THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
m 
 
A SIMPLE STORY 
 
 AND 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 
 
M R - S INCHBALD 
 
 ETCHED B 
 
 f WILLIAM BELL SCO' 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/simplestorynaturOOinch 
 
A SIMPLE STORY 
 
 AND 
 
 NATURE AND ART 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. INCHBALD. 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT AND INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 LONDON: 
 THOS. DE LA RUE & CO. 
 
 no, BUNHILL ROW. 
 1880. 
 
PRINTED BY 
 
 THOMAS DE LA RUE AND CO., BUNHILL ROW, 
 
 LONDON. 
 
'*80 
 
 361 
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 The authoress of one permanently successful novel 
 writes from her own experiences ; she writes, it may be, 
 fv)' with difficulty, but with enthusiasm; she is her own 
 L\ \ model ; and if we analyze her own character as well as 
 that of her heroine, we shall find they have a sisterly 
 resemblance. She pets her heroine, or pities her, as she 
 would be petted or pitied herself: the peculiarities or the 
 passions that contributed to her own happiness or misery 
 are the ruling motives in her story, however sensational 
 its termination may be. 
 Y Materials for an account of the life of this celebrated 
 
 c^ lady are ample. Mr. Boaden's "Memoir," in two 
 volumes, published in 1833, twelve years after her death, 
 was prepared from Mrs. Inchbald's autograph Journals, 
 "kept regularly during a period of fifty years," and con- 
 tains at least 200 familiar letters written by her, printed 
 from the originals in the possession of Mrs. Phillips, her 
 executor. During the later years of her life she com- 
 piled for publication her own " Memoirs," in four 
 volumes, the manuscript of which various publishers 
 
 
VI INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 competed for, although they had not been suffered to 
 peruse it; Robinson and Co., as well as Phillips, having 
 offered her a thousand pounds for the copyright. She 
 fluctuated much under these offers. Her intimate friends 
 gave her their advice with various degrees of sincerity; 
 but, from a reluctance to give pain, she came to no con- 
 clusion, and finally destroyed the work, by the advice of 
 Dr. Poynter (no doubt her confessor), as Mr. Boaden 
 learned from the following mem. in her Journal, entered, 
 as he says, " in her firmest handwriting " : — ■ 
 
 " Query — What I should wish done at the point of death. 
 " Dr. P. — Do it now. The four volumes destroyed." 
 
 Elizabeth Simpson, afterwards Inchbald, was born on 
 the 15th of October, 1753, at Standingfield, near Bury 
 St. Edmund's, in Suffolk, the youngest but one of many 
 children, her father being John Simpson, farmer, of the 
 steading so called, and her mother, Mary, whose maiden 
 name was Rushbrook, both Roman Catholics, and 
 respectably connected. The farm was of moderate size, 
 and does not appear to have been very remunerative, 
 Mrs. Simpson having a struggle to make both ends meet 
 after her husband died in 1761, when Elizabeth was but 
 eight years old. Families of the mediaeval form of faith, 
 who are said to have abounded in that part of the 
 country, held together in those days, so that those in a 
 higher position visited the farmer's widow on equal 
 terms : even the Duchess of Norfolk appearing in the 
 circle, by letter at least. The habits of the Simpsons, 
 mother and married sisters included, were of a gay and 
 amusement - loving description ; the girls were local 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. Vll 
 
 beauties too, and when Elizabeth grew to womanhood she 
 was accounted the handsomest, only she had a defect in 
 her utterance that made her shy of conversation. They 
 all used to frequent the fairs and the theatre at Bury, 
 where a household of cousins resided. These theatrical 
 performances, which must have been rather humble from 
 an artistic point of view, and were lighted by the tallow 
 candle, made George, her brother, a year older than her- 
 self, an actor, and inspired Elizabeth, at fifteen, with the 
 same determination, from which she never swerved. 
 Quick in acquiring whatever she determined to learn, and 
 energetic in a degree quite unique among girls, at that time 
 at least, she wrote out all the words most difficult to her 
 voice, and practised them continually ; besides, she soon 
 found that declamation was much easier to her than 
 ordinary talk, — a dangerous discovery we would say for an 
 actress, tending to give her an inflated style of delivery. 
 This brother George was, on the other hand, a slow 
 youth. He turns up in the course of their theatrical 
 peregrinations frequently, but never with very good 
 result. She speaks of him and of herself in this way : — 
 "It is astonishing how much girls are inclined to 
 literature to what boys are. My brother went to school 
 for seven years, and never could spell. I and two of 
 my sisters, though we never were taught, could spell 
 from our infancy." This phrase, "never were taught," is 
 all we know of her education. 
 
 The success, as she esteemed it, of her brother, 
 although so much less clever than herself, set Elizabeth 
 planning how to emancipate herself from home and its 
 dreary cares. The mother of the family appears to have 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 let the children do very much as they liked. Possibly 
 she was not the ideal housewife, 
 
 " Die ziichtige hausfrau, 
 Mit fleissigen hande," 
 
 as the circumstances of the farm did not improve, 
 although some little aid must have reached Elizabeth 
 when in her greatest want at Brighton or Canterbury 
 many years after. At all events, the daughter secretly, 
 at sixteen years of age, had made up her mind to take 
 her own way and follow her fortune. To her childish 
 view of life and love of admiration, the stage was her 
 ideal. 
 
 Her first effort was to move the manager of the 
 Norwich theatre, a Welshman of the name of Griffiths, 
 who kept her secret and gave her some encouragement. 
 This elated her so much, she writes of him in her 
 pocket-book in the wildest childish delight. The name 
 "Richard Griffiths" appears there in painted capitals, 
 followed by the words, — 
 
 " Each dear letter of thy name is harmony." 
 
 What love alone prompts in other girls, the desire for 
 success inspired in her. But this did not last long : he 
 had ventured on her brother, and perhaps was not en- 
 couraged by that specimen of the family. She now 
 disappeared from home. She and her sisters often 
 appear to have done so on visits to Bury ; but she took 
 a longer journey, and stepped out of the Norwich fly on 
 the pavement of Holborn. In the metropolis she had 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. IX 
 
 married sisters, but she did not go near them. She 
 rather enjoyed the dangerous independence of walking 
 about and losing herself unprotectedly in the crowd; 
 but the account of this escapade is left purposely vague 
 in the record we follow. She returns home without 
 having been missed ; and the various juvenile attempts 
 to interest Griffiths and others recommence. At eighteen 
 we find she takes a more ordinary course : she visits her 
 sisters in London, and at the home of one of them she 
 meets Joseph Inchbald, an actor approaching middle 
 life, who of course admires the beauty and enthusiasm 
 of the interesting girl. They met daily ; but he had no 
 influence to get her forward, and then had to leave for 
 an engagement at Birmingham, when Elizabeth again 
 returned home, more resolved than ever to be her own 
 mistress. The wild attempts she renewed on the 
 obdurate Griffiths are now a little amusing. But we must 
 pass over these and hasten to the final act of abandoning 
 home and its inmates, generally so unspeakably dear to 
 us all, but most so to the feminine nature. 
 
 On the ioth of April, (no year given, but from other 
 evidence we arrive at the conclusion it was in 1772,) 
 when eighteen and a-half years old, she packed up her 
 properties in a bandbox she could carry, and left this 
 letter in her bedroom, addressed to her mother : — 
 
 "By the time you receive this I shall have left Standingfield, 
 perhaps for ever. You are surprised, but be not uneasy : — believe 
 the step I have taken, however indiscreet, is in no way criminal ; 
 unless I sin by not acquainting you with it, which was impossible 
 for me to do, though strongly pressed by the desire of giving you 
 a personal farewell. I now endure every pang — one not lost to 
 every feeling must — on thus quitting the tenderest and best of 
 
X INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 parents ; I would say most beloved too, but cannot prove my 
 affection ; — yet time may ; — to that I must submit my hope of 
 regaining your regard. 
 
 "The censure of the world I despise : as the most worthy incur 
 the reproaches of that. Should I ever think you wish to hear from 
 me, I will write." 
 
 This singular document it would be difficult to cha- 
 racterise, nor should we try to do so, without a more 
 complete understanding of her mother's character. She 
 arrives in London in the grey of the morning, and takes 
 up her abode at the Rose and Crown, St. John Street : 
 with what funds we should like to learn, but that 
 nowhere appears. She would not place herself in the 
 hands of her sisters ; that procedure had failed before, 
 but there was one friend she would trust, whom she sallied 
 out to find. This friend had left town; she observes 
 people looking round at her and following her in the 
 street ; she returns to the inn, and there the inmates act 
 in a way that frightens her ; she changes her lodgings for 
 the worse, and becomes nervous. She was actually ten 
 days in town, sometimes locked up by distracted land- 
 ladies, and sometimes wandering in want of a place 
 wherein to hide, insulted at theatres, and questioned by 
 strangers. This dreadful time, which at last took down 
 her daring self-dependence, and was dressed up roman- 
 tically by magazine writers after her death, was brought 
 to a close, with all its " strange adventures," as she calls 
 them herself, by her brother-in-law, Slender, lighting upon 
 her in a pennyless state, and finding she had at last writ- 
 ten to her sister. Inchbald was in London again at this 
 time, and, being a friend of brother Slender, saw her daily 
 as before; till one evening, the 9th of June, 1772, a 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XI 
 
 Roman Catholic priest called, apparently by accident, 
 and married them on the spot. Next day they were re- 
 married in the parish church. In the evening the family 
 party all went to see the bridegroom act Oakley in " The 
 Jealous Wife," George Colman's comedy, and next day 
 again they were rumbling along in the Bristol coach, at 
 which city he had an engagement. Now, at last, she was 
 sure to step upon the boards and enchant the world ! 
 
 At first she was ambitious, or her husband for her. 
 She made her debut on the 4th September as Cordelia to 
 his Lear. 
 
 From this period for about ten years her life is full of 
 vicissitudes. The multitudinous expenses of theatrical 
 management prevented the regular staff being decently 
 well paid, whatever stars might be ; and though there 
 were about as many country " play-houses " as now exist, 
 they were smaller, and actors of moderate ability, ac- 
 cording to the estimate of the time, more numerous. 
 In a few weeks we find the pair back in town; but 
 nothing could be done there, and they take ship to 
 Leith, the Edinburgh stage being then, as now, an 
 honourable one for the successful actor. The transit 
 between Edinburgh and London was carried on by a 
 fast-sailing and handsome set of vessels called Leith 
 smacks ; but the pleasure of the voyage was sometimes 
 converted into prolonged torture by contrary winds. 
 The writer himself, when a boy, lived two weeks and two 
 days (sixteen days and nights) in one of these smacks, to 
 accomplish the distance now traversed in ten hours. 
 Mrs. Inchbald, whose first voyage this was, suffered 
 
Xll INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 sadly ; but much worse is the account we have of a 
 subsequent intended voyage to Aberdeen, when the 
 vessel had to seek refuge in Fifeshire, and all the troupe, 
 the Inchbalds and their companions, not being able to 
 hire any other means of proceeding, actually tried to 
 walk to Aberdeen ! Tired to death, sometimes " getting 
 a lift " in a farmer's cart or waggon, and again walking, 
 these Thespians worked their way along the dreary 
 northern coast to the end of their journey. 
 
 To return to Edinburgh : Mrs. Inchbald's first appear- 
 ance there was in " Jane Shore," which was well received, 
 and became a favourite character with her. She was, 
 in truth, most indefatigable in meeting the requirements 
 of managers. We have a list of her parts for a period of 
 five weeks, (in Aberdeen, I believe, where the house was 
 open only on alternate nights, and where fresh attraction 
 was constantly necessary,) shewing that she took a new 
 role every time she appeared. Here is the programme 
 of the opening six nights of her engagement, which will 
 give the reader a criterion whereby to judge of her 
 position and industry : — 
 
 August 12th — Louisa Dudley, in "West Indian." 
 ,, 1 8th— Witch, in "Macbeth." 
 ,, 23rd — Juliet, in " Romeo and Juliet." 
 ,, 26th — Jane Shore, in "Jane Shore." 
 „ 28th— Anne Boleyn, in "Henry VIII." 
 ,, 31st — Clarissa, in " All in the Wrong." 
 
 Again and again we find the Inchbalds in Edinburgh, 
 acting her favourite parts with considerable applause. But 
 her success on the boards of the Scottish capital was not 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. Xlll 
 
 her only triumph there : she was admired off the stage by 
 sundry men who were not deterred by the neighbour- 
 hood of her husband. We say neighbourhood, because 
 by this time she had found her precipitate marriage had 
 not lifted her into Paradise. She saw cause to suppose 
 him unfaithful to the marriage vows, and he retorted by 
 accusing her of apathy. Still, of all men the actor was 
 to her the pleasantest companion, and thus the most 
 dangerous of her admirers was Mr. Sterling, who played 
 Iago to her husband's Othello — an unhappy professional 
 association ! After violent recriminations, she insisted 
 on their sleeping in separate chambers, and applied to 
 the priest for advice. Coquette as she has been called, 
 we find her over and over again applying to her spiritual 
 director, on occasions which must have amused as well 
 as consoled her, being predetermined on the virtuous 
 side before the application. It appears to me, from a 
 careful reading of her words whenever they appear, and 
 by a consideration of her whole history and character, 
 that she never was in danger either from the brutal top- 
 booted woman-hunter not then extinct, who might have 
 gold in his purse, or from the more amusing, if equally 
 selfish, man on town. The apathy her husband com- 
 plained of was a garde d'honneur more powerful than 
 coat of mail, or the occasional advice even of a con- 
 fessor. They now lived separately ; but the Edinburgh 
 audience has always been impatient and inquisitive about 
 actors off the stage, and Inchbald incurred their dislike. 
 Perhaps the two gentlemen performing Iago and Othello, 
 and Mrs. Inchbald Jane Shore, was too much for the 
 gossiping public, and no wonder ! The state of feeling 
 
XIV INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 burst into a riot, and Inchbald was driven from the 
 stage. 
 
 This reconciled them. They had both imbibed the 
 notion that a visit to Paris might be remunerative, or, at 
 least, they wilfully persuaded themselves into that belief. 
 She had been studying French, and he had been as- 
 siduously practising painting. He would paint and she 
 would write, a scheme so absurd, on the part of both, 
 that all her biographers are lost in seeking for an 
 explanation. They had no pictures to take with them, 
 and we may say that neither of them could either paint 
 or write, considering the language had never yet been 
 spoken by them. They crossed to St. Valleri (we give 
 the name as in all former accounts) in a Shields vessel, 
 most likely a coal-ship, and arrived in Paris to find 
 themselves in a few weeks under the necessity of return- 
 ing to England for want of funds ! 
 
 They landed at Brighton (19th September, 1776) 
 with an exhausted exchequer, — so much so that we 
 learn from her own record they were literally without 
 bread. They had made friends on board the packet. 
 She always made friends in whatever position in life she 
 happened to be placed, which implies an elasticity of 
 temperament equal to all occasions. These entertained 
 them to some small extent ; but it has been said that a 
 raw turnip, eaten wandering in the fields, was their only 
 dinner at last ; nor do we know how they got to London, 
 nor how, except by friendly aid, they shortly arrived at 
 Chester, where a manager employed them both. This 
 return from Paris, where their little savings were lost in a 
 desperate adventure, and where considerable funds united 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XV 
 
 with accomplished art as painter or litterateur on the part 
 of either, would have been probably equally unavailing, 
 was the lowest point touched by Mrs. Inchbald in her 
 eight or ten years of provincial actress's life, though they 
 were not much more comfortable at Canterbury a year 
 later. At Liverpool they met with a liberal engagement 
 from Younger, then manager of that rather important 
 theatre. Here they remained for some months, a 
 long time to be stationary, and then moved on to 
 Manchester, where, on the 18th January, 1777, they had 
 the good fortune to meet the Siddonses, and a still more 
 important person — J. P. Kemble. 
 
 Kemble and his sister, soon to take the first places on 
 the English stage, and to leave all others leagues behind 
 in popularity, were at that moment equally obscure with 
 our heroine and her husband. But Kemble's dignity of 
 manner, his great talents, and his education, left little 
 doubt as to his asserting his position when his chance 
 should come, while the commanding power and person- 
 ality of Mrs. Siddons, " the queen of tears, now singing 
 over her household labour," left as little doubt as to her 
 ultimate success. The two parties lived together, Kemble 
 taking the warmest friendly interest in Mrs. Inchbald, while 
 Inchbald himself was happy painting in Mrs. Siddons' 
 apartment. This interval of peace continued when they 
 went to York, and they again took lodgings together at 
 Birmingham. Mrs. Inchbald now used to read her parts 
 with Kemble ; and he it was, about this time, first advised 
 her to think of writing a novel. Unhappily the perform- 
 ances at Birmingham, under the management of Mattocks, 
 were stopped by the magistrates for some unexplained 
 
XVI INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 reason. The Siddonses and Kemble left for a circuit, 
 and the Inchbalds, thrown wholly into each other's 
 society, renewed their former feud, and fell once more 
 into direful difficulties. 
 
 Next year we find Kemble writing to our heroine, and 
 telling her, among other news, " My tragedy has long 
 been finished — long in Mr. Harris's hands, who sent it 
 back to me a month ago unopened, with an assurance 
 that " it would not do." To this she replies that she is 
 privately writing the " Simple Story." 
 
 This tragedy was brought out at Hull, the author 
 playing his own hero, " Belisarius," Mrs. Inchbald acting 
 in it as well, and speaking the Epilogue. All of them 
 were rising in public esteem to a certain degree, that is 
 to say, as country actors known and expected in the 
 York circuit ; but neither then nor at the present day 
 would any provincial success carry a player very high in 
 the profession, so that the magnificent declamation of 
 Kemble, and the heart-rending pathos of Mrs. Siddons, 
 or more lately the naturalism of Edmund Kean, were 
 for years wasted before audiences who either could not 
 or did not venture to appreciate. But a crisis was ap- 
 proaching for Mrs. Inchbald. 
 
 On the 4th June, 1779, when they were all at Leeds, 
 an excursion, combining pleasure and profit, was planned. 
 The whole troop, in high spirits, went to Halifax, Inch- 
 bald on horseback, and all in splendour. In the evening 
 they entertained the natives successfully, and next day 
 returned as they came. All appeared well, and now 
 another night settled them to their work at Leeds, when 
 Inchbald died without warning, and in a manner, then 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XV11 
 
 and now, in want of explanation. Boaden's account, 
 with the Journal of the widow before him, is altogether 
 inexplicable. "In consequence of some accident," he 
 says; and again, "probably an affection of the heart, 
 which, as his lady does not state it, we shall avoid the 
 current rumour, and give her own words : — * The day 
 was a day of horror, and the week following a week of 
 grief, horror, and despair.' " Neither in the " Memoir of 
 Kemble," published in 1825, nor in the "Life of Mrs. 
 Siddons," by the poet Campbell, do we find the least hint 
 of an explanation regarding this sudden death. When 
 Mrs. Inchbald destroyed her own " Memoir," the open- 
 ing chapter of the fourth volume of which was a 
 "Description of the Death," Boaden himself says: — 
 " We regret the loss of this particularly, for reasons 
 which need not be too plainly mentioned. She had a 
 perfect knowledge of the subject : ours is comparatively 
 imperfect. She might have hit upon the exact terms in 
 which it was possible to talk about it." The Leeds 
 troupe gave her a benefit, and Kemble consoled himself 
 by writing epitaphs and an ode, " a blank ode," as it is 
 ominously called, in imitation of Collins' "Ode to 
 Evening ; " and thus ended, at little more than twenty- 
 five and a-half, when so many women, as well as men, 
 have just begun the most serious business of life, the 
 hardships and the vicissitudes of Mrs. Inchbald's 
 career. 
 
 We have been somewhat particular in recording the 
 history of those years, her years of married life and 
 provincial acting on many stages, because in the expe- 
 
 b 
 
XV111 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 riences of that period the girl who entered upon 
 them with absolutely no education, acquired a very 
 prudential knowledge of the world, and an independ- 
 ence of all attachments and advice, so essential to 
 weaker natures. In future, moreover, the picturesque 
 Bohemianism is lost, the romance flattened down, so 
 that it will not be worth while to dwell on future records 
 of the same kind of incidents as those already noted. 
 She had already begun, it appears, to invest in the funds. 
 We are told, "When Mr. Inchbald died, her circum- 
 stances were what are commonly called good, and 
 for a player, perhaps, extraordinary. She had £,222. 
 Long Annuities, ^30 in Consols, and 5^. 3^. in the 
 Reduced Annuities, besides ^"128 I2J-. 6d. in hand." 
 A statement so extraordinary as this, which we must 
 accept as a calculation of dividends, not three years after 
 an exhausted exchequer had cut short their residence in 
 Paris, and the semi-starvation in Brighton, is altogether 
 beyond belief. Is the statement a mistake in point of 
 time, and does it only refer to the last years of her life, 
 as it is made to do by the author of the Memoir prefixed 
 to Mr. Bentley's edition of 1833? Or had she been 
 making up a private fund during all her married life, like 
 Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, a fund, it may be, in self-protection 
 against an improvident husband, with at least one illegiti- 
 mate child who accompanied them ? Mr. Boaden's state- 
 ment, with her Journal and all other documents before him, 
 is so explicit that we must suppose some such scheme 
 had existed, were it not impossible, even on such a sup- 
 position, to believe she could save, out of the miserable 
 salaries they received, a sum approaching five thousand 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XIX 
 
 pounds. Penurious to a degree all her life, spending 
 nothing on dress, — some very handsome women think 
 they don't require to do so, — careless about her food, 
 sitting without a fire in winter when in receipt of from 
 five to nine hundred pounds for a new play, her will at 
 the end of all does not show that she was much richer 
 at her death than this account would indicate at the time 
 the Leeds company gave her a benefit to assist her on 
 the death of her husband, — a provincial benefit at this 
 time producing about fifteen pounds ! 
 
 Having stated this problem, and left it to the reader, 
 we follow her further fortunes. She continued to act 
 with the York company under the new management of 
 Cummings. The " Simple Story " was now finished and 
 submitted to Kemble and others. Of the tragedian's 
 opinion of it we have no record, but we find various 
 entries in her Journal about this time of possibly more 
 interest to her. Offers of love of various kinds she has, 
 one from Dick Suett, whose proposal of marriage she 
 rejects, interspersed with remonstrances on her im- 
 prudence, imaginary on his part, from Kemble, who 
 continued to shew so great an interest in her well-being 
 that she was in hopes he would himself propose. She 
 says, " I would have jumped to have him ; " but he 
 never advanced, and we are pretty safe in saying that 
 the woman to whom absolute independence was neces- 
 sary would never have harmonised with the pompous 
 and arbitrary Kemble, whom she had acuteness enough 
 to describe as her hero Dorriforth. Marriage was not 
 necessary to her, and she had the sense to see this, so 
 that no disappointment resulted. Dr. Brodie, too, she was, 
 
 b 2 
 
XX INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 in her way, in love with, but nothing came of it. This 
 gentleman was on his transit to London to begin practice, 
 and it was to him she afterwards sent her " Simple Story," 
 in manuscript, with a view to publication. Its reception 
 by the booksellers was a repetition of the old story. 
 Stockdale and others could see nothing in it, and after 
 months of anxious correspondence the MS. came back 
 to her, to lie in her desk for about fourteen years, when 
 her farces had established her fame, and she was inde- 
 pendent of the results. Publishers then could see its 
 merits ! 
 
 We now find her again in Edinburgh, where she 
 remained still a favourite in the recollection of the 
 people, and where both her role of Jane Shore and the 
 persevering Mr. Sterling again attract attention. As 
 before, too, we hear of attendance at mass and an 
 appeal to a confessor entering dramatically on the 
 
 scene. 
 
 "All the world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players ! " 
 
 she must have said to herself a thousand times in the 
 course of her intrigues and love affairs, which invariably 
 ended like the witches in " Macbeth ; " "And what seemed 
 corporal melted as breath into the wind." She was still 
 connected with the York company, but determined to 
 try her fortunes in London. Thither she repaired in 
 September, 1780. The redoubtable Harris was still 
 master of the situation at Covent Garden, but he looked 
 at her with approving eye, and she made her debut there, 
 without sound of trumpets, on the 3rd of October, as 
 Bellario in "Philaster." We are afraid that a shapely figure 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XXI 
 
 and a handsome face were the main attractions to this 
 Harris, who was disappointed with her in another respect, 
 swearing she was determined upon virtue and a garret ! 
 This character Bellario, we must remember, is a lady 
 Euphrasia in the disguise of a page, and her salary was 
 so small that she added to it by going on in the panto- 
 mime; or rather, as the Memoir of 1833 says, "She was 
 not borne away from the train of Harlequin. She was 
 loth to suffer the deduction of 10s. per week by keeping 
 out of the band of enchanted or enchanting ladies who 
 frequent Persian temples, virgins of the sun, or the 
 moon, if she condescends to shine upon pantomime 
 masquerades." However, as we learn that her lodgings 
 in Edinburgh, where she had been accused of living 
 freely, cost only 8j\, and now in London gs., we see how 
 it was possible for her to go on with her saving system, 
 laying the foundation of the fortune she, happily for her 
 sisters, whom she was ever ready to serve, now rapidly 
 accumulated. 
 
 By this time she had written many farces and a 
 comedy or two, but could get no attention drawn to 
 them. Harris had no desire to avert his prophecy 
 of virtue and a garret, and George Colman, with 
 whom she was now acquainted, and whose country 
 house was open to her with its pleasant society, could 
 not find time to read them. Her comedy lay in 
 his drawer while she made her last excursion as 
 an actress, going to Ireland when Kemble was also 
 there. In Dublin she opened with Bellario, at a 
 salary of £2 35-. a-week, out of which she paid 
 22s. gd. for board and lodging. This went on for some 
 
XX11 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 months, till Daly, the manager, who is described plainly 
 as " a brute," made himself so offensive to her, that she 
 resented the insult so vociferously he was scared into 
 buying up her benefit and letting her go. The " brute " 
 sent the guineas by the hand of Kemble, and she took 
 them, thus ending the last of her acting tours, and 
 returning to town in May, 1783. 
 
 At this time Montgolfier and balloons were the talk 
 of the town, when a farce, called " A Mogul Tale ; or, 
 the Descent of the Balloon," was placed in Colman's 
 hand as the work of a Mrs. Woodley, whose handwriting, 
 he declared, was the worst he had ever encountered. 
 The title and the Montgolfier talk made him read and 
 adopt it at once. Mrs. Inchbald was one of the Hay- 
 market company at the time, and acted in her own piece. 
 The success was immense; she pocketed ^"ioo very 
 easily, and reminded Colman that he had a comedy by 
 her in his desk he had never read. " I'll go and read it 
 at once ! " was his rejoinder ; and at once, too, he put it 
 in rehearsal, pressing her to his heart with effusion. 
 His enthusiasm was shared by Bannister, Palmer, and Miss 
 Farren ; and the result was a greater success than that of 
 the slighter " Mogul's Tale." " Dear Madam," he writes 
 her, "the licencer wants a title for your play. I have 
 thought of a whimsical one that I think will not dis- 
 please you, and if you will favour me with a call about 
 eleven in the forenoon — ' I'll Tell you What ! ' — Yours, 
 G. C" 
 
 To this absurd title she could not object, because he 
 had undertaken to write the Prologue and Epilogue, and 
 the effect on the public was all that could be desired. 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XX111 
 
 She soon received ^300 from this comedy and a pound 
 a-week addition to her salary ; she soon, moreover, gave 
 up acting, devoted herself by day to composition, and 
 in the evening to enjoying the fashionable life that opened 
 to her. When not engaged in this way, she used to 
 frequent the theatre, and sometimes might be seen sitting 
 in the pit, but more frequently going from box to box 
 among her new friends, of whom the Marquis of 
 Abercorn and Lord Charles Bentinck were among the 
 chief. 
 
