much altered but that you knew me, I take it unkind you did not speak first. She was unable to speak even now. He saw it and changed the conversation. When Sanford eagerly joined in discourse, which relieved him from the pain of the former. As they advanced in the dinner, the embarrassment of Miss Woodley and of Mr. Sanford diminished. Lord Elmwood, in his turn, became not embarrassed, but absent and melancholy. He now and then sighed heavily, and called for wine much off dinner than he was accustomed. When Miss Woodley took her leave he invited her to dine with him and Sanford whenever it was convenient to her. He said besides many things of the same kind, and all with the utmost civility, yet not with that warmth with which he had spoken in the morning. Into that he had been surprised. His coolness was the effect of reflection. When she came to Lady Matilda and Sanford had joined them, they talked and deliberated on what had passed. You acknowledged, Mr. Sanford, said Miss Woodley, that you think my presence affected Lord Elmwood, so as to make him much more thoughtful than usual. If you imagine these thoughts were upon Lady Elmwood, I will never intrude again. But if you suppose that I made him think upon his daughter, I cannot go too often. I don't see how he can divide those two objects in his mind, replied Sanford. Therefore you must envisage him on, and take your chance, what reflections you may cause. But be they what they will, time will steal away from you that power of affecting him. She concurred in that opinion, and occasionally she walked into Lord Elmwood's apartments, dined, or took her coffee with him, as the accident suited, and observed according to Sanford's prediction, that time wore off the impression her visits first made. Lord Elmwood now became just the same before her as before others. She easily discerned too, through all that politeness which he assumed, that he was no longer the considerate, the forebearing character he formerly was, but haughty, impatient, imperious, and more than ever, implacable. End of Chapter 7, Volume 3, Recorded by Pam Moscato