 Every year now brought her greater success; her 
 Comedy, "Such Things Are," brought her in ^900, and 
 "Every one has his Fault," ^"700. This last is said to 
 "be, perhaps, her best dramatic work."* Even the 
 wiseacre Harris, of Covent Garden, who prophesied 
 virtue and a garret for her, had to knuckle under at 
 last, and give her ^500 for an adaptation from the 
 German, called the "Wise Men of the East." Let us 
 give a list of her entire works for the stage, twenty in 
 number, running from 1784 to 1805 : — 
 
 "A Mogul Tale. "—1784. 
 " I'll Tell you What."— 1785-6. 
 "The Widow's Vow."— 1786. 
 "All on a Summer's Day."— 1787. 
 
 Then three adaptations from the French, called " Animal 
 Magnetism," "The Midnight Hour," and "The Child 
 
 * By a writer in Temple Bar Magazine, April, 1879. The article 
 in question, "Elizabeth Inchbald," is exceedingly well done and 
 highly interesting. 
 
XXIV INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 of Nature," followed same year by " Such Things Are," 
 which, night after night, filled old Covent Garden to the 
 ceiling : — 
 
 "Married Men."— 1789. 
 
 "The Hue and Cry." 
 
 "Next Door Neighbours." 
 
 "Young Men and Old Women." 
 
 " Every one has his Fault." — 1793. 
 
 " The Wedding Day." — 1794. 
 
 " Wives as they were, and Maids as they are." — 1797. 
 
 After this she tried the German, Kotzebue being a 
 fashionable author at the time, her next two plays, 
 " Lovers' Vows," and " The Wise Men of the East," 
 were from his originals, and were brought out in 1798-9. 
 After which "To Marry or Not to Marry," appeared 
 in 1805, and " The Massacre," a tragedy, with " Care of 
 Conscience," complete the list. 
 
 The two last-named may be read in Boaden's Memoir, 
 but the majority of the others are in "The Modern 
 Theatre," 181 1, "The British Theatre," 1824, or in 
 "Farces and After pieces," 1815, the first and last 
 collections being edited by Mrs. Inchbald herself. 
 
 In the midst of this success she bethought her of the 
 " Simple Story," so long lying as if worthless in her 
 desk. She brought it out, re-wrote it, and offered it to 
 Robinson, who at once gave her the sum she wanted 
 for it, viz., ^2 00. A few days after its first publication 
 a new edition was called for, and this was followed by a 
 third at an interval not much greater. 
 
 This was in 1791 when she was touching upon her 
 thirty-ninth birthday, and was welcomed in the most 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XXV 
 
 fashionable society of the season, but when her Journal 
 was beginning to record a suspicion that time was 
 impairing the beauty she had always found her most 
 dear and prized possession. We should like to know 
 how much the re-writing had altered the story, and still 
 more, whether the character of Dorriforth had undergone 
 any development, now that Kemble had become to her 
 only one of many friends all hopeless as husbands. 
 
 As to herself, still pretty, more piquant than ever, and 
 more pious, with acknowledged talents, and ready social 
 powers to make all other women jealous, a Bohemian 
 who wanted nothing, but still lived in her garret with 
 virtue, on little more than twenty shillings a week, but also 
 with long annuities that enabled her to assist all her 
 family; affectionate in nature, without passion, wholly 
 feminine, she was amiable and lovable in an extra- 
 ordinary degree. Great in friendship, too, and greedy of 
 money, and of admiration, but independent of love, 
 even more than when her husband accused her of 
 apathy. 
 
 Pretty we have called her, but, according to the taste 
 of her own time, more than that, lovely ; we wonder the 
 greatest painters of her day did not find her out, and 
 immortalize her on canvas like Lady Hamilton. Piquant, 
 because her powers of mind were ready and quick, with 
 something of the amusing satire that goes so well with 
 the farce ; she was provokingly unassailable in her self- 
 consulting line of action, and used to draw her chair 
 into the middle of a room, surrounded by the men, to 
 the neglect of all other feminine attractions. Pious, in 
 a Roman-catholic way, religion hanging like a mantle 
 
XXVI INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 upon the shoulders, which she could transfer pleasantly 
 to the priest, as she might resign her shawl to the hand 
 of Dr. Gisborne ; a womanly and amusing sort of religion 
 merely. Bohemian, but of that kind only that made 
 her careless of all the minor appliances of life, her want 
 of passion, and passivity of temper, keeping her a purist 
 in morals, though living constantly on the confines of 
 forbidden ground. Mr. Von Hoist, a painter of nearly 
 half-a-century ago, painted "The Virgin Mary Dancing 
 with the Devil on the verge of the World;" — to the 
 pure all things are pure, and why should we not amuse 
 ourselves with associations that cannot taint us ? Yet, 
 if the reader will turn to the Preface to the first edition 
 to the " Simple Story," he will see that she disavows 
 altogether all the attractions of the Stage, and speaks 
 as if Destiny, and not her will and her ambition, had 
 led her to the footlights. When Kemble warned her 
 against a female friend whose character was gone, even 
 for the green-room of that day, she assured him of her 
 safety from contagion. Men had made impertinent love 
 to her from her eighteenth year, she was accustomed to 
 it : at first she threw a bason of hot water, it is said, 
 in the face of Dodd, when she, an unprotected female 
 of eighteen, applied to him as a manager ; but later in 
 life she only made them feel they had done what was 
 worse than a crime, — they had committed a blunder. 
 Now and then, indeed, she has to take the culprit by 
 the collar and turn him out, as for instance Dr. Gisborne, 
 who for a season took tea with her several times a week, 
 and at last consulted her about his marriage — " Marriage, 
 but not with me/" she calls out indignantly, shoving him 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XXV11 
 
 towards the door. He, poor man, had mistaken the 
 apathy which was not by any means indifference to 
 advancement. Godwin describes her as a mixture be- 
 tween a lady and a milkmaid, and the satirist Wolcot, 
 addresses her : — 
 
 " Eliza, when with female art 
 You seem to shun and yet pursue ; " 
 
 but the greatest mistake she ever made was to believe in 
 Sir Charles Bunbury, and for the delusive chance of his 
 making her Lady Bunbury, losing a rich Mr. Glover, 
 who offered a marriage settlement of ^500 a-year. 
 
 Although the success of the " Simple Story " was 
 decidedly great, it was not followed by other novels. 
 Eight years elapsed before " Nature and Art," a shorter 
 narrative of a totally different interest, appeared. No 
 reflection from her own history and character, directly 
 speaking, appears here : it was inspired not by experience, 
 but by the propagandism of the times. The new views 
 of social and political truths, those of the men at the 
 heart of the mighty movement that had convulsed 
 France, and must yet be formalized in Europe, had 
 taken a scarcely well-understood shape in her mind, 
 which impelled her to compare Natural impulses and 
 uneducated speech, with the Artificial, highly civilized, 
 selfish action and conversation we see about us. A 
 dangerous line to take in England in 1796, but danger 
 was her delight ; she loved to walk on forbidden ground, 
 and to laugh at the long faces that would dissuade her. 
 
XXV111 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 It was piquant ; society had already received her ; she 
 could laugh and argue, too, with those who read her 
 story ! 
 
 Always fond of French things from the time of that 
 escapade in Paris, when she and her husband thought to 
 succeed as writers and painters in spite of ignorance of 
 language, and ignorance of painting, she seems to have 
 been carried captive, as thousands have been, by the 
 theories of Rousseau, and by a belief in the rectitude 
 of human instincts, all the time remaining the most 
 artificial of amiable women. Religion says all souls 
 are equal, and the law tries to treat men so ; Nature it is 
 that steps in and denies the possibility of their remaining 
 so for twenty-four hours ! But the shallowest theory 
 of our author in this tale is that all the other enjoyments 
 of life, and of intellect, are as naught compared to those 
 of the moral nature. She throws conscience into the 
 scale against unscrupulous success, but she forgets that 
 tender conscience belongs to the good only. After the 
 death of Agnes, an ignominious death by the sentence 
 of her former lover, now a Judge, who does not re- 
 cognise her, the author says : " Spirit of Agnes ! look 
 down and behold all your wrongs revenged ! William feels 
 — Remorse!'''' But how much remorse would the man 
 who had knowingly and intentionally abandoned her to 
 wreck and ruin at twenty, be capable of feeling after 
 twenty years successful struggle in the profession of 
 law? 
 
 Nevertheless the story of " Nature and Art " has con- 
 siderable fascination ; its contrasts are enormous, yet, 
 unhappily, within the possibilities of the game. Nothing 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XXIX 
 
 can be more striking than the few sentences in which 
 she narrates the passing of the sentence : — ■ 
 
 "The verdict was Guilty. 
 
 " She heard it with composure. 
 
 "But when the Judge placed the fatal velvet on his head, re- 
 treating a step or two back, and lifting her hands, with a scream, 
 she exclaimed — 
 
 ' ' ' Oh, not from you ! ' 
 
 "The piercing shriek which accompanied those words pre- 
 vented their being heard. 
 
 "Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been 
 uttered, William delivered the fatal speech, ending with, dead, 
 dead, dead. 
 
 "She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back 
 to prison in a swoon, while he adjourned the court to go to 
 dinner." 
 
 From this time, before the end of the century, the 
 various members of her family, who had tried their 
 fortunes adventurously like herself, had lost their way, 
 and needed her assistance, which she was always ready 
 to give, however penuriously she treated herself. Of 
 her two youngest sisters, Debby had failed sadly, and 
 approached her end in comfort only by the aid and 
 attention of Elizabeth, on whom all expenses devolved. 
 George, too, left his family very badly provided for, and 
 Dolly, the youngest of all, came to be barmaid at the 
 Staple Inn Coffee House, where Mrs. Inchbald, far 
 from disdaining to visit her, delighted to do so, and 
 would step out of the carriage of some of her great 
 friends to shake hands with her, and step back again 
 without seeing anything in the visit to be ashamed of. 
 
 About 1810 we find repeated entries in her Journal 
 that she fears her beauty is going, and then she begins 
 to deny herself to visitors, to stay at home, and to 
 
XXX INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 be sadly depressed, employed in writing, and afterwards 
 destroying, her Memoir, and her wills, and at last dies 
 quietly on the ist of August, 182 1, and is buried in the 
 churchyard of Kensington. 
 
 Her last will leaves bequests to all her relatives ; and 
 to "the person calling himself Robert Inchbald," the 
 illegitimate son of her late husband, a man who had 
 caused her much trouble, she leaves ^20 a-year. 
 
 Her Portraits 
 
 are numerous, but none of them greatly distinguished. 
 The one we have etched was a favourite, as it gives the 
 hair dressed in the highest fashion. It was originally 
 published in 1787, about the same size as our etching, 
 and is described only as " Drawn with permission by 
 Cook," as if it had been from some important picture to 
 which Mr. Cook only had access. About this time we 
 have her own account of herself : — 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF ME. 
 
 Age between thirty and forty, which means a little turned of 
 thirty. 
 
 Height above middle size, and rather tall. 
 
 Figure handsome, and striking in its general air, but a little too 
 stiff and erect. 
 
 Shape rather too fond of sharp angles. 
 
 Skin by nature fair, though a little freckled, and with a tinge of 
 sand, which is the colour of her eye-lashes, but made coarse by ill- 
 treatment on her cheeks and arms. 
 
 Bosom none, or so diminutive. 
 
 Hair of a sandy auburn, and rather too straight as well as thin. 
 
 Face beautiful in effect, and beautiful in every feature. 
 
 Countenance full of spirit and sweetness ; excessively interesting, 
 and, without indelicacy, voluptuous. 
 
 Dress always becoming ; and very seldom worth so much as 
 eight-pence. 
 
INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. XXXI 
 
 Her first portrait, except an attempt by her husband, 
 was painted in Edinburgh in 1775. Afterwards, she 
 was engraved in the character of Lady Abbess, in the 
 "Comedy of Errors" (1785); and as Lady Jane Grey, 
 in the play of that name (1791). A few years later she 
 was painted by Drummond (1797), and by Lawrence, in 
 1807. Both of these portraits have been engraved, and 
 several others without painters' names. In Boaden's 
 " Memoir," for example, is a youthful portrait, a very 
 pretty one, described only as " Engraved by Dean from 
 an original painting." 
 
 [In preparing the present edition, the old phraseology 
 
 has been adhered to, except in cases of obvious verbal 
 
 or grammatical inaccuracy]. 
 
 W. B. SCOTT. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DORRIFORTH, bred at St. Omer's, in all the scholastic 
 rigour of that college, was, by education, and the solemn 
 vows of his order, a Roman Catholic priest : — but, nicely- 
 discriminating between the philosophical and the super- 
 stitious part of that character, he adopted the former only, 
 and possessed qualities not unworthy of the first professors 
 of Christianity. Every virtue which it was his vocation to 
 preach, it was his care to practise ; nor was he in the class 
 of those of the religious, who, by secluding themselves 
 from the world, fly from the merit they might acquire in 
 reforming mankind : he refused to shelter himself from the 
 temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister ; but 
 sought for and found that shelter within the centre of 
 London, where he dwelt, in his own prudence, justice, forti- 
 tude, and temperance. 
 
 He was about thirty, and had lived in the metropolis near 
 five years, when a gentleman, above his own age, but with 
 whom he had in his youth contracted a sincere friendship, 
 died, and left him the sole guardian of his daughter, who was 
 then eighteen. 
 
 The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution, 
 perfectly sensible of his state, thus reasoned with himself 
 
 B 
 
2 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 before he made the nomination : — "I have formed no intimate 
 friendship during my whole life, except one — I can be said to 
 know the heart of no man, except the heart of Dorriforth. 
 After knowing his, I never sought acquaintance with an- 
 other; I did not wish to lessen the exalted estimation of 
 human nature which he had inspired. In this moment of 
 trembling apprehension for every thought which darts across 
 my mind, and more for every action which soon I must be 
 called to answer for; all worldly views here thrown aside, 
 I act as if that tribunal, before which I every moment 
 expect to appear, were now sitting in judgment upon my 
 purpose. The care of an only child is the great charge 
 which in this tremendous crisis I have to execute. These 
 earthly affections that bind me to her by custom, sympathy, 
 or what I fondly call parental love, would direct me to 
 consult her present happiness, and leave her to the care 
 of those whom she thinks her dearest friends; but they 
 are friends only in the sunshine of fortune; in the cold 
 nipping frost of disappointment, sickness, or connubial 
 strife, they will forsake the house of care, although the 
 very fabric which they may have themselves erected." 
 
 Here the excruciating anguish of the father overcame that 
 of the dying man. 
 
 "In the moment of desertion," continued he, "which I 
 now picture to myself, where will my child find comfort ? 
 That heavenly aid which religion provides, and which now, 
 amidst these agonizing tortures, cheers with humble hope 
 my afflicted soul, that she will be denied." 
 
 It is in this place proper to remark, that Mr. Milner was 
 a member of the church of Rome, but on his marriage with 
 a lady of Protestant tenets, they mutually agreed their sons 
 should be educated in the religious opinion of their father, 
 and their daughters in that of their mother. One child only 
 was the result of their union ; the child whose future welfare 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 3 
 
 now occupied the anxious thoughts of her expiring father. 
 From him the care of her education had been withheld, 
 as he kept inviolate his promise to her departed mother 
 on the article of religion, and therefore consigned his 
 daughter to a boarding-school for Protestants, whence she 
 returned with merely such ideas of piety as ladies of fashion, 
 at her age, mostly imbibe. Her little heart employed in all 
 the endless pursuits of personal accomplishments, had left 
 her mind without one ornament, except such as nature gave ; 
 and even those accomplishments were not wholly preserved 
 from the ravages made by Nature's rival, Art. 
 
 While her father was in health he beheld, with extreme 
 delight, his accomplished daughter, without one fault which 
 taste or elegance could have imputed to her ; nor ever 
 inquired what might be her other failings. But, cast on a 
 bed of sickness, and upon the point of leaving her to her 
 fate, those failings at once rushed on his thought ; and all 
 the pride, the fond enjoyment he had taken in beholding 
 her open the ball, or delight her hearers with her wit or 
 song, escaped his remembrance; or, not escaping it, these 
 things were lamented with a sigh of compassion, or a con- 
 temptuous frown at such frivolous qualifications. 
 
 "Something essential," said he to himself, "must be con- 
 sidered; something to prepare her for an hour like this. 
 Can I then leave her to the charge of those who themselves 
 never remember such an hour will come? Dorriforth is the 
 only person I know, who, uniting the moral virtues to those 
 of religion, and pious faith to native honour, will protect 
 without controlling, instruct without tyrannizing, comfort 
 without flattering; and, perhaps in time, make good by 
 choice, rather than by constraint, the tender object of his 
 dying friend's sole care." 
 
 Dorriforth, who came post from London to visit Mr. 
 Milner in his illness, received, a few moments before his - 
 
 B 2 
 
4 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 death, all his injunctions, and promised to fulfil them. But, 
 in this last token of his friend's perfect esteem, he still 
 was restrained from all authority to direct his ward in one 
 religious opinion, contrary to those her mother had pro- 
 fessed, and in which she herself had been educated. 
 
 "Never perplex her mind with any opinions that may 
 disturb, but cannot reform" — were his latest words; and 
 Dorriforth's reply gave him entire satisfaction. 
 
 Miss Milner was not with her father at this affecting 
 period : — some delicately nervous friend, with whom she was 
 on a visit at Bath, thought proper to conceal from her not 
 only the danger of his death, but even his indisposition, lest 
 it might alarm a mind she thought too susceptible. This 
 refined tenderness gave poor Miss Milner the almost 
 insupportable agony of hearing that her father was no 
 more, even before she had been told he was not in health. 
 In the bitterest anguish she flew to pay her last duty to his 
 remains, and performed it with the truest filial love, while 
 Dorriforth, upon important business, was obliged to return 
 to town. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Dorriforth returned to London heavily afflicted for the 
 loss of his friend ; and yet, perhaps, with his thoughts more 
 engaged upon the trust which that friend had reposed in 
 him. He knew the life Miss Milner had been accustomed 
 to lead; he dreaded the repulses his admonition might 
 possibly meet; and feared he had undertaken a task he 
 was too weak to execute — the protection of a young woman 
 of fashion. 
 
 Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first 
 Catholic peers ; his income was by no means confined, but 
 approaching to affluence; yet such was his attention to 
 those in poverty, and the moderation of his own desires, that 
 he lived in all the careful plainness of economy. His 
 habitation was in the house of a Mrs. Horton, an elderly 
 gentlewoman, who had a maiden niece residing with her, 
 not many years younger than herself. But although Miss 
 Woodley was thirty-five, and in person exceedingly plain, 
 yet she possessed such cheerfulness of temper, and such an 
 inexhaustible fund of good nature, that she escaped not 
 only the ridicule, but even the appellation, of an old 
 maid. 
 
 In this house Dorriforth had lived before the death of 
 Mr. Horton; nor upon that event had he thought it 
 necessary, notwithstanding his religious vow of celibacy, 
 to fly the roof of two such innocent females as Mrs. Horton 
 and her niece. On their part, they regarded him with all 
 
6 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 that respect and reverence which the most religious flock 
 shews to its pastor ; and his friendly society they not only 
 esteemed a spiritual, but a temporal advantage, as the 
 liberal stipend he allowed for his apartments and board 
 enabled them to continue in the large and commodious 
 house which they had occupied during the life of Mr. 
 Horton. 
 
 Here, upon Mr. Dorriforth's return from his journey, 
 preparations were commenced for the reception of his 
 ward ; her father having made it his request that she might, 
 for a time at least, reside in the same house with her guardian, 
 receive the same visits, and cultivate the acquaintance of his 
 companions and friends. 
 
 When the will of her father was made known to Miss 
 Milner, she submitted, without the least reluctance, to all 
 he had required. Her mind, at that time impressed with 
 the most poignant sorrow for his loss, made no distinction 
 between it and happiness that was to come: and the day 
 was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was 
 to arrive in London, and there take up her abode, with all 
 the retinue of a rich heiress. 
 
 Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acqui- 
 sition to her family was likely to make to her annual income, 
 and style of living. The good-natured Miss Woodley was 
 overjoyed at the expectation of her new guest, yet she 
 herself could not tell why ; but the reason was, that her 
 kind heart wanted a more ample field for its benevolence ; 
 and now her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how 
 she should render, not only the lady herself, but even all her 
 attendants, happy in their new situation. 
 
 The reflections of Dorriforth were less agreeably engaged ; 
 cares, doubts, fears, possessed his mind, and so forcibly 
 possessed it, that upon every occasion which offered, he 
 would inquisitively endeavour to gain intelligence of his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 7 
 
 ward's disposition before he saw her; for he was, as yet, y 
 a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind, 
 but even to her person : a constant round of visits having 
 prevented his meeting her at her father's, the very few times 
 he had been at his house, since her final return from 
 school. The first person whose opinion he, with all proper 
 reserve, asked concerning Miss Milner, was Lady Evans, 
 the widow of a baronet, who frequently visited at Mrs. 
 Horton's. 
 
 But that the reader may be interested in what Dorriforth 
 says and does, it is necessary to give some description of his 
 person and manners. His figure was tall and elegant, but 
 his face, except a pair of dark bright eyes, a set of white 
 teeth, and a graceful arrangement of his clerical curls of 
 brown hair, had not one feature to excite admiration — yet 
 such a gleam of sensibility was diffused over each, that 
 many persons admired his visage as completely handsome, 
 and all were more or less attracted by it. In a word, the 
 charm that is here meant to be described is a countenance 
 — on his you read the feelings of his heart — saw all its in- 
 most workings — the quick pulses that beat with hope and 
 fear, or the gentle ones that moved in a more equal course 
 of patience and resignation. On his countenance his 
 thoughts were pourtrayed; and as his mind was enriched 
 with every virtue that could make it valuable, so was his face 
 adorned with every expression of those virtues : and they 
 not only gave a lustre to his aspect, but added an har- 
 monious sound to all he uttered ; it was persuasive, it was 
 perfect eloquence; whilst in his looks you beheld his 
 thoughts moving with his lips, and ever coinciding with 
 what he said. 
 
 With one of those expressions of countenance which re- 
 vealed anxiety of heart, and yet with that graceful restraint 
 of all gesticulation for which he was remarkable, even in his 
 
8 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 most anxious concerns, he addressed Lady Evans, who had 
 called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to request the news of 
 the day. " Your ladyship was at Bath last spring — you know 
 the young lady to whom I have the honour of being ap- 
 pointed guardian. Pray " 
 
 He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was 
 prevented by the person interrogated. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me anything about Miss 
 Milner. When I saw her she was very young; though, in- 
 deed, that is but three months ago, and she can't be much 
 older now." 
 
 " She is eighteen," answered Dorriforth, colouring with 
 regret at the doubts which this lady had increased, but 
 not inspired. 
 
 " And she is very beautiful, that I can assure you," said 
 Lady Evans. 
 
 "Which I call no qualification," said Dorriforth, rising 
 from his chair in evident uneasiness. 
 
 " But where there is nothing else, let me tell you, beauty 
 is something." 
 
 "Much worse than nothing, in my opinion," returned 
 Dorriforth. 
 
 " But now, Mr. Dorriforth, do not, from what I have said, 
 frighten yourself and imagine your ward worse than she 
 really is. All I know of her is merely that she is young, 
 idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with half-a-dozen lovers in her 
 suite ; some coxcombs, others men of gallantry, some single, 
 and others married." 
 
 Dorriforth started. " For the first time of my life," cried 
 he, with a manly sorrow, " I wish I had never known her 
 father." 
 
 "Nay," said Mrs. Horton, who expected everything to 
 happen just as she wished (for neither an excellent educa- 
 tion, the best company, nor long experience, had been able 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 9 
 
 to cultivate or brighten this good lady's understanding), 
 " Nay," said she, " I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will soon 
 convert her from all her evil ways." 
 
 " Dear me," returned Lady Evans, " I am sure I never 
 meant to hint at anything evil — and for what I have said, I 
 will give you up my authors if you please ; for they were 
 not observations of my own. All I do is to mention them 
 again." 
 
 The good-natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the 
 window, an humble but attentive listener to this discourse, 
 ventured here to say exactly six words — " Then don't men- 
 tion them any more." 
 
 " Let us change the subject," said Dorriforth. 
 
 " With all my heart," cried Lady Evans ; " and I am sure 
 it will be to the young lady's advantage." 
 
 " Is Miss Milner tall or short?" asked Mrs. Horton, still 
 wishing for further information. 
 
 " Oh, tall enough in all conscience," returned she. " I tell 
 you again that no fault can be found with her person." 
 
 " But if her mind is defective," exclaimed Dorriforth, with 
 a sigh 
 
 " That may be improved as well as the person," cried Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 " No, my dear," returned Lady Evans, " I never heard of a 
 pad to make straight an ill-shapen disposition." 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Miss Woodley, "good company, 
 good books, experience, and the misfortunes of others, may 
 have more power to form the mind to virtue than- " 
 
 Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed; for Lady 
 Evans, rising hastily from her seat, cried, " I must be gone 
 — I have a hundred people waiting for me at home — besides, 
 were I inclined to hear a sermon, I should desire Mr. Dorri- 
 forth to preach, and not you." 
 
 Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced. "And here is 
 
10 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Mrs. Hillgrave," continued she ; " I believe, Mrs. Hillgrave, 
 you know Miss Milner, don't you? The young lady who has 
 lately lost her father." 
 
 Mrs. Hillgrave was the wife of a merchant who had met 
 with severe losses. As soon as the name of Miss Milner 
 was uttered, she lifted up her hands, and thenars started in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " There ! " cried Lady Evans. " I desire you will give your 
 opinion of her; and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it." 
 Saying this, she courtesied and took her leave. 
 
 When Mrs. Hillgrave had been seated a few minutes, 
 Mrs. Horton, who loved information equally with the most 
 inquisitive of her sex, asked the new visitor if she might be 
 permitted to know why, at the mention of Miss Milner, she 
 had seemed so much affected. 
 
 This question exciting the fears of Dorriforth, he turned 
 anxiously round, attentive to the reply. 
 
 " Miss Milner," answered she, " has been my benefactress, 
 and the best I ever had." As she spoke, she took out her 
 handkerchief and wiped away the tears that ran down her 
 face. 
 
 " How so ?" cried Dorriforth, eagerly, with his own eyes 
 moistened with joy, nearly as much as hers were with grati- 
 tude. 
 
 " My husband, at the commencement of his distresses," 
 replied Mrs. Hillgrave, "owed a sum of money to her 
 father, and, from repeated provocations, Mr. Milner was 
 determined to seize upon all our effects. His daughter, 
 however, by her intercessions, procured us time in order to 
 discharge the debt ; and when she found that time was in- 
 sufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his 
 intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable orna- 
 ments to satisfy his demand, and screen us from its conse- 
 quences." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. II 
 
 Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave 
 by the hand, and told her, "She should never want a 
 friend." 
 
 "Is Miss Milner tall or short?" again asked Mrs. Horton, 
 fearing, from the sudden pause which had ensued, lest the 
 subject should be dropped. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Mrs. Hillgrave. 
 
 "Is she handsome, or ugly?" 
 
 " Dually can't tell." 
 
 " It is very strange you should not take notice ! " 
 
 " I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own 
 judgment — to me she appeared beautiful as an angel; but 
 perhaps I was deceived by the beauties of her disposition." 
 
 CTKJL 
 
12 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 This gentlewoman's visit inspired Mr. Dorriforth with 
 some confidence in the principles and character of his ward. 
 The day arrived on which she was to leave her late father's 
 seat, and fix her abode at Mrs. Horton's ; and her guardian, 
 accompanied by Miss Woodley, went in his carriage to 
 meet her, and waited at an inn on the road for her recep- 
 tion. 
 
 After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father, Miss 
 Milner, upon the ioth of November, arrived at the place, 
 half-way on her journey to town, where Dorriforth and Miss 
 Woodley were expecting her. Besides attendants, she had 
 with her a gentleman and lady, distant relations of her 
 mother's, who thought it but a proper testimony of their 
 civility to attend her part of the way, — but who so much 
 envied her guardian the trust Mr. Milner had reposed in 
 him, that as soon as they had delivered her safe into his 
 care, they returned. 
 
 When the carriage, which brought Miss Milner, stopped 
 at the inn gate, and her name was announced to Dorriforth, 
 he turned pale — something like a foreboding of disaster 
 trembled at his heart, and consequently spread a gloom over 
 all his face. Miss Woodley was even obliged to rouse him 
 from the dejection into which he was cast, or he would have 
 sunk beneath it ; she was obliged also to be the first to 
 welcome his lovely charge — lovely beyond description. 
 
 But the natural vivacity, the gaiety which report had 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 3 
 
 given to Miss Milner, were softened by her recent sorrow to 
 a meek sadness — and that haughty display of charms, im- 
 puted to her manners, was changed to a pensive demeanour. 
 The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her by Miss 
 Woodley as her " guardian, and her deceased father's most 
 beloved friend," she burst into tears, knelt down to him for 
 a moment, and promised ever to obey him as her father. 
 He had his handkerchief to his face at the time, or she 
 would have beheld the agitation — the remotest sensations of 
 his heart. 
 
 This affecting introduction being over, after some minutes 
 passed in general conversation, the carriages were again 
 ordered; and, bidding farewell to the relations who had 
 accompanied her, Miss Milner, her guardian, and Miss 
 Woodley departed for town ; the two ladies in Miss Milner's 
 carriage, and Dorriforth in that in which he came. 
 
 Miss Woodley, as they rode along, made no attempts to 
 ingratiate herself with Miss Milner; though, perhaps such 
 an honour might constitute one of her first wishes — she 
 behaved to her but as she constantly behaved to every other 
 human creature — and that was sufficient to gain the esteem 
 of a person possessed of an understanding equal to Miss 
 Milner's ; she had penetration to discover Miss Woodley's 
 unaffected worth, and was soon induced to reward it with 
 the warmest friendship. 
 
14 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 After a night's rest in London, — less violently impressed 
 with the loss of her father, reconciled, if not already attached 
 to her new acquaintances, her thoughts pleasingly occupied 
 with the reflection that she was in that gay metropolis, a 
 wild and rapturous picture of which her active fancy had 
 often formed, — Miss Milner waked from a peaceful and re- 
 freshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and with all 
 those airy charms, which, for a while, had yielded their 
 transcendent power to the weaker influence of her filial 
 sorrow. 
 
 Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to 
 Dorriforth on the preceding day, when she joined them in 
 the morning at breakfast, repossessed of her lively elegance 
 and dignified simplicity, they gazed at her and at each other 
 alternately, with astonishment ; and Mrs. Horton, as she sat 
 at the head of her tea-table, felt herself but as a menial 
 servant ; such command has beauty when united with sense 
 and virtue. In Miss Milner it was so united. Yet let not 
 our over-scrupulous readers be misled, and extend their idea 
 of her virtue so as to magnify it beyond that which frail 
 mortals commonly possess ; nor must they cavil if, on a 
 nearer view, they find it less ; but let them consider, that if 
 she had more faults than generally belong to others, she had 
 likewise more temptations. 
 
 From her infancy she had been indulged, to the extreme of 
 folly, in all her wishes, and she started habitually at the un- 
 pleasant voice of control. She was beautiful ; she had been 
 

 A SIMPLE STORY. 1 5 
 
 too frequently told the high value of that beauty, and thought 
 I every moment passed in wasteful idleness during which she 
 I was not gaining some new conquest. She had a quick 
 sensibility, which too frequently discovered itself in the im- 
 mediate resentment of injuries or neglect. She had, besides, 
 acquired the dangerous character of a wit ; but to which she 
 had no real pretensions, although the most discerning critic, 
 hearing her converse, might fall into this mistake. Her 
 replies had all the effect of repartee, not because she pos- 
 sessed those qualities which can properly be called wit, but 
 because what she said was delivered with an energy, an in- 
 stantaneous and powerful conception of the sentiment, 
 joined with a real or a well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick 
 turn of the eye, and an arch smile. Her words were but the 
 words of others, and, like those of others, put into common 
 sentences ; but the delivery made them pass for wit, as grace 
 in an ill-proportioned figure will often make it pass for 
 symmetry. 
 
 And now, leaving description, the reader must form a 
 judgment of the ward of Dorriforth by her actions ; by 
 all the round of great or trivial circumstances that shall be 
 related. 
 
 At breakfast, which had just begun at the commencement 
 of this chapter, the conversation was lively on the part of 
 Miss Milner, wise on the part of Dorriforth, good on the 
 part of Miss Woodley, and an endeavour at all three 
 of those qualities on the part of Mrs. Horton. The dis- 
 course at length drew from Mr. Dorriforth this obser- 
 vation : — 
 
 "You have a greater resemblance to your father, Miss 
 Milner, than I imagined you had from report : I did not ex- 
 pect to find you so like him." 
 
 " Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you anything 
 like what you are ! " 
 
1 6 ' A SIMPLE STORY, 
 
 " No ! pray what dic^you expect to find me ? " 
 
 " I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain 
 man. 
 
 This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone 
 which obviously declared she thought her guardian both 
 young and handsome. He replied, but not without some 
 little embarrassment — "A plain man you shall find me in 
 all my actions." 
 
 " Then your actions are to contradict your appearance." 
 
 For in what she said, Miss Milner had the quality peculiar 
 to wits, of hazarding the thought that first occurs, which 
 thought is generally truth. On this, he paid her a compli- 
 ment in return : — 
 
 " You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad 
 judge of what is plain, and what is not." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Because I am sure you will readily own you do not think 
 yourself handsome; and allowing that, you instantly want 
 judgment." 
 
 "And I would rather want judgment than beauty," she 
 replied ; " and so I give up the one for the other." 
 
 With a serious face, as if proposing a very serious ques- 
 tion, Dorriforth continued — "And you really believe you 
 are not handsome ? " 
 
 "I should, if I consulted my own opinion, believe that I 
 was not ; but in some respects I am like Roman Catholics ; 
 I don't believe upon my own understanding, but from what 
 other people tell me." 
 
 "And let this convince you," replied Dorriforth, "that 
 what we teach is truth ; for you find you would be deceived, 
 did you not trust to persons who know better than yourself. 
 But, my dear Miss Milner, we will talk upon some other 
 topic, and never resume this again. We differ in opinion, I 
 dare say, on one subject only; and this difference, I hope, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 7 
 
 will never extend itself to any other. Therefore, let not 
 religion be named between us ; for as I have resolved never 
 to persecute you, in pity be grateful, and do not persecute 
 me." 
 
 Miss Milner looked surprised that anything so lightly 
 said should be so seriously received. The kind Miss 
 Woodley ejaculated a short prayer to herself, that Heaven 
 would forgive her young friend the involuntary sin of reli- 
 gious ignorance; while Mrs. Horton, unperceived, as she 
 imagined, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead, as 
 a guard against the infectious taint of heretical opinions. 
 This pious ceremony Miss Milner by chance observed, and 
 now shewed such an evident propensity to burst into a fit of 
 laughter, that the good lady of the house could no longer 
 contain her resentment, but exclaimed, " God forgive you," 
 with a severity so different from the sentiment which the 
 words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, 
 obliged freely to indulge that impulse which she had in vain 
 been struggling to suppress ; and no longer suffering under 
 the agony of restraint, she gave way to her humour, and 
 laughed with a liberty so uncontrolled, that it soon left her 
 in the room with none but the tender-hearted Miss Woodley 
 a witness of her folly. 
 
 "My dear Miss Woodley," then cried Miss Milner, 
 after recovering herself, " I am afraid you will not forgive 
 me." 
 
 " No, indeed I will not," returned Miss Woodley. 
 
 But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are 
 words in conversation ; looks and manner alone express ; 
 for Miss Woodley, with her charitable face and mild 
 accents, saying she would not forgive implied only forgive- 
 ness; while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and 
 aspect, begging Heaven to pardon the offender, plainly 
 said, she thought her unworthy of all pardon. 
 
 k^v 
 
A SIMPLE STORY, 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Six weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been 
 in London, partaking with delight of all its pleasures ; while 
 Dorriforth has been sighing with apprehension, attending to 
 all her words and ways with precaution, and praying with 
 zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her guardian's 
 acquaintance, and, added to them, the new friends (to 
 use the unmeaning language of the world) whom she was 
 continually finding, crowded so perpetually to the house, 
 that seldom had Dorriforth even a moment left him from 
 her visits or visitors, to warn her of her danger; yet when a 
 moment offered he caught it eagerly — pressed the necessity 
 of "time not always passed in society; of reflection, of 
 reading, of thoughts for a future state, and of virtues 
 acquired to make old age supportable." That forcible 
 power of genuine feeling, which directs the tongue to 
 eloquence, had its effect while she listened to him, and she 
 sometimes put on the looks and gesture of assent ; some- 
 times even spoke the language of conviction ; but this the 
 first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or 
 peevish remonstrance at being limited in delights which her 
 birth and fortune entitled her to enjoy. 
 
 Among the many visitors who attended at her levees, and 
 followed her wherever she went, there was one who seemed, 
 even when absent from her, to share her thoughts. This 
 was Lord Frederick Lawnley, the younger son of a duke, 
 and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning women 
 of taste. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 9 
 
 He was not more than twenty-three ; animated, elegant, 
 extremely handsome, and possessed of every accomplish- 
 ment that could captivate a heart less susceptible of love 
 than Miss Milner's was supposed to be. With these allure- 
 ments, no wonder if she took pleasure in his company ; no 
 wonder if she took pride in having it known that he was 
 among the number of her devoted admirers. Dorriforth 
 beheld this growing intimacy with alternate pain and plea- 
 sure : he wished to see Miss Milner married, to see his 
 charge in the protection of another, rather than of himself; 
 yet under the care of a young nobleman, immersed in all the 
 vices of the town, without one moral excellence, but such as 
 might eventually result from passing influences — under such 
 care he trembled for her happiness ; yet trembled more lest 
 her heart should be purloined without even the authority of 
 matrimonial views. 
 
 With sentiments like these, Dorriforth could never dis- 
 guise his uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick; nor 
 could the latter want penetration to discern the suspicion 
 of the guardian ; and, consequently, each was embarrassed 
 in the presence of the other. Miss Milner observed — but 
 observed with indifference — the sensations of both: there 
 was but one passion which then held a place in her bosom, 
 and that was vanity ; vanity defined into all the species of 
 pride, vainglory, self-approbation; an inordinate desire of 
 admiration, and an immoderate enjoyment of the art of 
 pleasing, for her own individual happiness, and not for the 
 happiness of others. Still had she a heart inclined to, and 
 oftentimes affected by, tendencies less unworthy ; but those 
 approaches to what was estimable were in their first im- 
 pulse too frequently met and intercepted by some darling 
 folly. 
 
 Miss Woodley (who could easily discover a virtue, al- 
 though of the most diminutive kind, and scarcely through 
 
 C 2 
 
20 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 the magnifying-glass of calumny could ever perceive a fault) 
 was Miss Milner's inseparable companion at home, and her 
 zealous advocate with Dorrifortji, whenever, during her 
 absence, she became the subject of discourse. He listened 
 with hope to the praises of her friend, but saw with despair 
 how little they were merited. Sometimes he struggled to 
 subdue his anger, but oftener strove to suppress tears of 
 pity for his ward's hapless state. 
 
 By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Fre- 
 derick to her as a lover ; the servants whispered it, and some 
 of the public prints had even fixed the day of marriage : but 
 as no explanation had taken place on his part, Dorriforth's 
 uneasiness was increased; and he seriously told Miss Milner 
 he thought it would be indispensably prudent in her to en- 
 treat Lord Frederick to discontinue his visits. She smiled 
 with ridicule at the caution ; but finding it repeated, and in 
 a manner that indicated authority, she promised not only to 
 make, but to enforce the request. The next time he came 
 she did so ; assuring him it was by her guardian's desire, 
 " who, from motives of delicacy, had permitted her to solicit 
 as a favour what he could himself make as a demand." Lord 
 Frederick reddened with anger : he loved Miss Milner; but 
 he doubted whether, from the frequent proofs he had expe- 
 rienced of his own inconstancy, he should continue to love ; 
 and this interference of her guardian threatened an explana- 
 tion or a dismission before he became thoroughly acquainted 
 with his own heart. Alarmed, confounded, and provoked, 
 he replied — 
 
 "By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself; 
 and it is jealousy alone that makes him treat me in this 
 manner." 
 
 " For shame, my Lord," cried Miss Woodley, who was 
 present, and who trembled with horror at the sacrilegious 
 supposition. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 21 
 
 " Nay, shame to him, if he is not in love," answered his 
 Lordship ; " for who but a savage could behold beauty like 
 hers without owning its power ? " 
 
 "Habit," replied Miss Milner, "is everything. Mr. 
 Dorriforth sees and converses with beauty; but, from habit, 
 he does not fall in love; and you, my Lord, from habit, 
 often do." 
 
 " Then you believe that love is not in my disposition ? " 
 
 "No more of it, my Lord, than habit could very soon 
 extinguish." 
 
 "But I would not have it extinguished. I would rather 
 it should mount to a flame; for I think it a crime to be 
 insensible of the divine blessings love can bestow." 
 
 " Then you indulge the passion to avoid a sin ? This very 
 motive deters Mr. Dorriforth from that indulgence." 
 
 " It ought to deter him, for the sake of his oaths ; but 
 monastic vows, like those of marriage, were made to be 
 broken ; and surely when your guardian casts his eyes on 
 you, his wishes " 
 
 "Are never less pure," she replied eagerly, "than those 
 which dwell in the bosom of my celestial guardian." 
 
 At that instant Dorriforth entered the room. The colour 
 had mounted into Miss Milner's face, from the warmth with 
 which she had delivered her opinion; and his accidental 
 entrance at the very moment this praise had been conferred 
 upon him in his absence heightened the blush to a deep 
 glow on every feature: confusion and earnestness caused 
 even her lips to tremble and her whole frame to shake. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried Dorriforth, looking with 
 concern on her discomposure. 
 
 " A compliment paid by herself to you, Sir," replied Lord 
 Frederick, "has affected your ward in the manner you have 
 seen." 
 
 "As if she blushed at the untruth " said Dorriforth. 
 
2 2 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "Nay, that is unkind," cried Miss Woodley; "for if you 
 had been here " 
 
 " I would not have said what I did," replied Miss Milner, 
 " but had left him to vindicate himself." 
 
 "Is it possible that I can want any vindication? Who 
 would think it worth their while to slander so unimportant a 
 person as I am ? " 
 
 " The man who has the charge of Miss Milner," replied 
 Lord Frederick, " derives a consequence from her." 
 
 "No ill consequence, I hope, my Lord!" said Dorriforth, 
 with a firmness in his voice and with an eye so fixed that his 
 antagonist hesitated for a moment in want of a reply ; and 
 Miss Milner softly whispering to him, as her guardian 
 turned his head, to avoid an argument, he bowed acquies- 
 cence. Then, as if in compliment to her, he changed the 
 subject ; and, with an air of ridicule, cried — 
 
 " I wish, Mr. Dorriforth, you would give me absolution of 
 all my sins, for I confess they are many and manifold." 
 
 "Hold, my Lord," exclaimed Dorriforth, "do not confess 
 before the ladies, lest, in order to excite their compassion, 
 you should be tempted to accuse yourself of sins you have 
 never yet committed." 
 
 At this Miss Milner laughed, seemingly so well pleased, 
 that Lord Frederick, with a sarcastic sneer, repeated, — 
 
 " From Abelard it came, 
 
 And Eloisa still must love the name." 
 
 Whether from an inattention to the quotation, or from a 
 consciousness it was wholly inapplicable, Dorriforth heard it 
 without one emotion of shame or of anger — while Miss 
 Milner seemed shocked at the implication ; her pleasantry 
 was immediately suppressed, and she threw open the sash 
 and held her head out of the window, to conceal the embar- 
 rassment these lines had occasioned. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 23 
 
 The Earl of Elmwood was at that juncture announced — a 
 Catholic nobleman, just come of age, and on the eve of mar- 
 riage. His visit was to his cousin, Mr. Dorriforth ; but as 
 all ceremonious visits were alike received by Dorriforth, Miss 
 Milner, and Mrs. Horton's family, in one common apart- 
 ment, Lord Elmwood was ushered into this, and of course 
 directed the conversation to a different topic. 
 
24 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 With an anxious desire that the affection, or acquain- 
 tance between Lord Frederick and Miss Milner might be 
 finally dissolved, her guardian received, with infinite satis- 
 faction, overtures of marriage from Sir Edward Ashton. 
 Sir Edward was not young or handsome, old or ugly, but 
 'immensely rich, and possessed of qualities that made him 
 worthy of the happiness to which he aspired. He was the 
 man whom Dorriforth would have chosen before any other 
 for the husband of his ward; and his wishes made him 
 sometimes hope, against his cooler judgment, that Sir Ed- 
 ward would not be rejected. He was resolved, at all events, 
 to tiy the force of his own power in the strongest recom- 
 mendation of him. 
 
 Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion which, in 
 almost every instance, subsisted between Miss Milner and 
 her guardian, there was in general the most punctilious ob- 
 servance of good manners from each towards the other — on 
 the part of Dorriforth more especially; for his politeness 
 would sometimes appear even like the result of a system 
 which he had marked out for himself, as the only means to 
 keep his ward restrained within the same limitations. When- 
 ever he addressed her there was an unusual reserve upon 
 his countenance, and more than usual gentleness in the tone 
 of his voice : this appeared the effect of sentiments which 
 her birth and situation inspired, joined to a studied mode of 
 respect, best calculated to enforce the same from her. The 
 wished-for consequence was produced ; for though there was 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 25 
 
 an instinctive rectitude in the understanding of Miss Milner 
 that would have taught her, without other instruction, what 
 manners to observe towards her deputed father, yet, from 
 some volatile thought, or some quick sense of feeling, which 
 she had not been accustomed to correct, she was perpetually 
 on the verge of treating him with levity ; but he would on 
 the instant recall her recollection by a reserve too awful, 
 and a gentleness too sacred for her to violate. The distinc- 
 tion which both required was thus, by his skilful management 
 alone, preserved. 
 
 One morning he took an opportunity, before her and Miss 
 Woodley, to introduce and press the subject of Sir Edward 
 Ashton's hopes. He first spoke warmly in his praise; then 
 plainly said that he believed she possessed the power of 
 making so deserving a man happy to the summit of his 
 wishes. A laugh of ridicule was the only answer; but a 
 sudden frown from Dorriforth having silenced her mirth, he 
 resumed his usual politeness, and said — 
 
 " I wish you would shew a better taste than thus pointedly 
 to disapprove of Sir Edward." 
 
 " How, Mr. Dorriforth, can you expect me to give proofs 
 of a good taste, when Sir Edward, whom you consider with 
 such high esteem, has given so bad an example of his in 
 approving me ? " 
 
 Dorriforth wished not to flatter her by a compliment she 
 seemed to have sought for, and for a moment hesitated what 
 answer to make. 
 
 " Reply, Sir, to that question," she said. 
 
 "Why, then, Madam," returned he, "it is my opinion 
 that, supposing what your humility has advanced be just, 
 yet Sir Edward will not suffer by the suggestion; for in 
 cases where the heart is so immediately concerned, as I be- 
 lieve- Sir Edward's to be, taste, or rather reason, has little 
 power to act." 
 
26 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " You are in the right, Mr. Dorriforth : this is a proper 
 justification of Sir Edward, — and when I fall in love, I beg 
 that you will make the same excuse for me." 
 
 w Then," said he, earnestly, " before your heart is in that 
 state which I have described, exert your reason." 
 
 " I shall," answered she, " and assuredly not consent to 
 marry a man whom I could never love." 
 
 " Unless your heart be already disposed of, Miss Milner, 
 what can make you speak with such a degree of certainty ? " 
 
 He thought on Lord Frederick when he uttered this, and 
 he rivetted his eyes upon her as if to penetrate her most 
 secret inclinations, and yet trembling for what he might find 
 there. She blushed, and her looks would have confirmed 
 her guilty, if the unembarrassed and free tone of her voice, 
 more than her words, had not preserved her from that 
 sentence. 
 
 "No," she replied, "my heart is not stolen away; and 
 yet I can venture to declare that Sir Edward will never 
 possess it." 
 
 "I am sorry, for both your sakes, that these are your 
 sentiments," he replied. " But as your heart is still your 
 own," (and he seemed rejoiced to find it was) "permit me 
 to warn you how you part with a thing so precious ; — 
 the dangers, the sorrows you hazard in bestowing it, are 
 greater than you may possibly be aware of. The heart 
 once gone, our thoughts, our actions, are no more our own 
 than that is." He seemed forcing himself to utter all this, 
 and yet he broke off as if he could have said much more, 
 if the extreme delicacy of the subject had not restricted 
 him. 
 
 When he left the room, and she heard the door close after 
 him, she said, with an inquisitive thoughtfulness, "What 
 can make good people so skilled in all the weaknesses of 
 the bad? Mr. Dorriforth, with all those prudent admo- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 27 
 
 nitions, appears rather like a man who has passed his life 
 in the gay world, experienced all its dangerous allurements, 
 all its repentant sorrows, than like one who has lived his 
 whole time secluded in a monastic college, or in his own 
 study. Then he speaks with such exquisite sensibility on 
 the subject of love, that he commends the very thing which 
 he attempts to depreciate. I do not think my Lord 
 Frederick would make the passion appear in more pleasing 
 colours by painting its delights, than Mr. Dorriforth could 
 in describing its sorrows ; and if he talks to me frequently 
 in this manner, I shall certainly take pity on Lord Frederick, 
 for the sake of his adversary's eloquence." 
 
 Miss Woodley, who heard the conclusion of this speech 
 with the tenderest concern, cried, " Alas ! you then think 
 seriously of Lord Frederick ! " 
 
 " Suppose I do, wherefore that alas! Miss Woodley?" 
 " Because I fear you will never be happy with him." 
 "That is plainly saying, he will not be happy with 
 me." 
 
 "I do not know — I cannot speak of marriage from ex- 
 perience," answered Miss Woodley ; " but I think I can guess 
 what it is." 
 
 " Nor can I speak of love from experience," replied Miss 
 Milner ; " but I think I can guess what it is." 
 
 " But do not fall in love, my dear," cried Miss Woodley, 
 with her accustomed simplicity of heart, as if she had been 
 asking a favour that depended upon the will of the person 
 intreated : " pray do not fall in love without the approbation 
 of your guardian." 
 
 Her young friend smiled at the inefficacious prayer ; but 
 promised to do all she could to oblige her. 
 
28 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Sir Edward, not wholly discouraged by the denial, with 
 which Dorriforth had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still 
 hoped for a kind reception; and he was so often at the 
 house of Mrs. Horton, that Lord Frederick's jealousy was 
 excited, and the tortures he suffered in consequence con- 
 vinced him, beyond a doubt, of the sincerity of his affec- 
 tion. Every time he beheld the object of his passion, for 
 he still continued his visits, though not so frequently as 
 heretofore, he pleaded his cause with such ardour, that 
 Miss Woodley, who was sometimes present, and ever com- 
 passionate, could not resist wishing him success. He now 
 unequivocally offered marriage, and intreated that he might 
 lay his proposals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this was posi- 
 tively forbidden. 
 
 Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known 
 partiality of her guardian to the addresses of Sir Edward, 
 than to any motive which depended upon herself ; and to 
 Mr. Dorriforth he conceived a greater dislike than ever; be- 
 lieving that through his interposition, in spite of his ward's 
 attachment, he might yet be deprived of her. But Miss 
 Milner declared both to him and to her friend, that love 
 had, at present, gained no influence over her mind. Yet 
 did the watchful Miss Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh 
 escape from her, unknown to herself, till she was reminded 
 of it ; and then a crimson blush would instantly overspread 
 her face. This seeming struggle with her passion, en- 
 deared her more than ever to Miss Woodley ; and she 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 29 
 
 would even risk the displeasure of Dorriforth by her com- 
 pliance with every new pursuit that might amuse those 
 leisure hours, which her friend, she now perceived, passed in 
 heaviness of heart. 
 
 Balls, plays, incessant company, at length roused her 
 guardian from that mildness with which he had been accus- 
 tomed to treat her. Night after night his sleep had been 
 disturbed by fears for her when abroad ; morning after 
 morning it had been broken by the clamour of her return. 
 He therefore gravely said to her one forenoon as he met her 
 accidentally upon the staircase — 
 
 " I hope, Miss Milner, you pass this evening at 
 home." 
 
 Unprepared for the sudden question, she blushed and 
 replied " Yes ; " though she knew she was engaged to a 
 brilliant assembly, for which her milliner had been consulted 
 a whole week. 
 
 She, however, flattered herself that what she had said 
 might be excused as a mistake, a lapse of memory, or 
 some other trifling fault, when he should know the truth. 
 The truth was earlier divulged than she expected, for just as 
 dinner was removed, her footman delivered a message to her 
 from her milliner concerning a new dress for the evening — 
 the present evening particularly marked. Her guardian 
 looked astonished. 
 
 " I thought, Miss Milner, you gave me your word that you 
 would pass this evening at home ! " 
 
 " I mistook — for I had before given my word that I should 
 pass it abroad." 
 
 " Indeed ! " cried he. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ; and I believe it is right that I should keep 
 my first promise, is it not ? " 
 
 " The promise you gave me, then, you do not think of any 
 consequence?" 
 
30 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, if you do." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 "And mean, perhaps, to make it of more consequence 
 than it deserves, by being offended." 
 
 " Whether that be so or not, you shall find I am offended." 
 And he looked so. 
 
 She caught his piercing eyes — hers were immediately 
 cast down; and she trembled — either with shame or with 
 resentment. 
 
 Mrs. Horton rose from her chair, moved the decanters 
 and fruit round the table, stirred the fire, and came back 
 to her chair again, before another word was uttered. 
 Nor had this good woman's officious labours taken the 
 least from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon 
 as the bustle she had contrived was over, returned in its 
 full force. 
 
 At last Miss Milner, rising with alacrity, was preparing to 
 go out of the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and, in 
 a tone of authority, said — 
 
 " Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening." 
 
 " Sir ! " she exclaimed, with a kind of doubt of what she 
 had heard — a surprise, which had fixed her hand on the 
 door she had half opened, but which now she shewed herself 
 irresolute whether to open wide in defiance, or to shut sub- 
 missively. Before she could resolve, he rose from his chair, 
 and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard him 
 use before — 
 
 " I command you to stay at home this evening." And 
 he walked immediately out of the apartment by another 
 door. 
 
 Her hand fell involuntarily — she appeared motionless — 
 till Mrs. Horton " beseeching her not to be uneasy at the 
 treatment she had received," made her tears flow as if her 
 heart was breaking. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 3 1 
 
 Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, 
 but she had caught the infection, and could not utter a 
 word. It was not from any real cause of grief that Miss 
 Woodley wept ; but there was a magnetic quality in tears, 
 which always attracted hers. 
 
 Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the well- 
 meaning of her heart, and the ease of her conscience, did 
 not suffer her to think so. She, however, declared she had 
 " long prognosticated it would come to this; " and she "only 
 thanked heaven it was no worse." 
 
 "What can be worse, Madam?" cried Miss Milner; "Am 
 not I disappointed of the ball ? " 
 
 " You don't mean to go, then ? " said Mrs. Horton. " I 
 commend your prudence ; and I dare say it is more than 
 your guardian gives you credit for." 
 
 " Do you think I would go," answered Miss Milner, with 
 an eagerness that for a time suppressed her tears, " in con- 
 tradiction to his will ? " 
 
 " It is not the first time, I believe, you have acted contrary 
 to that, Miss Milner," replied Mrs. Horton ; and affected 
 a tenderness of voice, to soften the harshness of her 
 words. 
 
 "If you think so, Madam, I see nothing that should 
 prevent me now." And she went eagerly out of the room, 
 as if she had resolved to disobey him. This alarmed poor 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 "My dear aunt," she cried to Mrs. Horton, "follow and 
 prevail upon Miss Milner to give up her design ; she 
 means to be at the ball in opposition to her guardian's 
 will." 
 
 " Then," said Mrs. Horton, " I'll not be instrumental in 
 deterring her. If she does go it may be for the best ; it 
 may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer knowledge what means 
 are proper to convert her from evil." 
 
32 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " But, my dear Madam, she must be preserved from the 
 evil of disobedience ; and, as you tempted, you will be the 
 most likely to dissuade her. But if you will not, / must 
 endeavour." 
 
 Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good 
 work, when Mrs. Horton, in imitation of the example given 
 her by Dorriforth, cried — 
 
 " Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room this 
 evening." 
 
 Miss Woodley obediently sat down ; and though her 
 thoughts and heart were in the chamber of her friend, she 
 never marked by one impertinent word, or by one line of her 
 face, the restraint she suffered. 
 -At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were sum- 
 moned to tea. He entered with a countenance which 
 evinced the remains of anger ; his eye gave testimony of his 
 absent thoughts : and though he took up a pamphlet affect- 
 ing to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely knew he 
 held it in his hand. 
 
 Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent 
 upon something else as Dorriforth's. She longed for the 
 event of this misunderstanding ; and though she wished no 
 ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent upon seeing 
 something new, without the fatigue of going out of her own 
 house, she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might 
 be. But for fear she should have the imprudence to speak a 
 word upon the subject which employed her thoughts, or even 
 to look as if she thought of it at all, she pinched her lips 
 close together, and cast her eyes on vacancy, lest their sig- 
 nificant regards might expose her to detection. And for fear 
 that any noise should intercept even the sound of what 
 might happen, she walked across the room more softly 
 than usual, and more softly touched every thing she was 
 obliged to lay her hand on. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 33 
 
 Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute ; and now 
 the jingle of a tea-spoon was like a deep-toned bell, all was 
 so quiet. 
 
 Mrs. Horton, too, in the self-approving reflection that she 
 was not in a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt herself 
 at this moment remarkably peaceful and charitable. Miss 
 Woodley did not recollect herself so, but was so in reality. 
 In her, peace and charity were instinctive virtues — accident 
 could not increase them. 
 
 The tea had scarcely been made, when a servant came 
 with Miss Milner's compliments, and she "did not mean 
 to have any tea." The pamphlet shook in Dorriforth's 
 hand while this message was delivered — he believed her 
 to be dressing for her evening's entertainment; and now 
 studied in what manner he should prevent or resent her 
 disobedience to his commands. He coughed, — drank his 
 tea — endeavoured to talk, but found it difficult — some- 
 times he read — and in this manner near two hours were 
 passed away, when Miss Milner came into the room — 
 not dressed for a ball, but as she had risen from dinner. 
 Dorriforth read on, and seemed afraid of looking up, lest 
 he should see what he could not have pardoned. She 
 drew a chair and sat at the table by the side of her de- 
 lighted friend. 
 
 After a few minutes' pause, and some little embarrass- 
 ment on the part of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment 
 she had to encounter from this unexpected dutiful con- 
 duct, she asked Miss Milner, "if she would now have any 
 tea?" She replied, "No, I thank you, Ma'am," in a voice 
 so languid, compared with her usual one, that Dorriforth 
 lifted up his eyes from the book; and seeing her in the 
 same dress that she had worn all the day, turned them 
 hastily away from her again ; not with a look of triumph, 
 but of confusion. 
 
 D 
 
?■ 
 
 34 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Whatever he might have suffered if he had seen Miss 
 Milner decorated, and prepared to bid defiance to his com- 
 mands ; yet even upon that trial he would not have endured 
 half the painful sensations he now for a moment felt — he 
 felt himself to blame. 
 
 • He feared he had treated her with too much severity; 
 he admired her condescension, accused himself for having 
 exacted it ; he longed to ask her pardon — he did not know 
 how. 
 
 A cheerful reply from her, to a question of Miss Woodley's, 
 embarrassed him still more ; he wished that she had been 
 sullen ; he then would have had a temptation, or pretence, 
 to have been sullen too. 
 
 With all these sentiments crowding fast upon his heart, 
 he still read, or seemed to read, as if he took no notice 
 of what was passing; till a servant came into the room 
 and asked Miss Milner at what time she should want the 
 carriage? to which she replied, "I don't go out to-night." 
 Dorriforth then laid the book out of his hand, and by 
 the time the servant had left the room, thus began: — 
 
 "Miss Milner, I give you, I fear, some unkind proofs of 
 my regard. It is often the ungrateful task of a friend to be 
 troublesome; sometimes unmannerly. Forgive the duties 
 of my office, and believe that no one is half so much con- 
 cerned if it robs you of any degree of happiness, as I 
 myself am." 
 
 What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that had 
 she been burning with rage at his late behaviour, she must 
 have forgiven him, for the regret which he so forcibly ex- 
 pressed. She was going to reply, but found she could not, 
 without accompanying her words with tears ; therefore, after 
 the first attempt, she desisted. 
 
 On this he rose from his chair, and, going to her, said, 
 "Once more shew your submission by obeying me a second 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 35 
 
 time to-day. Keep your appointment : and be assured that 
 I shall issue my commands with more circumspection 
 for the future, as I find how strictly they are complied 
 with." 
 
 Miss Milner, the gay, the vain, the dissipated, the haughty 
 Miss Milner, sunk underneath this kindness, and wept with 
 a gentleness and patience, which did not give more surprise 
 than it gave joy to Dorriforth. He was charmed to find her 
 disposition so tractable ; prophesied to himself the future 
 success of his guardianship, and her eternal as well as 
 temporal happiness from this specimen of compliance. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Although Dorriforth was the good man that he has 
 been described, there were in his nature shades of evil. 
 There was an obstinacy, which himself and his friends 
 termed firmness of mind ; but which, had not religion and 
 some contrary virtues weighed heavily in the balance, 
 would have frequently degenerated into implacable stub- 
 bornness. 
 
 The child of a sister once beloved, who married a young 
 officer against her brother's consent, was at the age of three 
 years left an orphan, destitute of all support but from his 
 uncle's generosity: but though Dorriforth maintained, he 
 would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart was a 
 receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the melan- 
 choly history of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, the parents of the 
 child, than she longed to behold the innocent inheritor of 
 her guardian's resentment, and took Miss Woodley with her 
 to see the boy. He was at a farm-house a few miles from 
 town; and his extreme beauty and engaging manners 
 wanted not the sorrows to which he had been born to 
 give him farther recommendation to the kindness of her 
 who had come to visit him. She looked at him with 
 admiration and pity, and having endeared herself to him 
 by the most affectionate words and caresses, on her bid- 
 ding him farewell, he cried most piteously to go along 
 with her. Unused at any time to resist temptations, whether 
 to reprehensible or to laudable actions, she yielded to his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 37 
 
 supplications; and having overcome a few scruples of 
 Miss Woodley's, determined to take young Rushbrook to 
 town, and present him to his uncle. This design was no 
 sooner formed than executed. By making a present to the 
 nurse, she readily gained her consent to part with him for a 
 day or two; and the excess of joy denoted by the counte- 
 nance of the child on being placed in the carriage, repaid 
 her beforehand for every reproof she might receive from her 
 guardian for the liberty she had taken. 
 
 "Besides," said she to Miss Woodley, who had still her fears, 
 "do you not wish his uncle should have a warmer interest 
 in his care than duty? It is duty alone which induces 
 Mr. Dorriforth to provide for him; but it is proper that 
 affection should have some share in his benevolence; and 
 how, when he grows older, will he be so fit an object 
 of the love which compassion excites as he is at 
 present ? " 
 
 Miss Woodley acquiesced. But before they arrived at 
 their own door it came into Miss Milner's remembrance 
 that there was a grave sternness in the manners of her 
 guardian when provoked; the recollection of which made 
 her a little apprehensive for what she had done ; her friend, 
 who knew him better than she did, was more so. They 
 both became silent as they approached the street where they 
 lived ; for Miss Woodley, having once represented her fears, 
 and having suppressed them in resignation to Miss Milner's 
 better judgment, would not repeat them, and Miss Milner 
 would not confess that they were now troubling her. 
 
 Just, however, as the coach stopped at their home, she 
 had the forecast and the humility to say, "We will not tell 
 Mr. Dorriforth the child is his nephew, unless he should 
 appear fond and pleased with him, and then I think we may 
 venture without any danger." 
 
 This was agreed; and when Dorriforth entered the room 
 
38 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 just before dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was introduced 
 as the son of a lady who frequently visited there. The 
 deception passed, his uncle shook hands with him, and at 
 length, highly pleased with his engaging manner and ap- 
 plicable replies, took him on his knee, and caressed him 
 with affection. Miss Milner could scarcely restrain the joy 
 it gave her; but unluckily, Dorriforth said soon after to the 
 child, " And now tell me your name." 
 
 "Harry Rushbrook," replied he, with force and clearness 
 of voice. 
 
 Dorriforth was holding him fondly round the waist as the 
 child stood with his feet upon his knees ; and at this reply he 
 did not throw him from him ; but he removed his hands, 
 which had supported him, so suddenly, that the child, to 
 avoid falling on the floor, threw himself about his uncle's 
 neck. Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to con- 
 ceal their tears. " I had like to have been down," cried 
 Harry, fearing no other danger. But his uncle took hold of 
 each hand which had twined around him, and placed him 
 immediately on the ground. The dinner being that instant 
 served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than 
 calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the 
 house. 
 
 Miss Milner cried for anger ; yet she did not shew less kind- 
 ness to the object of this vexatious circumstance : she held 
 him in her arms while she sat at table, and repeatedly said 
 to him (though he had not the sense to thank her), " That 
 she would always be his friend." 
 
 The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth being 
 passed, she returned with her little charge to the farm-house, 
 before it was likely his uncle should come back ; another 
 instance of obedience, which Miss Woodley was impatient 
 her guardian should know : she therefore inquired where he 
 was gone, and sent him a note for the sole purpose of 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 39 
 
 acquainting him with it, offering at the same time an apology 
 for what had happened. He returned in the evening seem- 
 ingly reconciled ; nor was a word mentioned of the incident 
 which had occurred in the former part of the day ; still 
 in his countenance remained the evidence of a perfect 
 recollection of it, without one trait of compassion for his 
 helpless nephew. 
 
40 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There are few things so mortifying to a proud spirit as 
 to suffer by immediate comparison ; men can hardly bear it, 
 but to women the punishment is intolerable ; and Miss Milner 
 now laboured under this humiliation to a degree which gave 
 her no small inquietude. 
 
 Miss Fenton, young, of exquisite beauty, elegant manners, 
 gentle disposition, and discreet conduct, was introduced to 
 Miss Milner's acquaintance by her guardian, and frequently, 
 sometimes inadvertently, held up by him as a pattern for her 
 to follow : for when he did not say this in direct terms, it 
 was insinuated by the warmth of his panegyric on those 
 virtues in which Miss Fenton excelled, and in which his 
 ward was obviously deficient. Conscious of her own 
 inferiority in these subjects of her guardian's praise, Miss 
 Milner, instead of being inspired to emulation, was pro- 
 voked to envy. 
 
 Not to admire Miss Fenton was impossible — to find one 
 fault with her person or sentiments was equally impossible 
 — and yet to love her was unlikely. 
 
 That serenity of mind which kept her features in a con- 
 tinual placid form, though enchanting at the first glance, 
 upon a second or third fatigued the sight for want of variety; 
 and to have seen her distorted with rage, convulsed with 
 mirth, or in deep dejection, had been to her advantage. 
 But her superior soul appeared above those emotions, and 
 there was more inducement to worship her as a saint than 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 4 1 
 
 to love her as a woman. Yet Dorriforth, whose heart was 
 not formed (at least not educated) for love, regarding her in 
 the light of friendship only, beheld her as the most perfect 
 model for her sex. Lord Frederick on first seeing her was 
 struck with her beauty, and Miss Milner apprehended she 
 had introduced a rival ; but he had not seen her three times, 
 before he called her "The most insufferable of Heaven's 
 creatures," and vowed there was more charming variety in 
 the plain features of Miss Woodley. 
 
 Miss Milner had a heart affectionate to her own sex, even 
 where she saw them in possession of superior charms ; but 
 whether from the spirit of contradiction, from feeling her- 
 self more than ordinarily offended by her guardian's praise 
 of this lady, or that there was a reserve in Miss Fenton that 
 did not accord with her own frank and ingenuous disposition, 
 so as to engage her esteem, certain it is that she took 
 infinite satisfaction in hearing her beauty and virtues de- 
 preciated or turned into ridicule, particularly if Mr. Dorri- 
 forth was present. This was painful to him on many 
 accounts; perhaps an anxiety for his ward's conduct was 
 not among the least; and, whenever the circumstance 
 occurred, he could with difficulty restrain his anger. Miss 
 Fenton was not only a person whose amiable qualities he 
 admired, but she was soon to be allied to him by her 
 marriage with his nearest relation, Lord Elmwood, a young 
 nobleman whom he sincerely loved. 
 
 Lord Elmwood had discovered all that beauty in Miss 
 Fenton which every common observer could not but see. 
 The charms of her mind and of her fortune had been 
 pointed out by his tutor ; and the utility of the marriage, in 
 perfect submission to his precepts, he never permitted him- 
 self to question. 
 
 This preceptor held with a magisterial power the govern- 
 ment of his pupil's passions; nay, governed them so entirely 
 
42 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 that no one could perceive (nor did the young lord himself 
 know) that he had any. 
 
 This rigid monitor and friend was a Mr. Sandford, bred a 
 Jesuit in the same college at which Dorriforth had since 
 been educated, but previous to his education the order had 
 been compelled to take another name. Sandford had been 
 the tutor of Dorriforth as well as of his cousin, Lord Elm- 
 wood, and by this double tie he seemed now entailed upon 
 the family. As a Jesuit, he was consequently a man of 
 learning; possessed of steadiness to accomplish the end 
 of any design once meditated, and of sagacity to direct the 
 views of men more powerful, but less ingenious, than him- 
 self. The young earl, accustomed in his infancy to fear 
 him as his master, in his youthful manhood received every 
 new indulgence with gratitude, and at length loved him 
 as a father : nor had Dorriforth as yet shaken off similar 
 feelings. 
 
 Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to influence the senti- 
 ments and feelings of all human kind, but yet he had the 
 forbearance not to " draw all hearts towards him." There 
 were some whose hatred he thought it not unworthy of his 
 pious labours to excite ; and in that pursuit he was more 
 rapid in his success than even in procuring esteem. It was 
 an enterprise in which he succeeded with Miss Milner even 
 beyond his most sanguine wish. 
 
 She had been educated at an English boarding-school, 
 and had no idea of the distinctions of superiority and sub- 
 ordination maintained in a foreign seminary ; besides, as a 
 woman, she was privileged to say anything she pleased ; 
 and as a beautiful woman, she had a right to expect that 
 whatever she pleased to say should be admired. 
 
 Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as those of 
 men, though he had passed but little of his time in their 
 society; he saw Miss Milner's heart at the first sight of her 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 43 
 
 person ; and beholding in that small circumference a weight 
 of folly that he wished to eradicate, he began to toil in the 
 vineyard, eagerly courting her detestation of him, in the 
 hope he could also make her abominate herself. In the 
 mortifications of slight he was expert ; and being a man of 
 talents, whom all companies, especially those of her friends, 
 respected, he did not begin by wasting that reverence he so 
 highly valued upon ineffectual remonstrances, of which he 
 could foresee the reception, but wakened her attention by 
 his neglect of her. He spoke of her in her presence as of 
 an indifferent person, sometimes forgetting even to name 
 her when the subject required it; then would ask her 
 pardon, and say that he " really did not recollect her," with 
 such seeming sorrow for his fault, that she could not suppose 
 the offence intended, and of course felt the affront more 
 acutely. 
 
 While, with every other person, it was upon her that 
 a whole party depended for conversation, cards, music, 
 or dancing, with Mr. Sandford she found that she was 
 of no importance. Sometimes she tried to consider this 
 disregard of her as merely the effect of ill-breeding ; but 
 he was not an ill-bred man; he was a gentleman by 
 birth, and one who had kept the best company — a man of 
 sense and learning. " And such a man slights me without 
 knowing it," she said — for she had not dived so deeply into 
 the powers of simulation, as to suspect that such careless 
 manners were the result of art. 
 
 This behaviour of Mr. Sandford had its desired effect — it 
 humbled her in her own opinion more than a thousand 
 sermons would have done, preached on the vanity of youth 
 and beauty. She felt an inward shame at the insignificance of 
 those qualities that she never knew before ; and would have 
 been cured of all her pride, had she not possessed a degree 
 of spirit beyond the generality of her sex — such a degree as 
 
44 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 even Mr. Sandford, with all his penetration, did not expect 
 to find. She determined to resent his treatment; and, 
 entering the lists as his declared enemy, give to the world 
 a reason why he did not acknowledge her sovereignty, as 
 well as the rest of her devoted subjects. 
 
 She now commenced hostilities against all his argu- 
 ments, his learning, and his favourite axioms; and by a 
 happy talent for ridicule, in want of other weapons for 
 this warfare, she threw in the way of the holy father as 
 great trials of his patience as any that his order could 
 have substituted in penance. Many things he bore like 
 a martyr — at others, his fortitude would forsake him, and 
 he would call on her guardian, his former pupil, to in- 
 terpose with his authority; she would then declare that 
 she only had acted thus "to try the good man's temper, 
 and that if he had combated with his fretfulness a few 
 moments longer, she would have acknowledged his claim 
 to canonization; but that, having yielded to the sallies 
 of his anger, he must now go through numerous other 
 probations." 
 
 If Miss Fenton was admired by Dorriforth, by Sandford 
 she was adored — and, instead of placing her as an example 
 to Miss Milner, he spoke of her as of one endowed beyond 
 Miss Milner's power of imitation. Often, with a shake of 
 his head and a sigh, would he say — 
 
 " No ; I am not so hard upon you as your guardian ; I 
 only desire you to love Miss Fenton; to resemble her, I 
 believe, is above your ability." 
 
 This was too much to bear composedly — and poor Miss 
 Woodley, who was generally a witness of these contro- 
 versies, felt a degree of sorrow at every sentence which, like 
 the foregoing, chagrined and distressed her friend. Yet as 
 she suffered, too, for Mr. Sandford, her joy at her friend's 
 reply was mostly abated by the uneasiness it gave to him. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 45 
 
 But Mrs. Horton felt for none but the right reverend priest ; 
 and often did she feel so violently interested in his cause, 
 that she could not refrain giving an answer herself in his 
 behalf — thus doing the duty of an adversary with all the 
 zeal of an advocate. 
 
46 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mr. Sandford finding his friend Dorriforth frequently 
 perplexed in the management of his ward, and he himself 
 thinking her incorrigible, gave his counsel, that a suitable 
 match should be immediately sought out for her, and the 
 care of so dangerous a person given into other hands. 
 Dorriforth acknowledged the propriety of this advice, but 
 lamented the difficulty of pleasing his ward as to the 
 quality of her lover; for she had refused, besides Sir 
 Edward Ashton, many others of equal pretensions. " De- 
 pend upon it, then," cried Sandford, " that her affections are 
 engaged ; and it is proper that you should know to whom." 
 Dorriforth thought he did know, and mentioned Lord 
 Frederick ; but said that he had no further authority for the 
 supposition than what his observation had given him, for 
 that every explanation both upon his and her side had been 
 evaded. "Take her then," cried Sandford, "into the 
 country, and if Lord Frederick should not follow, there is 
 an end of your suspicions." " I shall not easily prevail upon 
 Miss Milner to leave town," replied he, " while it is in the 
 highest fashion." "You can but try," returned Sandford; 
 " and if you should not succeed now, at least fix the time 
 you mean to go during the autumn, and be firm to your de- 
 termination." "But in the autumn," replied Dorriforth, 
 " Lord Frederick will of course be in the country ; and as 
 his uncle's estate is near our residence, he will not then so 
 evidently follow her, as he would if I could induce her to go 
 immediately." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 47 
 
 It was agreed that the attempt should be made. Instead 
 of receiving this abrupt proposal with uneasiness, Miss 
 Milner, to the surprise of all present, immediately con- 
 sented; and gave her guardian an opportunity of saying 
 several of the kindest and politest things upon her ready 
 compliance. 
 
 "A token of approbation from you, Mr. Dorriforth," re- 
 turned she, " I always considered with high estimation — but 
 your commendations are now become infinitely superior in 
 value by their scarcity ; for I do not believe that since Miss 
 Fenton and Mr. Sandford came to town, I have received one 
 testimony of your esteem." 
 
 Had these words been uttered in pleasantry, they 
 might have passed without observation; but at the con- 
 clusion of the period, resentment flew to Miss Milner's face, 
 and she darted a piercing look at Mr. Sandford, which more 
 pointedly expressed that she was angry with him, than if she 
 had spoken volumes in her usual strain of raillery. Dorri- 
 forth was confused — but the concern which she had so 
 plainly evinced for his good opinion throughout all that she 
 had been saying, silenced any rebuke he might else have 
 given her, for this unwarrantable charge against his friend. 
 Mrs. Horton was shocked at the irreverent manner in which 
 Mr. Sandford was treated — and Miss Woodley turned to 
 him with a benevolent smile upon her face, hoping to set 
 him an example of the manner in which he should receive 
 the reproach. Her good wishes did not succeed — yet he 
 was perfectly unruffled, and replied with coolness — 
 
 " The air of the country has affected the lady already : 
 but it is a comfortable thing," continued he, " that in the 
 variety of humours to which some women are exposed, they 
 cannot be uniform even in deceit." 
 
 " Deceit ! " cried Miss Milner, " in what am I deceitful ? 
 Did I ever pretend that I had an esteem for you?" 
 
48 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " That would not have been deceit, Madam, but merely 
 good manners." 
 
 " I never, Mr. Sandford, sacrificed truth to politeness." 
 
 " Except when the country has been proposed, and you 
 thought it politeness to appear satisfied." 
 
 "And I was satisfied, till I recollected that you might 
 probably be of the party. Then, every grove was changed 
 into a wilderness, every rivulet into a stagnant pool, and 
 every singing bird into a croaking raven." 
 
 " A very poetical description ! " returned he, calmly. " But, 
 Miss Milner, you need not have had any apprehensions of 
 ?ny company in the country; for I understand the seat to 
 which your guardian means to go belongs to you ; and you 
 may depend upon it, Madam, that I will never enter a house 
 in which you are the mistress." 
 
 " Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in which 
 you are yourself the master." 
 
 "What do you mean, Madam?" (and for the first time he 
 elevated his voice) "Am I the master here?" 
 
 "Your servants," replied she, looking at the company, 
 "will not tell you so ; but I do." 
 
 " You condescend, Mr. Sandford," cried Mrs. Horton, " in 
 talking so much to a young, heedless woman ; but I know 
 you do it for her good." 
 
 "Well, Miss Milner," cried Dorriforth (and the most cut- 
 ting thing he could say), " since I find my proposal of the 
 country has put you out of humour, I shall mention it no 
 more." 
 
 With all that quantity of resentment, anger, or rage, 
 which sometimes boiled in the veins of Miss Milner, she 
 was yet never wanting in that respect towards her guardian, 
 which withheld her from ever uttering one angry sentence, 
 directed immediately to him ; and a severe word of his, 
 instead of exasperating, was sure to subdue her. This was 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 49 
 
 the case at present. His words wounded her to the heart ; 
 but she had not the asperity to reply to them as she 
 thought they merited, and she burst into tears. Dorri- 
 forth, instead of being concerned, as he usually was at 
 seeing her uneasy, appeared on the present occasion pro- 
 voked. He thought that her weeping was a new reproach to 
 his friend, Mr. Sandford, and that to suffer himself to be 
 moved by it would be a tacit condemnation of his friend's 
 conduct. She understood his thoughts, and, getting the 
 better of her tears, apologized for her weakness, adding — 
 
 " She could never bear with indifference an unjust 
 accusation." 
 
 "To prove that mine was unjust, Madam," replied Dor- 
 riforth, " be prepared to quit London, without any marks of 
 regret, within a few days." 
 
 She bowed assent. The necessary preparations were 
 agreed upon ; and while, with apparent satisfaction, she 
 adjusted the plan of her journey (like those who behave 
 well, not so much to please themselves as to vex their 
 enemies), she secretly triumphed in the mortification she 
 hoped that Mr. Sandford would receive from her obedient 
 behaviour. 
 
 The news of this intended journey was, of course, soon 
 made public. There is a secret charm in being pitied, 
 when the misfortune is but ideal ; and Miss Milner found 
 infinite gratification in being told, "That hers was a cruel 
 case, and that it was unjust and barbarous to force so 
 much beauty into concealment while London was filled with 
 her admirers, who, like her, would languish in consequence 
 of her solitude." These things, and a thousand such, a 
 thousand times repeated, she still listened to with pleasure ; 
 yet preserved the constancy not to shrink from her resolu- 
 tion of submitting. 
 
 Those involuntary sighs, however, that Miss Woodley had 
 E 
 
50 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 long ago observed, became still more frequent ; and a tear 
 half starting in her eye was an additional subject of her 
 friend's observation. Yet, though Miss Milner at those times 
 was softened into melancholy, she by no means appeared 
 ' unhappy. Her friend was acquainted with love only by 
 name ; yet she was confirmed from these increased symp- 
 toms, in what she before only suspected, that love must be 
 the foundation of her care. " Her senses have been cap- 
 tivated by the person and accomplishments of Lord 
 Frederick," said Miss Woodley to herself, " but her under- 
 standing compels her to see his faults, and reproaches her 
 passion. And, oh ! " cried she, " could her guardian and 
 Mr. Sandford but know of this conflict, how much would 
 they have to admire ; how little to condemn ! " 
 
 With such friendly thoughts, and with the purest inten- 
 tions, Miss Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen 
 reason to believe that a contention of this nature was the 
 actual state of Miss Milner's mind. Dorriforth was affected 
 at the description, and Sandford urged more than ever the 
 necessity of leaving town. In a few days they departed ; 
 Mrs. Horton, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner, and Mr. Dorriforth, 
 accompanied by Miss Fenton, whom Miss Milner, knowing 
 it to be the wish of her guardian, invited, for three months 
 before her marriage, to her country seat. Elmwood House, 
 or rather Castle, the seat of Lord Elmwood, was only a few 
 miles distant from this residence, and he was. expected to 
 pass a great part of the summer there, with his tutor, Mr. 
 Sandford. 
 
 In the neighbourhood was also (as it has been already 
 said) an estate belonging to an uncle of Lord Frederick's ; 
 and most of the party suspected they should soon see him 
 on a visit there. To that expectation they, in great measure, 
 attributed Miss Milner's visible content. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 5 1 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 With this party Miss Milner arrived at her country- 
 house, and for near six weeks, all around was the picture 
 of tranquility. Her satisfaction was as evident as every 
 other person's ; and all severe admonition being at this 
 time unnecessary, either to exhort her to her duty, or 
 to warn her against her folly, she was even in perfect 
 good humour with Miss Fenton, and added friendship to 
 hospitality. 
 
 Mr. Sandford, who came with Lord Elmwood to the 
 neighbouring seat, about a week after the arrival of Miss 
 Milner at hers, was so scrupulously exact in the observance 
 of his word, "Never to enter a house of Miss Milner* s" 
 that he would not even call upon his friend Dorriforth 
 there. But in their walks, and at Lord Elmwood's, the 
 two parties, residing at the two houses, would occasionally 
 join, and of course Sandford and she at those times met; 
 yet so distant was the reserve on either side, that not a 
 single word upon any occasion was ever exchanged between 
 them. 
 
 Miss Milner did not like Mr. Sandford ; yet, as there was 
 no cause of inveterate rancour — admiring him, too, as a man 
 who meant well, and being herself besides of a most forgiving 
 temper — she frequently felt concerned that he did not 
 speak to her, although it had been to find fault as usual ; 
 and one morning as they were all, after a long ramble, 
 drawing towards her house, where Lord Elmwood was 
 
 E 2 
 
52 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 invited to dine, she could not refrain from dropping a tear 
 at seeing Sandford turn back and wish them a " Good day." 
 
 But though she had the generosity to forgive an affront, 
 she had not the humility to make a concession ; and she 
 foresaw that nothing less than some veiy humble atone- 
 ment on her part would prevail upon the haughty priest 
 to be reconciled. Dorriforth saw her concern upon this 
 last trifling occasion with a secret pleasure, and an admi- 
 ration that she had never before excited. She once in- 
 sinuated to him to be a mediator between them ; but 
 before any accommodation could take place, the peace and 
 composure of their abode were disturbed by the arrival ot 
 Sir Edward Ashton at Lord Elmwood's, where it appeared 
 as if he had been invited in order to pursue his matrimonial 
 plan. 
 
 At a dinner given by Lord Elmwood, Sir Edward was 
 announced as an unexpected visitor. Miss Milner did not 
 suppose him such, and she turned pale when his name was 
 uttered. Dorriforth fixed his eyes upon her with some 
 tokens of compassion, while Sandford seemed to exult, and 
 by his repeated "Welcomes" to the Baronet, gave proofs 
 how much he was rejoiced to see him. All the declining 
 enmity of Miss Milner was renewed at this behaviour, 
 and suspecting Sandford as the instigator of the visit, she 
 could not overcome her displeasure, but gave way to it in 
 a manner which she thought the most mortifying. Sir 
 Edward, in the course of conversation, inquired "What 
 neighbours were in the country?" and she, with an appear- 
 ance of high satisfaction, named Lord Frederick Lawnley as 
 being hourly expected at his uncle's. The colour spread 
 over Sir Edward's face. Dorriforth was confounded, and 
 Mr. Sandford looked enraged. 
 
 "Did Lord Frederick tell you he should be down ? " Sand- 
 ford asked of Dorriforth. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 53 
 
 To which he replied, " No." 
 
 "But I hope, Mr. Sandford, you will permit me to know?" 
 said Miss Milner. For as she now meant to torment him 
 by what she said, she no longer constrained herself to 
 silence ; and as he harboured the same kind intention 
 towards her, he had no longer any objection to make a reply 
 and therefore answered — 
 
 " No, Madam, if it depended upon my permission, you 
 should not know." 
 
 " Not anything, Sir, I dare say ; you would keep me in 
 utter ignorance." 
 
 " I would." 
 
 " From a self-interested motive, Mr. Sandford — that I 
 might have a greater respect for you." 
 
 Some of the company laughed — Mrs. Horton coughed — 
 Miss Woodley blushed — Lord Elmwood sneered — Dorri- 
 forth frowned — and Miss Fenton looked just as she did 
 before. 
 
 The conversation was changed as soon as possible, and 
 early in the evening the party from Milner Lodge returned 
 home. 
 
 Miss Milner had scarcely left her dressing-room, where 
 she had been taking off some part of her dress, when 
 Dorriforth's servant came to acquaint her that his master 
 was alone in his study, and begged to speak with her. 
 She felt herself tremble : she immediately experienced a 
 consciousness that she had not acted properly at Lord 
 Elmwood's ; for she felt a presentiment that her guardian 
 was going to upbraid her, and her heart whispered that he 
 had never yet reproached her without a cause. 
 
 Miss Woodley just then entered her apartment, and she 
 found herself so much a coward as to propose that she 
 should go with her, and aid her with a word or two occa- 
 sionally in her excuse. 
 
54 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " What ! you, my dear," returned Miss Woodley, " who 
 not three hours ago had the courage to vindicate your 
 jown cause before a whole company, of whom many were 
 f your adversaries ; do you want an advocate before your 
 guardian alone, who has ever treated you with tender- 
 ness ? " 
 
 " It is that very tenderness which frightens me ; which 
 intimidates, and strikes me dumb. Is it possible I can 
 return impertinence for the language and manners which Mr. 
 Dorriforth uses ? And as I am debarred from that resource, 
 what can I do but stand before him like a guilty creature, 
 acknowledging my faults?" 
 
 She again entreated her friend to go with her ; but 
 on a positive refusal, from the impropriety of such an 
 intrusion, she was obliged at length to go by her- 
 self. 
 
 How much does the difference of exterior circumstances 
 influence not only the manners, but even the persons of 
 some people ! Miss Milner, in Lord Elmwood's drawing- 
 room, surrounded by listeners, by admirers (for even her 
 enemies could not look at her without admiration) ani- 
 mated with approbation and applause, and Miss Milner, 
 with no giddy observer to give her actions a false eclat, 
 destitute of all but her own understanding (which secretly 
 condemns her), upon the point of receiving censure from 
 her guardian and friend, are two different beings. Though 
 still beautiful beyond description, she does not look even 
 in person the same. In the last-mentioned situation, she 
 was shorter in stature than in the former. She was paler — 
 she was thinner — and a very different contour presided over 
 her whole air, and all her features. 
 
 When she arrived at the door of the study she opened it 
 with a trepidation she could hardly account for, and entered 
 to Dorriforth the altered woman she has been represented. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 55 
 
 His heart had taken the most decided part against her, and 
 his face had assumed the most severe aspect of reproach ; 
 but her appearance gave an instantaneous change to his 
 whole mind and countenance. 
 
 She halted, as if she feared to approach ; he hesitated, as 
 if he knew not how to speak. Instead of the anger with 
 which he was prepared to begin, his voice involuntarily 
 softened, and, without knowing what he said, he began, — 
 
 " My dear Miss Milner " 
 
 She expected he was angry, and in her confusion his 
 gentleness was lost upon her. She imagined that what he 
 said might be censure, and she continued to tremble, though 
 he repeatedly assured her that he meant only to advise, not 
 to upbraid her. 
 
 " For as to all those little disputes between Mr. Sandford 
 and you," said he, " I should be partial if I blamed you more 
 than him. Indeed, when you take the liberty to condemn 
 him, his character makes the freedom appear in a more 
 serious light than when he complains of you — and yet, if he 
 provokes your retorts, he alone must answer for them ; nor 
 will I undertake to decide betwixt you. But I have a 
 question to ask you, and to which I require a serious and 
 unequivocal answer. Do you expect Lord Frederick in the 
 country ? " 
 
 Without hesitation she replied, " I do." 
 
 " One more question I have to ask, Madam, and to which 
 I expect a reply equally unreserved. Is Lord Frederick the 
 man you approve for your husband ? " 
 
 Upon this close interrogation she discovered an embar- 
 rassment beyond any she had ever yet betrayed, and faintly 
 replied — 
 
 " No, he is not." 
 
 "Your words tell me one thing," answered Dorriforth, 
 " but your looks declare another — which am I to believe ? " 
 
56 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "Which you please," was her answer, while she dis- 
 covered an insulted dignity that astonished without 
 convincing him. 
 
 " But, then, why encourage him to follow you hither, Miss 
 Milner ? " 
 
 " Why commit a thousand follies," she replied, in tears, 
 " every hour of my life ? " 
 
 " You promote, then, the hopes of Lord Frederick without 
 one serious intention of completing them ? This is a con- 
 duct against which it is my duty to guard you, and you shall 
 no longer deceive either him or yourself. The moment he 
 arrives, it is my resolution that you refuse to see him, or 
 consent to become his wife." 
 
 In answer to the alternative thus offered, she appeared 
 averse to both propositions, and yet came to no explanation 
 why ; but left her guardian at the end of the conference as 
 much at a loss to decide upon her true sentiments as he was 
 before he had thus seriously requested he might be informed 
 of them ; but, having steadfastly taken the resolution which 
 he had just communicated, he found that resolution a certain 
 relief to his mind. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 57 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Sir Edward Ashton, though not invited by Miss Milner, 
 yet frequently did himself the honour to visit her at her house ; 
 sometimes he accompanied Lord Elmwood, at other times 
 he came to see Dorriforth alone, who generally introduced 
 him to the ladies. But Sir Edward was either so unwilling 
 to give pain to the object of his love, or so intimidated 
 by her frowns, that he seldom addressed her with a single 
 word except the usual compliments at entering and retiring. 
 This apprehension of offending, without one hope of pleas- 
 ing, had the most awkward effect upon the manners of the 
 worthy baronet; and his endeavours to insinuate himself 
 into the affections of the woman he loved merely by not 
 giving her offence, either in speaking to her or looking at 
 her, formed a character so whimsical, that it frequently 
 forced a smile from Miss Milner, though his very name had 
 often power to throw a gloom over her face. She looked 
 upon him as the cause of her being hurried to the election 
 of a lover before her own mind could well direct her where 
 to fix. Besides, his pursuit was troublesome, while it was 
 no triumph to her vanity, which, by the addresses of Lord; 
 Frederick, was in the highest manner gratified. 
 
 His Lordship now arrives in the country, and calls one 
 morning at Miss Milner's. Her guardian sees his carriage 
 coming up the avenue, and gives orders to the servants to 
 say their lady is not at home, but that Mr. Dorriforth is. 
 Lord Frederick leaves his compliments and goes away. 
 
 The ladies all observed his carriage and servants. Miss 
 
$& A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Milner flew to her glass, adjusted her dress, and in her looks 
 expressed every sign of palpitation ; but in vain she keeps 
 her eye fixed upon the door of the apartment — no Lord 
 Frederick appears. 
 
 After some minutes of expectation, the door opens and 
 her guardian comes in. She was disappointed. He per- 
 ceived that she was, and he looked at her with a most 
 serious face. She immediately called to mind the assurance 
 he had given her, " That her acquaintance with Lord Frede- 
 rick, in its then improper state, should not continue ; " and 
 between chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to 
 behave. 
 
 Though the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said, with- 
 out the smallest reserve, " Perhaps, Miss Milner, you may 
 think I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in giving orders 
 to your servants to deny you to Lord Frederick ; but until 
 his Lordship and I have had a private conference, or you 
 condescend to declare your sentiments more fully in regard 
 to his visits, I think it my duty to put an end to them." 
 
 "You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I 
 have no doubt, whether I concur or not." 
 
 "Yet, believe me, Madam, I should perform it more 
 cheerfully if I could hope that it was sanctioned by your 
 inclinations." 
 
 " I am not mistress of my inclinations, Sir, or they should 
 conform to yours." 
 
 " Place them under my direction, and I will answer for it 
 they will." 
 
 A servant came in. " Lord Frederick is returned, Sir, 
 and says he should be glad to see you." 
 
 " Shew him into the study," cried Dorriforth, hastily, and, 
 rising from his chair, left the room. 
 
 " I hope they won't quarrel," said Mrs. Horton, meaning 
 that she thought they would. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 59 
 
 " I am sorry to see you so uneasy, Miss Milner," said Miss 
 Fenton, with perfect unconcern. 
 
 As the badness of the weather had prevented their usual 
 morning's exercise, the ladies were employed at their needles 
 till the dinner-bell should call them away. "Do you think 
 Lord Frederick is gone? "then whispered Miss Milner to 
 Miss Woodley. " I think not," she replied. " Go, ask of the 
 servants, deaf creature;" and Miss Woodley went out of 
 the room. She soon returned, and said, apart, " He is now 
 getting into his chariot. I saw him pass in violent haste 
 through the hall. He seemed to fly." 
 
 " Ladies, the dinner is waiting," cried Mrs. Horton, and 
 they repaired to the dining-room, where Dorriforth soon 
 after came, and engrossed their whole attention by his dis- 
 turbed looks and unusual silence. Before dinner was over 
 he was, however, more himself, but still he appeared 
 thoughtful and dissatisfied. At the time of their evening 
 walk he excused himself from accompanying them, and they 
 saw him in a distant field with Mr. Sandford in earnest con- 
 versation ; for Sandford and he stopped on one spot for a 
 quarter of an hour, as if the interest of the subject had so 
 engaged them, that they stood still without knowing it. Lord 
 Elmwood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with 
 them. Dorriforth entered soon after, in a much less gloomy 
 humour than when he went out, and told his relation that he 
 and the ladies would dine with him the next day if he was 
 disengaged ; and it was agreed they should. 
 
 Still Dorriforth was in some perturbation, but the imme- 
 diate cause was concealed till the day following, when, about 
 an hour before the company's departure from Elmwood 
 Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were desired by a 
 servant to walk into a separate apartment, in which they 
 found Mr. Dorriforth, with Mr. Sandford, waiting for them. 
 Her guardian made an apology to Miss Milner for the form, 
 
60 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 the ceremony, of which he was going to make use ; but he 
 trusted the extreme weight which oppressed his mind lest he 
 should mistake the real sentiments of a person whose happi- 
 ness depended upon his correct knowledge of them, would 
 plead his excuse. 
 
 " I know, Miss Milner," continued he, " the world in 
 general allows to unmarried women great latitude in dis- 
 guising their minds with respect to the man they love. I, 
 too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation that is 
 but consistent with a modesty that becomes every woman 
 upon the subject of marriage. But here, to what point I 
 may limit, or you may extend, this kind of venial deceit, 
 may so widely differ, that it is not impossible for me to re- 
 main unacquainted with your sentiments, even after you 
 have revealed them to me. Under this consideration I wish 
 once more to hear your thoughts in regard to matrimony, 
 and to hear them before one of your own sex, that I may 
 form an opinion by her constructions." 
 
 To all this serious oration Miss Milner made no other reply 
 than by turning to Mr. Sandford and asking if he was the 
 person of her own sex to whose judgment her guardian was 
 to submit his own. 
 
 "Madam," cried Sandford, angrily, "you are come hither 
 upon serious business." 
 
 "Any business must be serious to me, Mr. Sandford, in 
 which you are concerned ; and if you had called it sorrow- 
 fulj the epithet would have suited as well." 
 
 " Miss Milner," said her guardian, " I did not bring you 
 here to contend with Mr. Sandford." 
 
 " Then why, Sir, bring him hither ? for where he and I are 
 there must be contention." 
 
 " I brought him hither, Madam, or, I should rather say, 
 brought you to this house, merely that he might be present 
 on this occasion, and with his discernment relieve me from 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 6 1 
 
 a suspicion that my own judgment is neither able to sup- 
 press nor to confirm." 
 
 " Are there any more witnesses you may wish to call in, 
 Sir, to remove your doubts of my veracity? If there are, 
 pray send for them before you begin your interroga- 
 tions." 
 
 He shook his head. She continued — 
 
 "The whole world is welcome to hear what I say, and 
 every different person is welcome to judge me differently." 
 
 "Dear Miss Milner!" cried Miss Woodley, with a tone of 
 reproach for the vehemence with which she had spoken. 
 
 "Perhaps, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "you will not 
 now reply to those questions I was going to put ? " 
 
 " Did I ever refuse, Sir," returned she, with a self-ap- 
 proving air, "to comply with any request that you have 
 seriously made ? Have I ever refused obedience to your 
 commands whenever you thought proper to lay them upon 
 me ? If not, you have no right to suppose that I shall do 
 so now." 
 
 He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly inter- 
 rupted him, and, walking towards the door, cried, " When 
 you come to the point for which you brought me here, send 
 for me again." 
 
 "Stay now," said Dorriforth. "And Miss Milner," con- 
 tinued he, " I not only entreat, but conjure you to tell me — 
 Have you given your word or your affections to Lord 
 Frederick Lawnley ? " 
 
 The colour spread over her face, and she replied — 
 
 " I thought confessions were always to be made in secret ; 
 however, as I am not a member of your church, I submit to 
 the persecution of a heretic, and I answer — Lord Frederick 
 has neither my word, nor any share in my affections." 
 
 Sandford, Dorriforth, and Miss Woodley looked at each 
 other with a degree of surprise that for some time kept them 
 
62 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 silent. At length Dorriforth said, " And it is your firm in- 
 tention never to become his wife ? " 
 
 To which she answered — " At present it is." 
 
 "At present! Do you suspect you shall change your 
 mind ? " 
 
 "Women sometimes do." 
 
 " But before that change can take place, your acquaint- 
 ance will be at an end ; for it is that which I shall next in- 
 sist upon, and to which you can have no objection." 
 
 She replied, " I had rather it should continue." 
 
 "On what account?" cried Dorriforth. 
 
 " Because it entertains me." 
 
 " For shame, for shame ! " returned he ; " it endangers 
 your character and your happiness. Yet again, do not suffer 
 me to interfere, if the breaking with my Lord Frederick can 
 militate against your felicity." 
 
 " By no means," she answered ; " Lord Frederick makes 
 part of my amusement, but can never constitute my 
 felicity." 
 
 "Miss Woodley," said Dorriforth, "do you comprehend 
 your friend in the same literal and unequivocal sense that I 
 do ? » 
 
 " Certainly I do, Sir." 
 
 "And pray, Miss Woodley," said he, "were those the 
 sentiments which you have always entertained ? " 
 
 Miss Woodley hesitated. He continued — "Or has this 
 conversation altered them ? " 
 
 She hesitated again, then answered — " This conversation 
 has altered them." 
 
 "And yet you confide in it ! " cried Sandford, looking at 
 her with contempt. 
 
 " Certainly I do," replied Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Do not you, then, Mr. Sandford?" asked Dorriforth. 
 
 " I would advise you to act as if I did," replied Sandford. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 63 
 
 "Then, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "you see Lord 
 Frederick no more — and I hope I have your permission to 
 apprize him of this arrangement." 
 
 "You have, Sir," she replied, with a completely unem- 
 barrassed countenance and voice. 
 
 Her friend looked at her as if to discover some lurking 
 wish, adverse to all these protestations, but she could not 
 discern one. Sandford, too, fixed his penetrating eyes upon 
 her, as if he would look through her soul ; but finding it per- 
 fectly composed, he cried out — 
 
 "Why, then, not write his dismission herself, and save 
 you, Mr. Dorriforth, the trouble of any further contest with 
 him?" 
 
 "Indeed, Miss Milner," said Dorriforth, "that would 
 oblige me ; for it is with great reluctance that I meet him 
 upon this subject; he was extremely impatient and impor- 
 tunate when he was last with me : he took advantage of my 
 ecclesiastical situation to treat me with a levity and ill- 
 breeding, that I could ill have suffered upon any other con- 
 sideration than a compliance with my duty." 
 
 "Dictate what you please, Mr. Dorriforth, and I will write 
 it," said she, with a warmth like the most unaffected inclina- 
 tion. "And while you, Sir," she continued, "are so in- 
 dulgent as not to distress me with the importunities of any 
 gentleman to whom I am averse, I think myself equally - 
 bound to rid you of the impertinence of every one to whom 
 you may have objection." 
 
 " But," answered he, " rest assured I have no material ob- 
 jection to my Lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, in 
 which your acquaintance with him has involved us all ; and I 
 should conceive the same against any other man, were the 
 same circumstance to occur. As you have now, however, 
 freely and politely consented to the manner in which it has 
 been proposed that you shall break with him, I will not 
 
64 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 trouble you a moment longer upon a subject on which I 
 have so frequently explained my wishes, but conclude it by 
 assuring you, that your ready acquiescence has given me 
 the sincerest satisfaction." 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Sandford," said she, turning to him with a 
 smile, " I have given you satisfaction likewise ? " 
 
 Sandford could not say yes, and was ashamed to say no ; 
 he, therefore, made answer only by his looks, which were 
 full of suspicion. She, notwithstanding, made him a~very 
 low courtesy. Her guardian then handed her out of the 
 apartment into her coach, which was waiting to take her, 
 Miss Woodley, and himself, home. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 65 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Notwithstanding the seeming readiness with which 
 Miss Milner had resigned all farther acquaintance with Lord 
 Frederick, during the short ride home she appeared to have 
 lost great part of her wonted spirits ; she was thoughtful, 
 and once sighed heavily. Dorriforth began to fear that she 
 had not only made a sacrifice of her affections, but of her 
 veracity; yet, why she had done so, he could not compre- 
 hend. 
 
 As the carriage moved slowly through a lane between 
 Elmwood Castle and her own house, on casting her eyes out 
 of the window, Miss Milner's countenance was brightened 
 in an instant; and that instant Lord Frederick, on horse- 
 back, was at the coach door, and the coachman stopped. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Milner," cried he (with a voice and manner 
 that could leave little doubt of the truth of what he said), 
 " I am overjoyed at the happiness of seeing you, even 
 though it is but an accidental meeting." 
 
 She was evidently glad to see him; but the earnestness 
 with which he spoke, seemed to put her upon her guard not 
 to express the like satisfaction, and she said, in a cool con- 
 strained manner, she was " glad to see his Lordship." 
 
 The reserve with which she spoke, gave Lord Frederick 
 immediate suspicion who was in the coach with her, and 
 turning his head quickly, he met the stern eye of Dorriforth ; 
 upon which, without the smallest salutation, he turned from 
 
66 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner was confused, 
 and Miss Woodley in torture, at this palpable affront, to 
 which Dorriforth alone appeared indifferent. 
 
 " Go on," said Miss Milner to the footman ; " desire the 
 coachman to drive on." 
 
 " No," cried Lord Frederick, " not till you have told me 
 when I shall see you again." 
 
 * I will write you word, my Lord," replied she, something 
 alarmed. " You shall have a letter immediately after I get 
 home." 
 
 As if he guessed what its contents were to be, he cried 
 out with warmth, " Take care, then, Madam, how you treat 
 me in that letter — and you, Mr. Dorriforth," turning to him, 
 " do you take care what it contains ; for if it be dictated by 
 you, to you I shall send the answer." 
 
 Dorriforth, without making any reply, or casting a look at 
 him, put his head out of the window on the opposite side, 
 and called, in a very angry tone, to the coachman, " How 
 dare you not drive on, when your lady orders you ? " 
 
 The sound of Dorriforth's voice in anger, was to the 
 servants so unusual, that it acted like electricity upon the 
 man, and he drove away at the instant with such rapidity 
 that Lord Frederick was in a moment many yards behind. 
 As soon, however, as he recovered from the surprise into 
 which this sudden command had thrown him, he rode with 
 speed after the carriage, and followed it, till it arrived at the 
 door of Miss Milner's house ; there, giving himself up to 
 the rage of love, or to rage against Dorriforth for the con- 
 tempt he had shewn to him, he leaped from his horse when 
 Miss Milner stepped from her carriage, and seizing her 
 hand, entreated her " Not to desert him, in compliance with 
 the injunctions of monkish hypocrisy." 
 
 Dorriforth heard this, standing silently by, with a manly 
 scorn upon his countenance. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 67 
 
 Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, " Excuse 
 me from replying to you now, my Lord." 
 
 In return, he lifted her hand eagerly to his lips, and began 
 to devour it with kisses ; when Dorriforth, with an instan- 
 taneous impulse, rushed forward, and struck him a violent 7 
 blow in the face. Under the force of this assault, and the 
 astonishment it excited, Lord Frederick staggered, and, 
 letting fall the hand of Miss Milner, her guardian im- 
 mediately laid hold of it, and led her into the house. 
 
 She was terrified beyond description ; and witrr extreme 
 difficulty Mr. Dorriforth conveyed her to her own chamber, 
 without taking her in his arms. When, by the assistance of 
 her maid, he had placed her upon a sofa — overwhelmed with 
 shame and confusion for what he had done, he fell upon his j / 
 knees before her, and " implored her forgiveness for the in- 
 delicacy he had been guilty of in her presence." And that 
 he had alarmed her, and had forgotten the respect which he 
 thought sacredly her due, seemed the only circumstance 
 which then dwelt upon his thoughts. 
 
 She felt the indecorum of the posture he had conde^ 
 scended to take, and was shocked. To see her guardian at 
 her feet struck her with a sense of impropriety as if she had 
 seen a parent there. With agitation and emotion she con- 
 jured him to rise; and, with a thousand protestations, 
 declared that she thought the rashness of the action was 
 the highest proof of his regard for her. 
 
 Miss Woodley now entered. Her care being ever em- 
 ployed upon the unfortunate, Lord Frederick had just been 
 the object of it. She had waited by his side, and, with 
 eveiy good purpose, had preached patience to him, while he 
 was smarting under the pain, but more under the shame, of 
 his chastisement. At first his fury threatened a retort upon 
 the servants around him (and who refused his entrance into 
 the house) for the punishment he had received 
 
 F 2 
 
68 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 certainty of an ame7ide honorable, which must hereafter be 
 made, he overcame the many temptations which the moment 
 offered, and, remounting his horse, rode away from the scene 
 of his disgrace. 
 
 No sooner had Miss Woodley entered the room, and 
 Dorriforth had resigned to her the care of his ward, than he 
 flew to the spot where he had left Lord Frederick, negligent 
 of what might be the event if he still remained there. After 
 inquiring, and being told that he was gone, Dorriforth re- 
 tired to his own apartment with a bosom torn by more 
 excruciating sensations than those which he had given to 
 his adversary. 
 
 The reflection which struck him first with remorse as he shut 
 the door of his chamber was, " I have departed from my cha- 
 racter — from the sacred character, the dignity of my profession 
 and sentiments — I have departed from myself. I am no longer 
 the philosopher, but the ruffian. I have treated with an 
 unpardonable insult a young nobleman whose only offence 
 was love, and a fond desire to insinuate himself into the 
 favour of his mistress. I must atone for this outrage in 
 whatever manner he may choose ; and the law of honour 
 and of justice (though in this one instance contrary to the 
 law of religion) enjoins that if he demands my life in satis- 
 faction for his wounded feelings, it is his due. Alas ! that I 
 could but have laid it down this morning, unsullied with 
 a cause for which it will make inadequate atonement ! " 
 
 His next reproach was, " I have offended and filled with 
 1 horror a beautiful young woman whom it was my duty to 
 protect from those brutal manners to which I myself have 
 exposed her." 
 
 Again, " I have drawn upon myself the just upbraidings of 
 my faithful preceptor and friend ; of the man in whose judg- 
 ment it was my delight to be approved. Above all, I have 
 drawn upon myself the stings of conscience." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 69 
 
 "Where shall I pass this sleepless night?" cried he, 
 walking repeatedly across his chamber. " Can I go to the 
 ladies ? I am unworthy of their society. Shall I go and 
 repose my disturbed mind on Sandford ? I am ashamed to 
 tell him the cause of my uneasiness. Shall I go to Lord 
 Frederick, and, humbling myself before him, beg his for- 
 giveness ? He would spurn me for a coward. No," and he 
 lifted up his eyes to heaven, " Thou all-great, all-wise, and 
 omnipotent Being, — Thou whom I have most offended, it is 
 to Thee alone that I have recourse in this hour of tribulation, 
 and from Thee alone I solicit comfort. The confidence with 
 which I now address myself to Thee, encouraged by that 
 long intercourse which religion has effected, I here acknow- 
 ledge to repay me amply in this one moment for the many 
 years of my past life devoted with my best, though imperfect, 
 efforts to Thy service." 
 
70 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Although Miss Milner had not foreseen any fatal event 
 resulting from the indignity offered to Lord Frederick, yet 
 she passed a night very different from those to which she 
 had been accustomed. No sooner was she falling into a 
 sleep than a thousand vague but distressing ideas darted 
 across her imagination. Her heart would sometimes whis- 
 per to her when she was half asleep, " Lord Frederick is 
 banished from you for ever." She shakes off the uneasiness 
 this consideration brings along with it : she then starts, and 
 sees the blow still aimed at him by Dorriforth. No sooner 
 has she driven away this painful image than she is again 
 awakened by beholding her guardian at her feet suing for 
 pardon. She sighs, she trembles, and is chilled with terror. 
 
 Relieved by tears, towards the morning she sinks into a 
 slumber, but, waking, finds the same images crowding all 
 together upon her mind. She is doubtful to which to give 
 the preference. One, however, rushes the foremost and 
 continues so. She knows not the fatal consequence of rumi- 
 nating, nor why she dwells upon that more than upon all the 
 rest ; but it will give place to none. 
 
 She rises languid and disordered, and at breakfast adds 
 fresh pain to Dorriforth by her altered appearance. 
 
 He had scarcely left the room when an officer waited 
 upon him with a challenge from Lord Frederick. To the 
 message delivered by this gentleman, he replied — 
 
 " Sir, as a clergyman, more especially one of the Church of 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 7 1 
 
 Rome, I know not whether I am not exempt from answering 
 a demand of this kind ; but, not having had forbearance to 
 avoid an offence, I will not claim an exemption that would 
 only indemnify me from making reparation." 
 
 " You will then, Sir, meet Lord Frederick at the appointed 
 hour ? " said the officer. 
 
 " I will, Sir ; and my immediate care shall be to find a 
 gentleman who will accompany me." 
 
 The officer withdrew ; and when Dorriforth was again alone 
 he was going once more to reflect, but he durst not. Since 
 yesterday, reflection for the first time had become painful to 
 him ; and even as he rode the short way to Lord Elmwood's 
 immediately after, he found his own thoughts were so insuf- 
 ferable that he was obliged to enter into conversation with 
 his servant. Solitude, that formerly charmed him, would at 
 those moments have been worse than death. 
 
 At Lord Elmwood's he met Sandford in the hall, and the 
 sight of him was no longer welcome. He knew how diffe- 
 rent the principles which he had just adopted were to those 
 of that reverend friend, and without Sandford's complaining ) 
 or even suspecting what had happened, his presence was a 
 sufficient reproach. He passed him as hastily as he could, 
 and, inquiring for Lord Elmwood, disclosed to him his 
 errand. It was to ask him to be his second. The young 
 earl started, and wished to consult his tutor, but that his 
 kinsman- strictly forbade ; and having urged his reasons with 
 arguments which at least the earl could not refute, he was at 
 length prevailed upon to promise that he would accompany 
 him to the field, which was at the distance of only a few 
 miles, and the parties were to be there at seven on the same 
 evening. 
 
 As soon as his business with Lord Elmwood was settled, 
 Dorriforth returned home to make preparations for the event 
 which might ensue from this meeting. He wrote letters to 
 
72 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 several of his friends and one to his ward, in writing which 
 he could with difficulty preserve the usual firmness of his 
 mind. 
 
 Sandford, going into Lord Elmwood's library soon after 
 his relation had left him, expressed his surprise at finding he 
 was gone ; upon which that nobleman, having answered a 
 few questions and given a few significant hints that he was 
 entrusted with a secret, frankly confessed what he had pro- 
 mised to conceal. 
 
 Sandford, as much as a holy man could be, was enraged 
 at Dorriforth for the cause of the challenge, but was still 
 more enraged at his wickedness in accepting it. He ap- 
 plauded his pupil's virtue in making the discovery, and 
 congratulated himself that he should be the instrument of 
 saving not only his friend's life, but of preventing the 
 scandal of his being engaged in a duel. 
 
 In the ardour of his designs he went immediately to Miss 
 Milner's — entered that house which he had so long refused 
 to enter, and at a time when he was upon peculiarly bad 
 terms with its owner. 
 
 He asked for Dorriforth, went hastily into his apartment, 
 and poured upon him a torrent of rebukes. Dorriforth bore 
 all he said with the patience of a devotee, but with the firm- 
 ness of a man. He owned his fault ; but no eloquence 
 could make him recall the promise he had given to repair 
 the injury. Unshaken by the arguments, persuasions, and 
 menaces of Sandford, he gave an additional proof of that in- 
 flexibility for which he had been long distinguished ; and after 
 a dispute of two hours they parted, neither of them the better 
 for what the other had advanced, but Dorriforth something the 
 worse. His conscience gave testimony to Sandford's opinion 
 "that he was bound by ties more sacred than worldly honour." 
 But while he owned, he would not yield to the duty. 
 
 Sandford left him, determined, however, that Lord Elm- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 73 
 
 wood should not be accessory to his guilt, and this he 
 declared ; upon which Dorriforth took the resolution of 
 seeking another second. 
 
 In passing through the house on his return home Sandford 
 met, by accident, Mrs. Horton, Miss Milner, and the other 
 two ladies returning from a saunter in the garden. Sur- 
 prised at the sight of Mr. Sandford in her house, Miss 
 Milner would not express that surprise ; but, going up to him 
 with all the friendly benevolence which in general played 
 about her heart, she took hold of one of his hands and 
 pressed it with a kindness which told him more forcibly that 
 he was welcome, than if she had made the most elaborate 
 speech to convince him of it. He, however, seemed little 
 touched with her behaviour ; and, as an excuse for breaking 
 his word, cried — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Madam ; but I was brought hither in 
 my anxiety to prevent murder." 
 
 " Murder! " exclaimed all the ladies. 
 
 " Yes," answered he, addressing himself to Miss Fenton, 
 " your betrothed husband is a party concerned ; he is going 
 to be second to Mr. Dorriforth, who means this very evening 
 to be killed by my Lord Frederick, or to kill him, in addi- 
 tion to the blow that he gave him last night." 
 
 Mrs. Horton exclaimed, "If Mr. Dorriforth dies, he dies 
 a martyr." 
 
 Miss Woodley cried with fervour, "Heaven forbid!" 
 
 Miss Fenton cried, "Dear me!" 
 
 While Miss Milner, without uttering one word, sunk 
 speechless on the floor. 
 
 They lifted her up, and brought her to the door which 
 entered into the garden. She soon recovered; for the 
 tumult of her mind would not suffer her to remain inactive, 
 and she was roused, in spite of her weakness, to endeavour 
 to ward off the impending disaster. In vain, however, she 
 
74 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 attempted to walk to her guardian's apartment; she sunk 
 as before, and was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley 
 was dispatched to bring him to her. 
 
 Informed of the cause of her indisposition, he followed 
 Miss Woodley with a tender anxiety for her health, and 
 with grief and confusion that he had so carelessly endan- 
 gered it. On his entering the room, Sandford beheld the 
 inquietude of his mind, and cried, " Here is your guardian" 
 with a cruel emphasis on the word. 
 
 He was too much engaged by the sufferings of his ward 
 to reply to Sandford. He placed himself on the settee by 
 her, and with the utmost tenderness, reverence, and pity, 
 entreated her not to be concerned at an accident in which 
 he, and he alone, had been to blame ; but which, he had 
 no doubt, would be accommodated in the most amicable 
 manner. 
 
 " I have one favour to require of you, Mr. Dorriforth," 
 said she, "and that is, your promise, — your solemn promise, 
 which I know is ever sacred, — that you will not meet my 
 Lord Frederick." 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " Oh, Madam," cried Sandford, " he is grown a libertine 
 now, and I would not believe his word, if he were to give it 
 to you." 
 
 "Then, Sir," returned Dorriforth, angrily," "you may 
 believe my word, for I will keep that which I gave to you. 
 I will give Lord Frederick all the restitution in my power. 
 But, my dear Miss Milner, let not this alarm you ; we may 
 not find it convenient to meet this many a day ; and most 
 probably some fortunate explanation may prevent our 
 meeting at all. If not, reckon but among the many duels 
 that are fought, how few are fatal : and even in that case, 
 
 how small would be the loss to society, if " He was 
 
 proceeding. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 75 
 
 "I should ever deplore the loss!" cried Miss Milner; "on 
 such an occasion, I could not survive the death of either." 
 
 "For my part," he replied, "I look upon my life as much 
 forfeited to my Lord Frederick, to whom I have given a 
 high offence, as it might in other instances have been for- 
 feited to the offended laws of the land. Honour is the law 
 of the polite part of the land ; we know it ; and when we 
 transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punish- 
 ment. However, Miss Milner, this affair will not be settled 
 immediately ; and I have no doubt but that all will be as you 
 could wish. Do you think I should appear thus easy," added 
 he, with a smile, "if I were going to be shot at by my Lord 
 Frederick?" 
 
 " Very well ! " cried Sandford, with a look that evinced he 
 was better informed. 
 
 "You will stay within then, all this day?" said Miss 
 Milner. 
 
 " I am engaged to dinner," he replied ; " it is unlucky — I 
 am sorry for it — but I'll be at home early in the evening." 
 
 "Stained with human blood," cried Sandford, "or yourself 
 a corpse." 
 
 The ladies lifted up their hands. Miss Milner rose from 
 her seat, and threw herself at her guardian's feet. 
 
 "You kneeled to me last night, I now kneel to you," she 
 cried ; " kneel, never desiring to rise again, if you persist in 
 your intention. I am weak, I am volatile, I am indiscreet ; 
 but I have a heart from which some impressions can never, 
 oh ! never, be erased." 
 
 He endeavoured to raise her : she persisted to kneel; and 
 here the affright, the terror, the anguish she endured, dis- 
 covered to her her own sentiments — which, till that moment, 
 sheliad doubted — and she continued — 
 
 " I no longer pretend to conceal my passion ; I love Lord 
 Frederick Lawnley." 
 
76 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Her guardian started. 
 
 "Yes, to my shame, I love him!" cried she, all emotion: 
 "I meant to have struggled with the weakness, because I 
 supposed it would be displeasing to you ; but apprehension 
 for his safety has taken away every power of restraint, and 
 I beseech you to spare his life." 
 
 " This is exactly what I thought," cried Sandford, with an 
 air of triumph. 
 
 " Good heaven ! " cried Miss Woodley. 
 
 " But it is veiy natural," said Mrs. Horton. 
 
 " I own," said Dorriforth, (struck with amaze, and now 
 raising her from his feet with a force that she could not 
 resist) "I own, Miss Milner, I am greatly affected and 
 wounded at this contradiction in your character." 
 
 "But did not I say so?" cried Sandford, interrupting 
 him. 
 
 " However," continued he, " you may take my word, 
 though you have deceived me in yours, that Lord Frederick's 
 life is secure. For your sake, I would not endanger it for 
 the universe. But let this be a warning to you." 
 
 He was proceeding with the most austere looks, and 
 pointed language, when observing the shame, and the self- 
 reproach that agitated her mind, he divested himself 
 in great measure of his resentment, and said, mildly — 
 
 " Let this be a warning to you, how you deal in future 
 with the friends who wish you well. You have hurried me 
 into a mistake that might have cost me my life, or the life 
 of the man you love ; and thus exposed you to misery, more 
 bitter than death." 
 
 " I am not worthy of your friendship, Mr. Dorriforth," 
 said she, sobbing with grief, " and from this moment forsake 
 me." 
 
 " No, Madam, not in the moment you first discover to me 
 how I can make you happy." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 77 
 
 The conversation appearing now to become of a nature 
 in which the rest of the company could have no share what- 
 ever, they were all, except Mr. Sandford, retiring ; when 
 Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying, " Stay you 
 with me ; I was never so unfit to be left without your friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " Perhaps at present you can dispense with mine," said 
 Dorriforth. She made no answer. He then once more 
 assured her Lord Frederick's life was safe, and was quitting 
 the room ; but when he recollected in what humilation he 
 had left her, turning towards her as he opened the door, he 
 added — 
 
 " And be assured, Madam, that my esteem for you shall 
 be the same as ever." 
 
 Sandford, as he followed him, bowed, and repeated the 
 same words : " And, Madam, be assured that my esteem for 
 you shall be the same as ever" 
 
78 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 This taunting reproof from Sandford made little im- 
 pression upon Miss Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on 
 a subject of much more importance than the opinion which 
 he entertained of her. She threw her arms about her friend 
 the moment they were left alone, and asked, with anxiety, 
 " What she thought of her behaviour ? " Miss Woodley, 
 who could not approve of the duplicity she had betrayed, 
 still wished to reconcile her as much as possible to her own 
 conduct, and replied, she "highly commended the frank- 
 ness with which she had, at last, acknowledged her 
 sentiments." 
 
 " Frankness ! " cried Miss Milner, starting. " Frankness, 
 my dear Miss Woodley ! What you have just now heard 
 me say, is all a falsehood." 
 
 "How, Miss Milner?" 
 
 " Oh, Miss Woodley," returned she, sobbing upon her 
 bosom, " pity the agonies of my heart, my heart by nature 
 sincere, when such are the fatal propensities it cherishes, 
 that I must submit to the grossest falsehoods rather than 
 reveal the truth." 
 
 " What can you mean ! " cried Miss Woodley, with the 
 strongest amazement in her face. 
 
 "Do you suppose I love Lord Frederick? Do you 
 suppose I can love him? Oh fly, and prevent my guardian 
 from telling him such an untruth." 
 
 " What can you mean ? " repeated Miss Woodley ; " I 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 79 
 
 protest you terrify me." For this inconsistency in the 
 behaviour of Miss Milner appeared to indicate that her 
 senses had been deranged. 
 
 " Fly," she resumed, " and prevent the inevitable ill con- 
 sequence which will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be told 
 this falsehood. It will involve us all in greater disquiet than 
 we suffer at present." 
 
 " Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner? " 
 "That which impels all my actions — an insurmountable 
 instinct ; a fatality, that will for ever render me the most - 
 miserable of human beings ; and yet you, — even you, my 
 dear Miss Woodley, — will not pity me." 
 
 Miss Woodley pressed her closely in her arms, and vowed, 
 " That while she was unhappy, from whatever cause, she 
 still would pity her." 
 
 " Go to Mr. Dorriforth, then, and prevent him from 
 imposing upon Lord Frederick." 
 
 "But that imposition is the only means of preventing the 
 duel," replied Miss Woodley. "The moment I have told 
 him that your affection was but counterfeited, he will jno 
 longer refuse accepting the challenge." 
 
 "Then, at all events, I am undone," exclaimed Miss 
 Milner, "for the duel is horrible, even beyond every thing 
 else." 
 
 "How so?" returned Miss Woodley, "since you have 
 declared that you do not care for my Lord Frederick ? " 
 
 "But are you so blind," returned Miss Milner, with a 
 degree of madness in her looks, " as to believe I do not 
 care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh! Miss Woodley! I love 
 him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all the 
 tenderness of a wife." 
 
 Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down ; it was on a chair 
 that was close to her — her feet could not have taken her 
 to any other. She trembled, she was white as ashes, and 
 
So A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by the hand, 
 said — 
 
 " I know what you feel, I know what you think of me, 
 and how much you hate and despise me. But Heaven is 
 witness to all my struggles, nor would I, even to myself, 
 acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by a 
 sense of his danger " 
 
 " Silence," cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror. 
 
 "And even now," resumed Miss Milner, "have I not con- 
 cealed it from all but you, by plunging myself into a new 
 difficulty, from which I know not how I shall be extricated ? 
 And do I entertain a hope ? No, Miss Woodley, nor ever 
 will. But suffer me to own my folly to you, to entreat your 
 soothing friendship to free me from my weakness. And, 
 oh ! give me your advice, to deliver me from the difficulties 
 which surround me." 
 
 Miss Woodley was still pale and still silent. 
 
 Education is called second nature : in the strict (but not 
 enlarged) education of Miss Woodley, it was more powerful 
 than the first ; and the violation of oaths, persons, or 
 things consecrated to Heaven, was, in her opinion, if not 
 the most enormous, yet among the most terrific in the 
 catalogue of crimes. 
 
 Miss Milner had lived so long in a family who had 
 imbibed those opinions, that she was convinced of their 
 force ; nay, her own reason told her that solemn vows 
 of every kind ought to be sacred ; and the more she 
 respected her guardian's understanding, the less did^she 
 call in question his religious tenets. In esteeming him, 
 she esteemed all his notions ; and among the rest, vene- 
 rated those of his religion. Yet that passion, which had 
 unhappily taken possession of her whole soul, would not 
 have been inspired, had there not subsisted an early 
 difference in their systems of divine faith. Had she been 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 8 1 
 
 early taught what were the sacred functions of a Roman 
 ecclesiastic, though all her esteem, all her admiration, had 
 been attracted by the qualities and accomplishments of 
 her guardian, yet education would have given such a pro- 
 hibition to her love, that she would have been precluded 
 from it, as by that barrier which divides a sister from a 
 brother. 
 
 This, unfortunately, was not the case ; and Miss Milner 
 loved Dorriforth without one conscious check to tell her 
 she was wrong, except that which convinced her that her 
 love would be avoided by him with detestation, and with 
 horror. 
 
 Miss Woodley, somewhat recovered from her first sur- 
 prise and sufferings — for never did her susceptible mind 
 suffer so exquisitely — amidst all her grief and abhorrence, 
 felt that pity was still predominant ; and, reconciled to the 
 faults of Miss Milner by her misery, she once more looked 
 at her with friendship, and asked, what she "could do to 
 render her less unhappy ? " 
 
 " Make me forget," replied Miss Milner, " every moment 
 of my life since I first saw you ; that moment was teeming 
 with a weight of cares, under which I must labour till my 
 death." 
 
 " And even in death," replied Miss Woodley, " do 
 not hope to shake them off, If unrepented in this 
 world — " 
 
 She was proceeding ; but the anxiety her friend endured 
 would not suffer her to be free from the apprehension that, 
 notwithstanding the positive assurance of her guardian, if 
 he and Lord Frederick should meet, the duel might still 
 take place. She therefore rang the bell, and inquired if 
 Mr. Dorriforth was still at home? — The answer was, "He 
 had ridden out." " You remember," said Miss Woodley, " he 
 told you he should dine from home." This did not, how- 
 
 G 
 
82 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 ever, dismiss her fears, and she despatched two servants 
 different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting them with her 
 suspicions, and charging them to prevent the duel. Sand- 
 ford had also taken his precautions ; but though he knew 
 the time, he did not know the exact place of their 
 appointment, which Lord Elmwood had forgotten to in- 
 quire. 
 
 The excessive alarm which Miss Milner discovered upon 
 this occasion was imputed by the servants, and by others 
 who were witnesses of it, to her affection for Lord Frederick ; 
 while none but Miss Woodley knew, or had the most distant 
 suspicion of, the real cause. 
 
 Mrs. Horton and Miss Fenton, who were sitting together, 
 expatiating on the duplicity of their own sex in the instance 
 just before them, had, notwithstanding the interest of the 
 discourse, a longing desire to break it off; for they were im- 
 patient to see this poor frail being whom they were loading 
 with their censure. They longed to see if she would 
 have the confidence to look them in the face ; them, to 
 whom she had so often protested that she had not the 
 smallest attachment to Lord Frederick, but had accepted 
 his attentions from motives of vanity. 
 
 These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner 
 had been served ; but met Miss Milner at the table with a 
 less degree of pleasure than they had expected ; for her 
 mind was so totally abstracted from any consideration of 
 them, that they could not discern a single blush, or confused 
 glance, which their presence occasioned. No, she had 
 before them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed ; 
 she was only ashamed that what she had said was not true. 
 To the bosom of Miss Woodley alone was that secret en- 
 trusted which could call a blush into her face, and before 
 her, she did feel confusion; before the gentle friend, to 
 whom she had till this time communicated all her faults 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. &$ 
 
 without embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in 
 shame. 
 
 Soon after the dinner was removed, Lord Elmwood 
 entered, and that gallant young nobleman declared, "Mr. 
 Sandford had used him ill, in not permitting him to accom- 
 pany his relation ; for he feared that Mr. Dorriforth would 
 now throw himself upon the sword of Lord Frederick, 
 without a single friend near to defend him." A rebuke 
 from the eye of Miss Woodley, which, from this day, had a 
 command over Miss Milner, restrained her from expressing 
 the affright she suffered from this intimation. 
 
 Miss Fenton replied, "As to that, my Lord, I see no 
 reason why Mr. Dorriforth and Lord Frederick should not 
 now be friends." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mrs. Horton, " for as soon as my Lord 
 Frederick is made acquainted with Miss Milner's confession, 
 all differences must be reconciled." 
 
 " What confession ? " asked Lord Elmwood. 
 
 Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which 
 gave her pain even to recollect, rose in order to retire into 
 her own apartment ; but was obliged to sit down again, till 
 she received the assistance of Lord Elmwood and her friend, 
 who led her into her dressing-room. She reclined upon a 
 sofa there, and though left alone with that friend, a silence 
 followed of half-an-hour ; nor when the conversation began 
 was the name of Dorriforth once uttered. They were grown 
 cool and considerate, since the discovery, and both were 
 equally fearful of naming him. 
 
 The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the charms 
 of retirement, and such topics engaged their discourse, but 
 not their thoughts, for near two hours ; and the first time 
 the word Dorriforth was spoken, was by a servant, who with 
 alacrity opened the dressing-room door, without previously 
 rapping, and cried, " Madam, Mr. Dorriforth." 
 
 G 2 
 
84 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miss 
 Milner. Miss Woodley beheld the glow of joy and of guilt 
 upon her face, and did not rise to give him her seat, as was 
 her custom, when she was sitting by his ward, and he came 
 to bring her intelligence. He therefore stood while he re : 
 peated all that had happened in his interview with Lord 
 Frederick. 
 
 But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, she had 
 forgot to inquire of the safety of his antagonist ; of the 
 man whom she had pretended to love so passionately — even 
 smiles of rapture were upon her face, though Dorriforth 
 might be returned from putting him to death. This incon- 
 gruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was con- 
 founded ; but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion 
 either of her love for him, or indifference for Lord Fre- 
 derick, had no place, easily reconciled this inconsistency, 
 and said — 
 
 " You see by my countenance that all is well, and 
 therefore you smile on me before I tell you what has 
 passed." 
 
 This brought her to the recollection of her conduct, and 
 now, with looks ill-constrained, she attempted the expression 
 of an alarm she did not feel. 
 
 " Nay, I assure you Lord Frederick is safe," he resumed, 
 " and the disgrace of his blow washed entirely away, by a 
 few drops of blood from this arm." And he laid his hand 
 upon his left arm, which rested in his waistcoat as a kind of 
 sling. 
 
 She cast her eyes there, and seeing where the ball had 
 entered the coat sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream, 
 and reclined upon the sofa. Instead of that affectionate 
 sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her 
 slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an 
 unpitying tone, and said — 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 85 
 
 " Miss Milner, you have heard Lord Frederick is safe : 
 you have therefore nothing to alarm you." 
 
 Nor did she run to hold a smelling-bottle, or to raise 
 her head. Her guardian seeing her near fainting, and with- 
 out any assistance from her friend, was going himself to give 
 it ; but on this Miss Woodley interfered, and, having taken 
 her head upon her arm, assured him, "It was a weakness 
 to which Miss Milner was very subject; and that she would 
 ring for her maid, who knew how to relieve her instantly 
 with a few drops." Satisfied with this assurance, Dorriforth 
 left the room ; and a surgeon being come to examine his 
 wound, he retired into his own chamber. 
 
86 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The power delegated by the confidential to those in- 
 trusted with their secrets, Miss Woodley was the last per- 
 son on earth to abuse ; but she was also the last, who, by 
 an accommodating complacency, would participate in the 
 guilt of her friend ; and there was no guilt, except that of 
 murder, which she thought equal to the crime in question, 
 if it was ever perpetrated. Adultery, reason would perhaps 
 have informed her, was a more pernicious evil to society ; 
 but to a religious mind, what sound is so horrible as 
 sacrilege? Of vows made to God or to man, the former 
 must weigh the heaviest. Moreover, the sin of infidelity 
 in the married state is not a little softened, to common 
 understandings, by its frequency ; whereas, of religious 
 vows broken by a devotee she had never heard; unless 
 where the offence had been followed by such instances of 
 divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this 
 world (as well as eternal punishment in the other) as 
 served to exemplify the wickedness. 
 
 She, who could and who did pardon Miss Milner, was 
 the person who saw her passion in the severest light, and 
 resolved upon every method, however harsh, to root it 
 from her heart; nor did she fear success, resting on the 
 certain assurance, that however deep her love might be 
 fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did 
 not prevent her taking every precaution, lest Dorriforth 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 87 
 
 should come to the knowledge of it. She would not have 
 his composed mind disturbed with such a thought — his 
 steadfast principles so much as shaken by the imagination — 
 nor would she be the instrument to overwhelm him with 
 those self-reproaches which his fatal attraction, unpremedi- 
 tated as it was, would still have drawn upon him. 
 
 With this plan of concealment, in which the natural 
 modesty of Miss Milner acquiesced, there was but one 
 effort for which this unhappy ward was not prepared ; and 
 that was an entire separation from her guardian. She had, 
 from the first, cherished her passion without the most 
 remote prospect of a return — she was prepared to see 
 Dorriforth, without ever seeing him more nearly connected 
 with her than as her guardian and friend ; but not to see him 
 at all — for that, she was not prepared. 
 
 But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable necessity 
 of this measure before she made the proposal ; and then 
 made it with a firmness that might have done honour to the 
 inflexibility of Dorriforth himself. 
 
 During the few days that intervened between her open 
 confession of a passion for Lord Frederick, and this pro- 
 posed plan of separation, the utmost inconsistency ap- 
 peared in the character of Miss Milner; and in order to 
 evade a marriage with him, and conceal, at the same time, 
 the shameful passion which lurked in her breast, she was 
 once even on the point of declaring an attachment for Sir 
 Edward Ashton. 
 
 In the duel which had taken place between Lord Frederick 
 and Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his an- 
 tagonist, but positively refused to return it; by which he 
 had kept his promise not to endanger his lordship's life, and 
 had reconciled Sandford, in great measure, to his behaviour 
 — and Sandford now (his resolution once broken) no longer 
 refused entering Miss Milner's house, but came whenever it 
 
88 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 was convenient, though he yet avoided the mistress of it as 
 much as possible ; or shewed by every word and look, when 
 she was present, that she was still less in his favour than she 
 had ever been. 
 
 He visited Dorriforth on the evening of his engagement 
 with Lord Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted with 
 him in his own chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her 
 guardian after his first return from that engagement before 
 the following noon. She inquired, however, of his servant 
 how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his wound was but 
 slight — yet this inquiry she durst not make before Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it 
 was evident that he had thrown from his heart a load of 
 cares; and though they had left a languor upon his face, 
 content was in his voice, in his manners, in every word and 
 action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment against 
 his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had led 
 him, he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to 
 wish to soothe her perturbation, which the recollection of 
 her own conduct had evidently raised in her mind. His 
 endeavours were successful — she was soothed every time he 
 spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss 
 Woodley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly 
 discovered, that she was enraptured with the joy of seeing 
 him again himself, after the danger to which he had been 
 exposed. 
 
 These emotions, which she laboured to subdue, passed, 
 however, the bounds of her ineffectual resistance, when at 
 the time of her retiring after dinner, he said to her in a low 
 voice, but such as it was meant the company should hear, 
 " Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at my study some 
 time in the evening ; I have to speak with you upon busi- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 89 
 
 She answered, " I will, Sir." And her eyes beamed with 
 delight, in expectation of the interview. 
 
 Let not the reader, nevertheless, imagine there was in that 
 ardent expectation one idea which the most spotless mind, 
 in love, might not have indulged without reproach. Sincere" 
 love (at least among the delicate of the female sex) is often 
 gratified by that degree of enjoyment, or rather forbearance, 
 which would be torture in the pursuit of any other passion. 
 Real, delicate, and restrained love, such as Miss Milner's, 
 was indulged in the sight of the object only ; and having 
 bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happi- 
 ness was limited to a conversation, in which no other but 
 themselves took a part. 
 
 Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appoint- 
 ment, but the only one who conceived with what sensation it 
 was received. 
 
 While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorri- 
 forth, Miss Milner had thought of little, except of him. As 
 soon as they withdrew into another apartment, she re- 
 membered Miss Woodley ; and, turning her head suddenly, 
 saw her friend's face imprinted with suspicion and dis- 
 pleasure : this at first was painful to her — but recollecting, 
 that within a couple of hours she was to meet her guardian 
 alone — to speak to him, and hear him speak to her only — 
 every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she con- 
 sidered with indifference the uneasiness or the anger of her 
 friend. 
 
 Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to 
 beguile Dorriforth into the snares of love. Could any 
 supernatural power have endowed her with the means, and 
 at the same time have shewn to her the ills that must arise , 
 from such an effect of her charms, she had assuredly virtue 
 enough to have declined the conquest ; but, without in- 
 quiring what she proposed, she never saw him, without 
 
90 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 previously endeavouring to look more attractive than she 
 would have desired before any other person. And now, 
 without listening to the thousand exhortations that spoke in 
 every feature of Miss Woodley, she flew to a looking-glass, 
 to adjust her dress in a manner that she thought most en- 
 chanting. 
 
 Time stole away, and the time of going to her guardian 
 arrived. In his presence, unsupported by the presence of 
 any other, every grace that she had practised, every look 
 that she had borrowed to set off her charms, was anni- 
 hilated, and she became a native beauty, with the artless 
 arguments of reason, only, for her aid. Awed thus by his 
 power, from everything but what she really was, she never 
 was perhaps half so bewitching, as in those timid, respectful, 
 and embarrassed moments she passed alone with him. He 
 caught at those times her respect, her diffidence, nay, even 
 her embarrassment; and never would one word of anger 
 pass on either side. 
 
 On the present occasion, he first expressed the high satis- 
 faction that she had given him by at length revealing to him 
 the real state of her mind. 
 
 "And when I take everything into consideration, Miss 
 Milner," added he, " I rejoice that your sentiments happen 
 to be such as you have owned. For, although my Lord 
 Frederick is not the veiy man I could have wished for your 
 perfect happiness, yet, in the state of human perfection and 
 human happiness, you might have fixed your affections with 
 perhaps less propriety ; and still, where my unwillingness to 
 have thwarted your inclinations might not have permitted 
 me to contend with them." 
 
 Not a word of reply did this speech demand ; but, if it had, 
 not a word could she have given. 
 
 " And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak 
 with you is, to know the means you think most proper to 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 9 1 
 
 pursue, in order to acquaint Lord Frederick, that notwith- 
 standing this late repulse, there are hopes of your partiality 
 in his favour." 
 
 " Defer the explanation," she replied eagerly. 
 
 " I beg your pardon — it cannot be. Besides, how can you 
 indulge a disposition thus unpitying ? Even so ardently did 
 I desire to render the man who loves you happy, that 
 though he came armed against my life, had I not reflected, 
 that previous to our engagement it would appear like fear, 
 and the means of bartering for his forgiveness, — I should 
 have revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. 
 When the engagement was over, I was too impatient to 
 acquaint you with his safety, to think then of gratifying him. 
 And, indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after the many 
 denials which you have no doubt given him, should be con- 
 sidered. I therefore consult your opinion upon the manner 
 in which it shall be made." 
 
 " Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of 
 surprise, and that pity which the fate impending inspired ? 
 and which might urge me to express myself of Lord 
 Frederick in a manner my cooler thoughts will not 
 warrant ? " 
 
 " There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss 
 Milner, the least equivocal. If you were off your guard 
 when you pleaded for Lord Frederick, as I believe you were, 
 you said more sincerely what you thought ; and no discreet, 
 or rather indiscreet, attempts to retract, can make me change 
 these sentiments." 
 
 " I am very sorry," she replied, confused and trembling. 
 
 "Why sorry? Come, give me commission to reveal your 
 partiality. I'll not be too hard upon you. A hint from me 
 will do. Hope is ever apt to interpret the slightest words 
 to its own use, and a lover's hope is, beyond all others, 
 
92 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " I never gave Lord Frederick hope." 
 
 " But you never plunged him into despair." 
 
 " His pursuit intimates that I never have, but he has no 
 other proof." 
 
 " However light and frivolous you have been upon 
 frivolous subjects, yet I must own, Miss Milner, that I 
 did expect when a case of this importance came seriously 
 before you, you. would have discovered a proper stability in 
 your behaviour." 
 
 " I do, Sir ; and it was only when I was affected with a 
 weakness, which arose from accident, that I betrayed 
 inconsistency." 
 
 " You then assert again, that you have no affection for my 
 Lord Frederick ? " 
 
 " Not enough to become his wife." 
 
 " You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you 
 should be so ; it shews a prudent foresight which does you 
 honour — but, my dear, are there no dangers in a single 
 state ? If I may judge, Miss Milner, there are many more 
 to a young lady of your accomplishments, than if you were 
 under the protection of a husband." 
 
 "My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection 
 sufficient." 
 
 " But that protection was rather to direct your choice, 
 than to be the cause of your not choosing at all. Give me 
 leave to point out an observation which, perhaps, I have too 
 frequently made before, but upon this occasion I must 
 intrude it once again. Miss Fenton is its object — her 
 fortune is inferior to yours, her personal attractions are 
 less " 
 
 Here the powerful glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an 
 opinion so negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew 
 to Miss Milner's face, neck, and even to her hands and 
 fingers ; the blood mounted to every part of her skin that 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 93 
 
 was visible, for not a fibre but felt the secret transport, that 
 Dorriforth though her more beautiful than the beautiful Miss 
 Fenton. 
 
 If he observed her blushes, he was unsuspicious of the 
 cause, and went on : — 
 
 " There is, besides, in the temper of Miss Fenton, a 
 sedateness that might with less hazard ensure her safety in 
 an unmarried life ; and yet she very properly thinks it her 
 duty, as she does not mean to seclude herself by any vows 
 to the contrary, to become a wife, and, in obedience to the 
 counsel of her friends, will be married within a very few 
 weeks." 
 
 " Miss Fenton may marry from obedience : I never will." 
 
 " You mean to say, that love shall alone induce you." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " If you would point out a subject upon which I am the 
 least able to reason, and on which my sentiments, such 
 as they are, are formed only from theory, and even there, 
 more cautioned than instructed, it is the subject of love. 
 And yet, even that little which I know, tells me, without 
 a doubt, that what you said yesterday, pleading for Lord 
 Frederick's life, was the result of the most violent and 
 tender love." 
 
 " The little you know, then, Mr. Dorriforth, has deceived 
 you ; had you known ?nore, you would have judged other- 
 wise." 
 
 " I submit to the merit of your reply ; but without allow- 
 ing me to judge at all, I will appeal to those who were 
 present with me." 
 
 "Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the con- 
 noisseurs." 
 
 " No ; I'll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley." 
 
 "And yet, I believe," replied she with a smile, " I believe 
 theory must only be the judge even there." 
 
94 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Then from all you have said, Madam, on this occasion, 
 I am to conclude that you still refuse to marry Lord 
 Frederick ? " 
 
 " You are." 
 
 •'And you submit never to see him again?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "All you then said to me yesterday was false?" 
 
 " I was not mistress of myself at the time." 
 
 " Therefore it was truth ! For shame, for shame ! " 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Sandford 
 walked in — he started back on seeing Miss Milner, and was 
 going away ; but Dorriforth called to him to stay, and said 
 with warmth — 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what per- 
 suasion, I can prevail upon Miss Milner to confide in me as 
 her friend ; to lay her heart open, and credit mine when 
 I declare to her that I have no view in all the advice I give 
 to her but her immediate welfare." 
 
 "Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of that lady," 
 replied Sandford ; " it has been formed ever since my first 
 acquaintance with her, and it continues the same." 
 
 "But instruct me how I am to inspire her with confidence," 
 returned Dorriforth; "how I am to impress her with a 
 sense of that which is for her advantage ? " 
 
 "You can work no miracles," replied Sandford; "you are 
 not holy enough." 
 
 "And yet my ward," answered Dorriforth, "appears to be 
 acquainted with that mystery ; for what but the force of 
 a miracle can induce her to contradict to-day, what before 
 you, and several other witnesses, she positively acknow- 
 ledged yesterday ? " 
 
 "Do you call that miraculous?" cried Sandford; "the 
 miracle had been if she had not done so ; for did she not 
 yesterday contradict what she acknowledged the day before ? 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 95 
 
 — and will she not to-morrow disavow what she says 
 to-day?" 
 
 " I wish that she may," replied Dorriforth, mildly ; for he 
 saw the tears flowing down her face at the rough and severe 
 manner in which Sandford had spoken, and he began to 
 feel for her uneasiness. 
 
 " I beg pardon," cried Sandford, " for speaking so rudely 
 to the mistress of the house. I have no business here, 
 I know; but where you are, Mr. Dorriforth, unless I am 
 turned out, I shall always think it my duty to come." 
 
 Miss Milner courtesied, as much as to say, he was wel- 
 come to come. He continued — 
 
 " I was to blame, that upon a nice punctilio, I left you 
 so long without my visits, and without my counsel ; in that 
 time, you have run the hazard of being murdered, and, 
 what is worse, of being excommunicated ; for had you 
 been so rash as to return your opponent's fire, not all 
 my interest at Rome would have obtained remission of the 
 punishment." 
 
 Miss Milner, through all her tears, could not now restrain 
 her laughter. On which he resumed : — 
 
 "And here do I venture, like a missionary among savages; 
 but if I can only save you from their scalping knives — 
 from the miseries that lady is preparing for you — I am 
 rewarded." 
 
 Sandford spoke this with great fervour, and the offence 
 of her love never appeared to her in so tremendous a 
 point of view, as when thus, unknowingly, alluded to by 
 him. 
 
 " The miseries that lady is ftreftarmg for you" hung 
 upon her ears like the notes of a raven, and sounded equally 
 ominous. The words "murder" and " excoimnunication" 
 he had likewise uttered ; all the fatal effects of sacrilegious 
 love. Frightful superstitions struck her to the heart, 
 
96 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 and she could scarcely avoid falling down under their 
 oppression. 
 
 Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining her- 
 self, and with the utmost tenderness went towards her ; and 
 supporting her, said, " I beg your pardon ; I invited you 
 hither with a far different intention than your uneasiness ; 
 and be assured " 
 
 Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth re- 
 sumed — " Hold, Mr. Sandford, the lady is under my protec- 
 tion, and I know not whether it is not requisite that you 
 should apologize to her, and to me, for what you have 
 already said." 
 
 " You asked my opinion, or I had not given it you ; would 
 you have me, like her, speak what I do not think ? " 
 
 "Say no more, Sir," cried Dorriforth; and, leading her 
 kindly to the door, as if to defend her from his malice, 
 told her, " He would take another opportunity of renewing 
 the subject." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 97 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 When Dorriforth was alone with Sandford, he explained 
 to him what before he had only hinted ; and this learned 
 Jesuit frankly confessed, " That the mind of woman was far 
 above, or rather beneath, his comprehension." It was so, 
 indeed, for with all his penetration — and few even of that 
 school had more — he had not yet penetrated into the recesses 
 of Miss Milner's mind. 
 
 Miss Woodley — to whom she repeated all that had passed 
 between herself, her guardian, and Sandford — took this 
 moment, in the agitation of her spirits, to alarm her still 
 more by prophetic insinuations ; and at length represented 
 to her here, for the first time, the necessity, "That Mr. 
 Dorriforth and she no longer should remain under the same 
 roof." This was like the stroke of sudden death to Miss 
 Milner, and, clinging to life, she endeavoured to avert the 
 blow by prayers and by promises. Her friend loved her 
 too sincerely to be prevailed upon. 
 
 " But in what manner can I accomplish the separation ? " 
 cried she, " for till I marry we are obliged, by my father's 
 request, to live in the same house." 
 
 " Miss Milner," answered Miss Woodley, " much as I 
 respect the will of a dying man, I regard your and Mr. 
 Dorriforth's present and eternal happiness much more ; and 
 it is my resolution that you shall part. If yoti will not 
 contrive the means, that duty falls on me ; and, without any 
 invention, I see the measure at once." 
 
 H 
 
98 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " What is it ? " cried Miss Milner, eagerly. 
 
 " I will reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the 
 real state of your heart ; which your present inconsistency of 
 conduct will but too readily confirm." 
 
 " You would not plunge me into so much shame, into so 
 much anguish ? " cried she, distractedly. 
 
 "No," replied Miss Woodley, "not for the world, if you 
 will separate from him by any mode of your own ; but that 
 you shall separate is my determination ; and in spite of 
 all your sufferings, this shall be the expedient, unless you 
 instantly agree to some other." 
 
 " Good heaven, Miss Woodley ! Is this your friend- 
 ship?" 
 
 "Yes, and the truest friendship I have to bestow. Think 
 what a task I undertake for your sake and his, when I 
 condemn myself to explain to him your weakness. What 
 astonishment ! what confusion ! what remorse, do I foresee 
 painted upon his face ! I hear him call you by the harshest 
 names, and behold him fly from your sight for ever, as from 
 an object of his detestation." 
 
 " Oh, spare the dreadful picture. Fly from my sight 
 for ever ! Detest my name ! Oh ! my dear Miss Woodley, 
 let but his friendship for me still remain, and I will consent 
 to any thing. You may command me. I will go away from 
 him directly ; but let us part in friendship. Oh ! without 
 the friendship of Mr. Dorriforth, life would be a heavy 
 burden indeed." 
 
 Miss Woodley immediately began to contrive schemes 
 for their separation ; and, with all her invention alive on the 
 subject, the following was the only natural one that she 
 could form. 
 
 Miss Milner, in a letter to her distant relation at Bath, 
 was to complain of the melancholy of a country life, which 
 she was to say her guardian imposed upon her ; and she was 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 99 
 
 to entreat the lady to send a pressing invitation that she 
 would pass a few months at her house ; this invitation was 
 to be laid before Dorriforth for his approbation, and the two 
 ladies were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest wishes 
 for his consent. This plan having been properly regulated, 
 the necessary letter was sent to Bath, and Miss Woodley 
 waited with patience, but with a watchful guard upon the 
 conduct of her friend, till the answer should arrive. 
 
 During this interim a tender and complaining epistle 
 from Lord Frederick was delivered to Miss Milner, to 
 which, as he received no answer, he prevailed upon his 
 uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon her, and obtain 
 a verbal reply ; for he still flattered himself that fear of 
 her guardian's anger, or perhaps his interception of the 
 letter which he had sent, was the sole cause of her apparent 
 indifference. 
 
 The old gentleman was introduced both to Miss Milner 
 and to Mr. Dorriforth, but received from each an answer 
 so explicit, that it left his nephew no longer in doubt but 
 that all farther pursuit was vain.. 
 
 Sir Edward Ashton about this time also submitted to a 
 formal dismissal ; and had then the mortification to reflect, 
 that he was bestowing upon the object of his affections 
 the tenderest proof of his regard, by absenting himself 
 entirely from her society. 
 
 Upon this serious and certain conclusion to the hopes of 
 Lord Frederick, Dorriforth was more astonished than ever 
 at the conduct of his ward. He had once thought that her 
 behaviour in this respect was ambiguous, but since her 
 confession of a passion for that nobleman, he had no doubt 
 but that in the end she would become his wife. He lamented 
 to find himself mistaken, and thought it proper now to 
 condemn her caprice, not merely in words, but by the 
 general tenor of his behaviour. He consequently became 
 
 H 2 
 
IOO A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 more reserved, and more austere than he had been since 
 his first acquaintance with her ; for his manners, not from 
 design, but imperceptibly to himself, had been softened 
 since he became her guardian, by that tender respect 
 which he had uniformly paid to the object of his pro- 
 tection. 
 
 Notwithstanding the severity he now assumed, his ward, 
 in the prospect of parting from him, grew melancholy. 
 Miss Woodley's love to her friend rendered her little 
 otherwise ! and Dorriforth's peculiar gravity — frequently, 
 rigour — could not but make their whole party less cheerful 
 than it had been. Lord Elmwood, too, at this time was 
 lying dangerously ill of a fever. Miss Fenton, of course, 
 was as much in sorrow as her nature would permit her 
 to be ; and both Sandford and Dorriforth were in extreme 
 concern upon his Lordship's account. 
 
 In this posture of affairs, the letter of invitation arrived 
 from Lady Luneham, at Bath. It was shewn to Dorriforth; 
 and to prove to his ward that he is so much offended, as 
 no longer to feel that excessive interest in her concerns 
 which he once felt, he gives an opinion on the subject with 
 indifference — he desires " Miss Milner will do what she 
 herself thinks proper." Miss Woodley instantly accepts 
 this permission, writes back, and appoints the day upon 
 which her friend means to set off for the visit. 
 
 Miss Milner is wounded at the heart by the cold and 
 unkind manners of her guardian, but dares not take one 
 step to retrieve his opinion. Alone, or to her friend, she 
 sighs and weeps. He discovers her sorrow, and is doubtful 
 whether the departure of Lord Frederick from that part of 
 the country is not the cause. 
 
 When the time she was to set out to Bath was only two 
 days off, the behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its 
 usual form, if not a greater share of polite and tender atten- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. IOI 
 
 tion than ever. It was the first time he had parted from 
 Miss Milner since he became her guardian, and he felt upon 
 the occasion a reluctance. He had been angry with her ; 
 he had shewn her that he was so, and he now began to wish 
 that he had not. She is not happy (he considered within 
 himself) ; every word and action declares she is not : I may 
 have been too severe, and added, perhaps, to her uneasiness. 
 "At least we will part on good terms," said he. " Indeed, 
 my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise." 
 
 She soon discerned his returning kindness, and it was a 
 gentle tie that would have fastened her to that spot for ever, 
 but for the firm resistance of Miss Woodley. 
 
 "What will the absence of a few months effect?" said 
 she, pleading her own cause. " At the end of a few months, 
 at farthest, he will expect me back, and where then will be 
 the merit of this separation ? " 
 
 "In that time," replied Miss Woodley, "we may find 
 some method to make it longer." To this she listened with 
 a kind of despair, but uttered, she " was resigned," and she 
 prepared for her departure. 
 
 Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her 
 journey should be commodious. He was eager she should 
 be happy ; and he was eager she should see that he 
 entirely forgave her. He would have gone part of the way 
 with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood, in 
 whose chamber he passed most of the day, and he slept in 
 Elmwood House every night. 
 
 On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his 
 hand and conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the 
 way he led her she could not restrain her tears ; which in- 
 creased, as he parted from her, to convulsive sobs. He was 
 affected by her grief ; and though he had previously bidden 
 her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said, with the 
 tenderest concern, " My dear Miss Milner, we part friends? 
 
102 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 I hope we do ? On my side, depend upon it, that I regret 
 nothing so much at our separation as having ever given you 
 a moment's pain." 
 
 " I believe so," was all she could utter ; for she hastened 
 from him lest his discerning eye should discover the 
 cause of the weakness which thus overcame her. But 
 her apprehensions were groundless ; the rectitude of his 
 own heart was a bar to the suspicion of hers. He once 
 more kindly bade her adieu, and the carriage drove 
 away. 
 
 Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part 
 of the journey, about thirty miles, when they were met 
 by Sir Henry and Lady Luneham. Here was a parting 
 nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian. 
 
 Miss Woodley, who, for several weeks, had treated her 
 friend with a rigidness she herself hardly supposed was 
 in her nature, now bewailed that she had done so, im- 
 plored her forgiveness, promised to correspond with her 
 punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every 
 consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion ; but in 
 that, and that only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be 
 consoled. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 When Miss Milner arrived at Bath, she thought it the 
 most altered place she had ever seen. She was mistaken- 
 it _was herself that was changed. 
 
 The walks were melancholy, the company insipid, the 
 ball-room fatiguing ; for she had left behind all that could 
 charm or please her. 
 
 Though she found herself much less happy than when she 
 was at Bath before, yet she felt that she would not, even to 
 enjoy all that past happiness, be again reduced to the being 
 she was at that period. Thus does the lover consider the 
 extinction of his passion with the same horror as the liber- 
 tine looks upon annihilation ; the one would rather live 
 hereafter, though in all the tortures described as consti- 
 tuting his future state, than cease to exist ; so there are no 
 tortures which a lover would not suffer, rather than cease to 
 love. 
 
 In the wide prospect of sadness before her, Miss Milner's 
 fancy caught hold of the only comfort which presented 
 itself ; and this, faint as it was, in the total absence of 
 every other, her imagination painted to her as excessive. 
 The comfort was a letter from Miss Woodley — a letter, in 
 which the subject of her love would most assuredly be men- 
 tioned, and, in whatever terms, it would still be the means of 
 delight. 
 
 A letter arrived. She devoured it with her eyes. The post- 
 mark denoting from whence it came, the name of " Milner 
 
104 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Lodge " written on the top, were all sources of pleasure, and 
 she read slowly every line it contained, to procrastinate the 
 pleasing expectation she enjoyed, till she should arrive at 
 the name of Dorriforth. At last her impatient eye caught 
 the word, three lines beyond the place she was reading ; 
 irresistibly she skipped over those lines, and fixed on the 
 point to which she was attracted. 
 
 Miss Woodley was cautious in her indulgence ; she made 
 the slightest mention possible of Dorriforth ; saying only, 
 " He was extremely concerned, and even dejected, at the 
 little hope there was of his cousin, Lord Elmwood's, re- 
 covery." Short and trivial as this passage was, it was still 
 more important to Miss Milner than any other in the letter. 
 She read it again and again, considered, and reflected upon 
 it. Dejected, thought she, what does that word exactly 
 mean? Did I ever see Mr. Dorriforth dejected ? How, I 
 wonder, does he look in that state ? Thus did she muse, 
 while the cause of his dejection, though a most serious one, 
 and pathetically described by Miss Woodley, scarce arrested 
 her attention. She ran over with haste the account of Lord 
 Elmwood's state of health ; she certainly pitied him while 
 she thought of him, but she did not think of him long. To 
 die was a hard fate for a young nobleman just in possession 
 of his immense fortune, and on the eve of marriage with a 
 beautiful young woman ; but Miss Milner thought that an 
 abode in Heaven might be still better than all this, and she 
 had no doubt but that his Lordship would be an inhabitant 
 there. The forlorn state of Miss Fenton ought to have 
 been a subject for her compassion, but she knew that lady 
 had resignation to bear any lot with patience, and that a 
 trial of her fortitude might be more flattering to her vanity 
 than to be Countess of Elm wood ; in a word, she saw no 
 one's misfortunes equal to her own, because she knew no 
 one so little able to bear misfortune. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. I05 
 
 She replied to Miss Woodley's letter, and dwelt veiy long 
 on that subject which her friend had passed over lightly ; 
 this was another indulgence ; and this epistolary inter- 
 course was now the only enjoyment she possessed. From 
 Bath she paid several visits with Lady Luneham — all were 
 alike tedious and melancholy. 
 
 But her guardian wrote to her, and, though it was on a 
 topic of sorrow, the letter gave her joy. The sentiments it 
 expressed were merely commonplace, yet she valued them 
 as the dearest effusions of friendship and affection ; and her 
 hands trembled, and her heart beat with rapture while she 
 wrote the answer, though she knew it would not be received 
 by him with one emotion like those which she experienced. 
 In her second letter to Miss Woodley, she prayed like a 
 person insane to be taken home from confinement, and like 
 a lunatic protested, in sensible language, she " had no dis- 
 order." But her friend replied, "That very declaration 
 proves its violence." And she assured her, nothing less 
 than placing her affections elsewhere should induce her to 
 believe but that she was incurable. 
 
 The third letter from Milner Lodge brought the news of 
 Lord Elmwood's death. Miss Woodley was exceedingly 
 affected by this event, and said little else on any other 
 subject. Miss Milner was shocked when she read the words, 
 " He is dead," and instantly thought, — 
 
 " How transient are all sublunary things ! Within a few 
 years I shall be dead, and how happy will it then be if I 
 have resisted every temptation to the alluring pleasures of 
 this life ! " The happiness of a peaceful death occupied her 
 contemplation for near an hour; but at length every 
 virtuous and pious sentiment this meditation inspired served 
 but to remind her of the many sentences she had heard from 
 her guardian's lips upon the same subject — her thoughts were 
 again fixed on him, and she could think of nothing besides. 
 
106 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 In a short time after this her health became impaired 
 from the indisposition of her mind; she languished, and 
 was once in imminent danger. During a slight delirium of her 
 fever Miss Woodley's name and her guardian's were inces- 
 santly repeated. Lady Luneham sent them immediate word 
 of this, and they both hastened to Bath, and arrived there 
 just as the violence and danger of her disorder had ceased. 
 As soon as she became perfectly collected, her first care, 
 knowing the frailty of her heart, was to inquire what she 
 had uttered while delirious. Miss Woodley, who was by her 
 bedside, begged her not to be alarmed on that account, and 
 assured her she knew from all her attendants that she had 
 only spoken with a friendly remembrance (as was really the 
 case) of those persons who were dear to her. 
 
 She wished to know whether her guardian was come to 
 see her, but she had not the courage to ask before her friend ; 
 and she, in her turn, was afraid by the too sudden mention 
 of his name to discompose her. Her maid, however, after 
 some little time, entered the chamber and whispered Miss 
 Woodley. Miss Milner asked inquisitively what she said. 
 
 The maid replied softly, " Lord Elmwood, Madam, wishes 
 to come and see you for a few moments, if you will allow 
 him." 
 
 At this reply Miss Milner stared wildly. 
 
 " I thought," said she — " I thought Lord Elmwood had 
 been dead — are my senses disordered still ? " 
 
 " No, my dear," answered Miss Woodley ; " it is the pre- 
 sent Lord Elmwood who wishes to see you; he whom you 
 left ill when you came hither is dead." 
 
 "And who is the present Lord Elmwood ? " she asked. 
 
 Miss Woodley, after a short hesitation, replied, "Your 
 guardian." 
 
 "And so he is," cried Miss Milner. " He is the next heir. 
 I had forgot. But is it possible that he is here ? " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 107 
 
 "Yes," returned Miss Woodley, with a grave voice and 
 manner, to moderate that glow of satisfaction which for a 
 moment sparkled even in her languid eye and blushed over 
 her pallid countenance — " yes ; as he heard you were ill, he 
 thought it right to come and see you." 
 
 " He is very good," she answered, and the tear started in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Would you please to see his Lordship ?" asked her maid. 
 
 " Not yet, not yet," she replied ; " let me recollect myself 
 first." And she looked with a timid doubt upon her friend 
 to ask if it was proper." 
 
 Miss Woodley could hardly support this humble reference 
 to her judgment from the wan face of the poor invalid, and, 
 taking her by the hand, whispered, " You shall do what you 
 please." In a few minutes Lord Elmwood was introduced. 
 
 To those who sincerely love, every change of situation or 
 circumstances in the object beloved appears an advantage. 
 So the acquisition of a title and estate was, in Miss Milner's 
 eye, an inestimable advantage to her guardian ; not on 
 account of their real value, but that any change, instead of 
 diminishing her passion, would have served only to increase 
 it — even a change to the utmost poverty. 
 
 When he entered, the sight of him seemed to be too 
 much for her, and, after the first glance, she turned her head 
 away. The sound of his voice encouraged her to look once 
 more, and then she riveted her eyes upon him. 
 
 " It is impossible, my dear Miss Milner," he gently 
 whispered, "to say what joy I feel that your disorder has 
 subsided." 
 
 But though it was impossible to say, it was possible to 1 
 look what he felt, and his looks expressed his feelings. In 
 the zeal of those sensations he laid hold of her hand and 
 held it between his. This he did not himself know; but 
 she did. 
 
Io8 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " You have prayed for me, my Lord, I make no doubt ? " 
 said she, and smiled, as if thanking him for those prayers. 
 s " Fervently,__ardently ! " returned he ; and the fervency 
 with which he had prayed spoke in every feature. 
 
 " But I am a Protestant, you know ; and if I had died 
 such, do you believe I should have gone to heaven ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly. That would not have prevented you." 
 
 " But Mr. Sandford does not think so." 
 
 " He must ; for he hopes to go there himself." 
 
 To keep her guardian with her, Miss Milner seemed in- 
 clined to converse ; but her solicitous friend gave Lord 
 Elmwood a look which implied that it might be injurious to 
 her, and he retired. 
 
 They had only one more interview before he left the 
 place, at which Miss Milner was capable of sitting up. He 
 was with her, however, but a very short time, some neces- 
 sary concerns relative to his late kinsman's affairs calling 
 him in haste to London. Miss Woodley continued with 
 her friend until she saw her entirely reinstated in health, 
 during which time her guardian was frequently the subject 
 of their private conversation ; and upon those occasions 
 Miss Milner sometimes brought Miss Woodley to ac- 
 knowledge that, could Mr. Dorriforth have possibly foreseen 
 the early death of the last Lord Elmwood, it had been more 
 for the honour of his religion (as that ancient title would 
 now after him become extinct) if he had preferred marriage 
 vows to those of celibacy. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 When the time for Miss Woodley's departure arrived, 
 Miss Milner entreated earnestly to accompany her home, 
 and made the most solemn promises that she would guard 
 not only her behaviour, but her very thoughts, within the 
 limitation her friend should prescribe. Miss Woodley at 
 length yielded thus far : that as soon as Lord Elmwood had 
 set out on his journey to Italy, where she had heard him say 
 that he should soon be obliged to go, she would no longer 
 deny her the pleasure of returning; and if, after the long 
 absence which must consequently take place between him 
 and her, she could positively affirm the suppression of her 
 passion had been the happy result, she would then take her 
 word, and risk the danger of seeing them once more 
 reside together. 
 
 This concession having been obtained, they parted ; and 
 as winter was now far advanced, Miss Woodley returned to 
 her aunt's house in town, from whence Mrs. Horton was, 
 however, preparing to remove in order to superintend Lord 
 Elmwood's house, which had been occupied by the late Earl, 
 in Grosvenor Square ; and her niece was to accompany her. 
 
 If Lord Elmwood was not desirous that Miss Milner should 
 conclude her visit and return to his protection, it was partly 
 from the multiplicity of affairs in which he was at this time 
 engaged, and partly from having Mr. Sandford now entirely 
 placed with him as his chaplain ; for he dreaded that, living 
 in the same house, their natural antipathy might be in- 
 
IIO A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 creased even to aversion. Upon this account he once 
 thought of advising Mr. Sandford to take up his abode 
 elsewhere ; but the great pleasure he took in his society, 
 joined to the bitter mortification he knew such a proposal 
 would be to his friend, would not suffer him to make it. 
 
 Miss Milner all this time was not thinking upon those she 
 hated, but on those she loved. Sandford never came into 
 her thoughts, while the image of Lord Elmwood never left 
 them. One morning, as she sat talking to Lady Luneham 
 on various subjects, but thinking alone on him, Sir Harry 
 Luneham, with another gentleman, a Mr. Fleetmond, came 
 in, and the conversation turned upon the improbability there 
 had been, at the present Lord Elmwood's birth, that he 
 should ever inherit the title and estate which had now fallen 
 to him; "And," said Mr. Fleetmond, "independently of rank 
 and fortune, this unexpected occurrence must be matter of 
 infinite joy to Mr. Dorriforth." 
 
 "No," answered Sir Harry, " independently of rank and 
 fortune, it must be a motive of concern to him ; for he must 
 now regret beyond measure his folly in taking priest's 
 orders — thus depriving himself of the hopes of an heir, so 
 that the title at his death will be lost." 
 
 " By no means," replied Mr. Fleetmond. " He may yet 
 have an heir ; for he will certainly marry." 
 
 " Marry ! " cried the baronet. 
 
 "Yes," answered the other, "it was that I meant by the 
 joy it might probably give him, beyond the possession of his 
 estate and title." 
 
 " How be married ? " said Lady Luneham. " Has he not 
 taken a vow never to marry ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mr. Fleetmond ; " but there are no reli- 
 gions vows, from which the Sovereign Pontiff at Rome cannot 
 grant a dispensation; as those commandments which are made 
 by the Church the Church has always the power to revoke ; 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. Ill 
 
 and when it is for the general good of religion, His Holiness 
 thinks it incumbent on him to remit all penalties for their 
 non-observance. Certainly it is for the honour of the 
 Catholics that this earldom should continue in a Catholic 
 family. In short, I'll venture to lay a wager my Lord 
 Elmwood is married within a year." 
 
 Miss Milner, who listened with attention, feared she was 
 in a dream, or deceived by the pretended knowledge of Mr. 
 Fleetmond, who might know nothing. Yet all that he had 
 said was very probable; and he was himself a Roman 
 Catholic, so that he must be well informed on the subject 
 upon which he spoke. If she had heard the direst news 
 that ever sounded in the ear of the most susceptible of 
 mortals, the agitation of her mind and person could not 
 have been stronger. She felt, while every word was speak- 
 ing, a chill through all her veins — a pleasure too exquisite 
 not to bear along with it the sensation of exquisite pain ; of 
 which she was so sensible, that for a few moments it made 
 her wish that she had not heard the intelligence, though 
 very soon after she would not but have heard it for the 
 world. 
 
 As soon as she had recovered from her first astonishment 
 and joy, she wrote to Miss Woodley an exact account of 
 what she had heard, and received this answer: — 
 
 " I am sorry anybody should have given you this piece of 
 information, because it was a task in executing which I had 
 promised myself extreme satisfaction; but from the fear that 
 your health was not yet strong enough to support, without 
 some danger, the burden of hopes which I knew would, 
 upon this occasion, press upon you, I deferred my com- 
 munication, and it has been anticipated. Yet, as you seem 
 in doubt as to the reality of what you have been told, 
 perhaps this confirmation of it may fall very little short of 
 the first news ; especially when it is enforced by my request, 
 
112 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 that you will come to us as soon as you can with propriety 
 leave Lady Luneham. 
 
 " Come, my dear Miss Milner, and find in your once rigid 
 monitor, a faithful confidante. I will no longer threaten to 
 disclose a secret you have trusted me with, but leave it to 
 the wisdom, or sensibility of his heart (who is now to pene- 
 trate into the hearts of our sex, in search of one that may 
 beat in unison with his own) to find the secret out. I no 
 longer condemn, but congratulate you on your passion ; and 
 will assist you with all my advice and my earnest wishes, 
 that it may obtain a return." 
 
 This letter was another of those excruciating pleasures, 
 that almost reduced Miss Milner to the grave. Her appetite 
 forsook her ; and she vainly endeavoured, for several nights, 
 to close her eyes. She thought so much upon the prospect 
 of accomplishing her hopes, that she could admit no other 
 idea ; not even invent one probable excuse for leaving Lady 
 Luneham before the appointed time, which was then at the 
 distance of two months. She wrote to Miss Woodley to beg 
 her contrivance, to reproach her for keeping the intelligence 
 so long from her, and to thank her for having revealed it in 
 so kind a manner at last. She begged also to be ac- 
 quainted how Mr. Dorriforth (for still she called him by 
 that name) spoke and thought of this sudden change in his 
 prospects. 
 
 Miss Woodley's reply was a summons for her to town 
 upon some pretended business, which she avoided explain- 
 ing, but which entirely silenced Lady Luneham's entreaties 
 for her stay. 
 
 To her question concerning Lord Elmwood she answered, 
 " It is a subject on which he seldom speaks — he appears 
 just the same he ever did, nor could you by any part of his 
 conduct conceive that any such change had taken place." 
 Miss Milner exclaimed to herself, " I am glad he is not 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. II3 
 
 altered — if his words, looks, or manners, were anything 
 different from what they formerly were, I should not like 
 him so well." And just the reverse would have been the 
 case, had Miss Woodley sent her word he was changed. 
 The day for her leaving Bath was fixed; she expected it 
 with rapture, but before its arrival, she sank under the care 
 of expectation ; and when it came, was so much indisposed 
 as to be obliged to defer her journey for a week. 
 
 At length she found herself in London — in the house of 
 her guardian — and that guardian no longer bound to a 
 single life, but enjoined to marry. He appeared in her eyes, 
 as in Miss Woodley's, the same as ever ; or perhaps more 
 endearing than ever, as it was the first time she had beheld 
 him with hope. Mr. Sandford did not appear the same ; yet 
 he was in reality as surly and as disrespectful in his be- 
 haviour to her as usual ; but she did not observe, or she did 
 not feel his morose temper as heretofore — he seemed 
 amiable, mild, and gentle; at least this was the happy 
 medium through which her self-complacent mind began to 
 see him ; for good humour, like the jaundice, makes every 
 one of its own complexion. 
 
114 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Lord Elmwood was preparing to go abroad, for the pur- 
 pose of receiving in form the dispensation from his vows ; 
 it was, however, a subject he seemed carefully to avoid 
 speaking upon ; and when by any accident he was obliged 
 to mention it, it was without any marks either of satisfaction 
 or concern. 
 
 Miss Milner's pride began to be alarmed. While he was 
 Mr. Dorriforth, and confined to a single life, his indifference 
 to her charms was rather an honourable than a reproachful 
 trait in his character, and in reality, she admired him for the 
 insensibility. But on the eve of being at liberty, and on the 
 eve of making his choice, she was offended that that choice 
 was not immediately fixed upon her. She had been accus- 
 tomed to receive the devotion of every man who saw her, 
 and not to obtain it from the man from whom, of all others, 
 she most wished it, was cruelly humiliating. She com- 
 plained to Miss Woodley, who advised her to have patience ; 
 but that was one of the virtues in which she was least 
 practised. 
 
 Nevertheless, encouraged by her friend in the commend- 
 able desire of gaining the affections of him, who possessed 
 all her own, she left no means unattempted for the con- 
 quest ; but she began with too great a certainty of success, 
 not to be sensible of the deepest mortification in the disap- 
 pointment — nay, she now anticipated disappointment, as she 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 115 
 
 had before anticipated success ; by turns feeling the keenest 
 emotions from hope and from despair. 
 
 As these passions alternately governed her, she was alter- 
 nately in spirits or dejected ; in good or in ill humour ; and 
 the vicissitudes of her prospect at length gave to her be- 
 haviour an air of caprice, which not all her follies had till 
 now produced. This was not the way to secure the affec- 
 tions of Lord Elmwood ; she knew it was not, and before 
 him she was under some restriction. Sandford observed 
 this, and without reserve, added to the list of her other fail- 
 ings, hypocrisy. It was plain to see that Mr. Sandford 
 esteemed her less and less every day ; and as he was the 
 person who most influenced the opinion of her guardian, he 
 became to her, very soon, an object not merely of dislike, 
 but of abhorrence. 
 
 These mutual sentiments were discoverable in every word 
 and action, while they were in each other's company ; but 
 still, in his absence, Miss Milner's good nature, and total 
 freedom from malice, never suffered her to utter a sentence 
 injurious to his interest. Sandford's charity did not extend 
 thus far; and speaking of her with severity one evening 
 while she was at the opera, " His meaning," as he said, 
 "but to caution her guardian against her faults," Lord 
 Elmwood replied — 
 
 " There is one fault, however, Mr. Sandford, I cannot lay 
 to her charge." 
 
 " And what is that, my Lord ? " cried Sandford, eagerly. 
 "What is that one fault, which Miss Milner has not?" 
 
 " I never," replied Lord Elmwood, "heard Miss Milner, 
 in your absence, utter a syllable to your disadvan- 
 tage." 
 
 " She dares not, my Lord, because she is in fear of you ; 
 and she knows you would not suffer it." 
 
 "She, then," answered his Lordship, "pays me a much 
 I 2 
 
Il6 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 higher compliment than you do ; for you freely censure her, 
 and yet imagine I will suffer it." 
 
 " My lord," replied Sandford, " I am undeceived now, and 
 shall never take that liberty again." 
 
 As Lord Elmwood always treated Sandford with the 
 utmost respect, he began to fear he had been deficient upon 
 this occasion ; and the disposition which had induced him 
 to take his ward's part, was likely, in the end, to prove un- 
 favourable to her; for perceiving that Sandford was 
 offended at what had passed, as the only means of atone- 
 ment, he began himself to lament her volatile and captious 
 propensities ; in which lamentation, Sandford, now forgetting 
 his affront, joined with the heartiest concurrence, adding — 
 
 " You, Sir, having at present other cares to employ your 
 thoughts, ought to insist upon her marrying, or retiring 
 wholly into the country." 
 
 She returned home just as this conversation was finished, 
 and Sandford, the moment she entered, rang for his candle 
 to retire. Miss Woodley, who had been at the opera with 
 Miss Milner, cried, — 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. Sandford, are you not well, you are going 
 to leave us so early ? " 
 
 Miss Milner, who never listened to complaints without 
 sympathy, rose immediately from the chair on which she 
 had just taken her seat, saying — 
 
 " I think I never heard you, Mr. Sandford, complain of 
 indisposition before. Will you accept of my specific for 
 the headache? Indeed it is a certain relief — I'll fetch it in- 
 stantly." 
 
 She went hastily out of the room, and returned with a 
 bottle, which, she assured him, " was a present from Lady 
 Luneham, and would certainly cure him." And she pressed 
 it upon him with such an anxious earnestness, that with all 
 his churlishness he could not refuse taking it. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 117 
 
 This was but a common-place civility, such as is paid by- 
 one enemy to another every day ; but the manner was the 
 material part. The unaffected concern, the attention, the 
 good will, she demonstrated in this little incident, was that 
 which made it remarkable ; and which immediately took 
 from Lord Elmwood the displeasure to which he had been 
 just before provoked, or rather transformed it into a degree 
 of admiration. Even Sandford was not insensible to her 
 kindness, and in return, when he left the room, " wished her 
 a good night." 
 
 To her and Miss Woodley, who had not been witnesses of 
 the preceding conversation, what she had done appeared of 
 no merit ; but to the mind of Lord Elmwood, the merit was 
 infinite ; and upon the departure of Sandford, he began to 
 be unusually cheerful. He first pleasantly reproached the 
 ladies for not offering him a place in their box at the opera. 
 
 " Would you have gone, my Lord ? " asked Miss Milner, 
 highly delighted. 
 
 " Certainly," returned he, " had you invited me." 
 
 " Then from this day I give you a general invitation ; nor 
 shall any other company be admitted but those whom you 
 approve." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you," said he. 
 
 " And you," continued she, " who have been accustomed 
 only to church-music, will be more than any one enchanted 
 with hearing the softer music of love." 
 
 " What ravishing pleasures you are preparing for me ! " 
 returned he. " I know not whether my weak senses will be 
 able to support them ! " 
 
 She had her eyes upon him when he spoke this, and she 
 discovered in his, that were fixed upon her, a sensibility 
 unexpected — a kind of fascination which enticed her to look 
 on, while her eyelids fell involuntarily before its mighty 
 force, and a thousand blushes crowded over her face. 
 
Il8 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 He was struck with these sudden signals; hastily recalled 
 his former countenance, and stopped the conversation. 
 
 Miss Woodley, who had been a silent observer for some 
 time, now thought a word or two from her would be accept- 
 able rather than troublesome. 
 
 "And pray, my Lord," said she, "when do you go to 
 France ? " 
 
 " To Italy, you mean. I shall not go at all," said he. 
 " My superiors are very indulgent, for they dispense with 
 all my duties. I ought and I meant to have gone abroad ; 
 but, as a variety of concerns require my presence in 
 England, every necessary ceremony has taken place 
 here." 
 
 " Then your Lordship is no longer in orders ? " said Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 " No ; they have been resigned these five days." 
 
 " My Lord, I give you joy," said Miss Milner. 
 
 He thanked her, but added with a sigh, " If I have given 
 up content in search of joy, I shall perhaps be a loser by 
 the venture." Soon after this, he wished them a good night, 
 and retired. 
 
 Happy as Miss Milner found herself in his company, she 
 saw him leave the room with infinite satisfaction, because 
 her heart was impatient to give loose to its hopes on the 
 bosom of Miss Woodley. She bade Mrs. Horton imme- 
 diately good night ; and, in her friend's apartment, gave way 
 to all the language of passion, warmed with the confidence 
 of meeting its return. She described the sentiments she 
 had read in Lord Elmwood's looks ; and though Miss 
 Woodley had beheld them too, Miss Milner's fancy 
 heightened the expression of every glance, till her con- 
 struction became, by degrees, so extremely favourable to her 
 own wishes, that had not her friend been likewise present, 
 and known in what measure to estimate those symptoms, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 119 
 
 she must infallibly have thought, by the joy to which 
 they gave birth, that he had openly avowed a passion for 
 her. 
 
 Miss Woodley, of course, thought it her duty to allay 
 these ecstacies, and represented to her, she might be de- 
 ceived in her hopes ; or, even supposing his wishes inclined 
 towards her, there were yet great obstacles between them. 
 " Would not Sandford, who directed his every thought and 
 purpose, be consulted upon this important one ? And if he 
 was, upon what, but the most romantic affection on the part 
 of Lord Elmwood, had Miss Milner to depend? and his 
 Lordship was not a man to be suspected of submitting to 
 the excess of any passion." Thus did Miss Woodley argue, 
 lest her friend should be misled by her hopes ; yet in her 
 own mind she scarcely harboured a doubt that anything 
 would occur to thwart them. The succeeding circumstance 
 proved she was mistaken. 
 
 Another gentleman of family and fortune made overtures 
 to Miss Milner, and her guardian, so far from having his 
 thoughts inclined towards her on his own account, pleaded 
 this lover's cause even with more zeal than he had pleaded 
 for Sir Edward and Lord Frederick ; thus at once destroy- 
 ing all those plans of happiness which poor Miss Milner 
 had formed. 
 
 In consequence, her melancholy disposition of mind was 
 now predominant. She confined herself at home, and, by 
 her own express order, was denied to all her visitors. 
 Whether this arose from pure melancholy, or the still 
 lingering hope of making her conquest, by that sedateness 
 of manners which she knew her guardian admired, she 
 herself perhaps did not perfectly know. Be that as it 
 may, Lord Elmwood could not but observe this change, 
 and one morning thought fit to mention and to ap- 
 plaud it. 
 
120 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Miss Woodley and she were at work together when he 
 came into the room ; and after sitting several minutes, 
 and talking upon indifferent subjects, to which his ward 
 replied with a dejection in her voice and manner, he 
 said — 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong, Miss Milner, but I have observed 
 that you are lately more thoughtful than usual." 
 
 She blushed, as she always did when the subject was her- 
 self. He continued — " Your health appears perfectly re- 
 stored, and yet I have observed you take no delight in your 
 former amusements." 
 
 " Are you sorry for that, my Lord ? " 
 
 " No, I am extremely glad ; and I was going to con- 
 gratulate you upon the change. But give me leave to 
 inquire, to what fortunate accident we may attribute this 
 alteration ? " 
 
 " Your Lordship, then, thinks all my commendable deeds 
 arise from accident, and that I have no virtues of my 
 own." 
 
 " Pardon me, I think you have many." This he spoke 
 emphatically, and her blushes increased. 
 
 He resumed — "How can I doubt of a lady's virtues, when 
 her countenance gives me such evident proofs of them ? 
 Believe me, Miss Milner, that in the midst of your gayest 
 follies, while you thus continue to blush, I shall reverence 
 your internal sensations." 
 
 " Oh ! my Lord, did you know some of them, I am afraid 
 you would think them unpardonable." 
 
 This was so much to the purpose, that Miss Woodley 
 found herself alarmed ; but without reason. Miss Milner 
 loved too sincerely to reveal it to the object. He an- 
 swered — 
 
 "And did you know some of mine, you might think 
 them equally unpardonable." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 121 
 
 She turned pale, and could no longer guide her needle. 
 In the fond transport of her heart she imagined that his 
 love for her was among the sensations to which he alluded. 
 She was too much embarrassed to reply, and he con- 
 tinued — 
 
 " We have all much to pardon in one another ; and I 
 know not whether the officious person who forces even his 
 good advice, is not as blamable as the obstinate one, who 
 will not listen to it. And now, having made a preface to 
 excuse you, should you once more refuse mine, I shall 
 venture to give it." 
 
 " My Lord, I have never yet refused to follow your 
 advice ; but where my own peace of mind was so nearly 
 concerned, as to have made me culpable, had I complied." 
 
 " Well, Madam, I submit to your past determinations ; 
 and shall never again oppose your inclination to remain 
 single." 
 
 The sentence, as it excluded the design of soliciting 
 for himself, gave her the utmost pain ; and her eye glanced 
 at him, full of reproach. He did not observe it, but 
 went on : — 
 
 "While you continue unmarried, it seems to have been 
 your father's intention that you should continue under 
 my immediate care ; but, as I mean for the future to 
 reside chiefly in the country, answer me candidly, Do you 
 think you could be happy there, for at least three parts of 
 the year ? " 
 
 After a short hesitation, she replied — "I have no 
 objection." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," he returned eagerly ; " for it is 
 my sincere desire to have you with me. Your welfare is 
 dear to me as my own ; and were we apart continual appre- 
 hensions would prey upon my mind." 
 
 The tear started in her eye, at the earnestness that accom- 
 
122 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 panied these words. He saw it, and to soften her still more 
 with the sense of his esteem for her, he increased his 
 earnestness, while he said — 
 
 "If you will take the resolution to quit London for the 
 length of time I mention, there shall be no means omitted 
 to make the country all you can wish. I shall insist upon 
 Miss Woodley's company for both our sakes ; and it will 
 not only be my study to form such a society as you may 
 approve, but I am certain it will be likewise the study of 
 Lady Elmwood — " 
 
 He was going on ; but as if a poniard had thrust her to 
 the heart, she writhed under this unexpected stroke. 
 
 He saw her countenance change ; he looked at her stead- 
 fastly. 
 
 It was not a common change from joy to sorrow, from 
 content to uneasiness, which Miss Milner discovered — she 
 felt and she expressed anguish. Lord Elmwood was 
 alarmed and shocked. She did not weep ; but she called 
 Miss Woodley to come to her, with a voice that indicated a 
 degree of agony. 
 
 " My Lord," cried Miss Woodley, seeing his consternation, 
 and trembling lest he should guess the secret, " My Lord, 
 Miss Milner has again deceived you ; you must not take her 
 from London. It is that, and that alone, which is the cause 
 of her uneasiness." 
 
 He seemed more amazed still, and still more shocked at 
 her duplicity than at her torture. 
 
 " Good heaven ! " exclaimed he. " How am I to accom- 
 plish her wishes ? What am I to do ? How can I 
 judge, if she will not confide in me ; but thus for ever 
 deceive me?" 
 
 She leaned, pale as death, on the shoulder of Miss 
 Woodley ; her eye fixed with apparent insensibility to all 
 that was said, while he continued — 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 23 
 
 "Heaven is my witness, if I knew, if I could conceive 
 the means to make her happy, I would sacrifice my own 
 happiness to hers." 
 
 " My Lord," said Miss Woodley, with a smile, " perhaps I 
 may call upon you hereafter to fulfil your word." 
 
 He was totally ignorant of what she meant, nor had he 
 leisure, from the confusion of his thoughts, to reflect upon 
 her meaning ; he nevertheless replied with warmth — 
 
 " Do.— You shall find I'll perform it. Do.— I will faith- 
 fully perform it. 
 
 Though Miss Milner was conscious this declaration could 
 not, in delicacy, be ever adduced against him ; yet the 
 fervent and solemn manner in which he made it cheered 
 her spirits ; and as persons enjoy the reflection of having 
 in their possession some valuable gem, though they are 
 determined never to use it, so she upon this promise was 
 comforted and grew better. She now lifted up her head, 
 and leaned it on her hand, as she sat by the side of a table. 
 Still she did not speak ; but seemed overcome with sorrow. 
 As her situation became, however, less alarming, her 
 guardian's pity and affright began to take the colour of 
 resentment ; and though he did not say so, he was, and 
 looked, highly offended. 
 
 At this juncture Mr. Sandford entered. On beholding the 
 present party, it required not his sagacity to see, at the 
 first view, that they were all uneasy ; but, instead of the 
 sympathy this might have excited in some dispositions, 
 Mr. Sandford, after casting a look at each of them, appeared 
 in high spirits. 
 
 " You seem unhappy, my Lord," said he, with a smile. 
 
 " You do not, Mr. Sandford," Lord Elmwood replied. 
 
 " No, my Lord, nor would I, were I in your situation. 
 What should make a man of sense out of temper but a 
 worthy object ! " And he looked at Miss Milner. 
 
124 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "There are no objects unworthy our care," replied Lord 
 Elmwood. 
 
 " But there are objects on whom all care is fruitless, your 
 Lordship will allow." 
 
 " I never yet despaired of any one, Mr. Sandford." 
 
 "And yet there are persons, of whom it is presumption 
 to entertain any hopes." And he looked again at Miss 
 Milner. 
 
 " Does your head ache, Miss Milner ? " asked her friend, 
 seeing her hold it with her hand. 
 
 " Very much," returned she. 
 
 " Mr Sandford," said Miss Woodley, " did you use all 
 those drops Miss Milner gave you for a pain in the head?" 
 
 " Yes," answered he, " I did." But the question at that 
 moment somewhat embarrassed him. 
 
 "And I hope you found benefit from them," said Miss 
 Milner, with great kindness, as she rose from her seat, and 
 walked slowly out of the room. 
 
 Though Miss Woodley followed her, so that Mr. Sand- 
 ford was left alone with Lord Elmwood, and might have 
 continued his unkind insinuations without one restraint, yet 
 his lips were closed for the present. He looked down on 
 the carpet, twitched himself upon his chair, and began to 
 talk of the weather. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 25 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 When the first transports of despair were past, Miss 
 Milner suffered herself to be once more in hope. She 
 found there were no other means to support her life ; and 
 to her comfort, her friend was much less severe on the 
 present occasion than she had expected. No engagement 
 between mortals was, in Miss Woodley's opinion, binding 
 like that entered into with heaven : and whatever vows 
 Lord Elmwood had possibly made to another, she justly 
 supposed that no woman's love for him equalled Miss 
 Milner's ; it was prior to all others ; that established her 
 claim, at least, to contend for success ; and in a contention, 
 what rival would not fall before her ? 
 
 It was not difficult to guess who this rival was ; or, if 
 they were a little time in suspense, Miss Woodley soon 
 arrived at the certainty, by inquiring of Mr. Sandford, who, 
 unsuspecting why she asked, readily informed her that the 
 intended Lady Elmwood was no other than Miss Fenton ; 
 and that the marriage would be solemnized as soon as the 
 mourning for the late Lord Elmwood was over. This last 
 intelligence made Miss Woodley shudder ; she repeated 
 it, however, to Miss Milner, word for word. 
 
 "Happy! happy woman!" exclaimed Miss Milner, of 
 Miss Fenton ; " she has received the first fond impulse of 
 his heart, and has had the transcendent happiness of teach- 
 ing him to love ! " 
 
 "By no means," returned Miss Woodley, finding no other 
 
126 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 suggestion likely to comfort her ; " do not suppose that 
 his marriage is the result of love ; it is no more than a 
 duty, a necessary arrangement, and this you may plainly 
 see by the wife on whom he has fixed. Miss Fenton was 
 thought a proper match for his cousin, and that same pro- 
 priety has transferred her to him." 
 
 It was easy to convince Miss Milner that all her friend 
 said was truth, for she wished it so. "And oh!" she 
 exclaimed, " could I but stimulate passion, against the cold 
 influence of propriety ! Do you think, my dear Miss Wood- 
 ley," (and she looked with such begging eyes, it was 
 impossible not to answer as she wished,) "do you think 
 it would be unjust to Miss Fenton, were I to inspire her 
 appointed husband with a passion which she may not have 
 inspired, and which I believe she cannot feel?" 
 
 Miss Woodley paused a minute, and then answered, 
 " No ; " but there was a hesitation in her manner of delivery ; 
 she did say, " No," but she looked as if she was afraid she 
 ought to have said "Yes." Miss Milner, however, did not 
 give her time to recall the word, or to alter its meaning by 
 adding others, but ran on eagerly, and declared, " As that 
 was her opinion, she would abide by it, and do all she could 
 to supplant her rival." In order, nevertheless, to justify 
 this determination, and satisfy the conscience of Miss 
 Woodley, they both concluded that Miss Fenton's heart 
 was not engaged in the intended marriage, and conse- 
 quently, that she was indifferent whether it ever took place 
 or not. 
 
 Since the death of the late Earl, she had not been in 
 town ; nor had the present Earl been near the place where 
 she resided, since the week in which her lover died ; of 
 course, nothing similar to love could have been declared 
 at so early a period ; and if it had been made known 
 later, it must only have been by letter, or by depu- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 27 
 
 tation of Mr. Sandford, who they knew had been once 
 in the country to visit her ; but how little he was 
 qualified to enforce a tender passion, was a comfortable 
 reflection. 
 
 Revived by these conjectures, of which some were true, 
 and others false, the very next day a gloom overspread 
 their bright prospects, on Mr. Sandford saying, as he entered 
 the breakfast-room — 
 
 " Miss Fenton, ladies, desired me to present her compli- 
 ments." 
 
 " Is she in town?" asked Mrs. Horton. 
 
 "She came yesterday morning," returned Sandford, "and 
 is at her brother's in Ormond Street ; my Lord and I 
 supped there last night, and that made us so late home." 
 
 Lord Elmwood entered soon after, and bowing to his 
 ward, confirmed what had been said, by telling her 
 that " Miss Fenton had charged him with her kindest 
 respects." 
 
 " How does poor Miss Fenton look ? " Mrs. Horton 
 asked Lord Elmwood. 
 
 To which question Sandford replied — " Beautiful — she 
 looks beautifully." 
 
 " She has got over her uneasiness, I suppose, then ?" said 
 Mrs. Horton; not dreaming that she was asking the question 
 before her new lover. 
 
 " Uneasy ! " replied Sandford, " uneasy at any trial 
 this world can send ! That would be highly unworthy 
 of her." 
 
 " But sometimes women do fret at such things," replied 
 Mrs. Horton, innocently. 
 
 Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner if she meant to 
 ride, this beautiful day? 
 
 While she was hesitating — 
 
 "There are different kinds of women," (said Sandford, 
 
128 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 directing his discourse to Mrs. Horton) ; " there is as much 
 difference between some women, as between good and 
 evil spirits." 
 
 Lord Elmwood asked Miss Milner again if she took 
 an airing ? 
 
 She replied, " No." 
 
 "And beauty," continued Sandford, "when endowing 
 spirits that are evil, is a mark of their greater, their more 
 extreme wickedness. Lucifer was the most beautiful of 
 all the angels in Paradise " — 
 
 " How do you know ? " said Miss Milner. 
 
 " But the beauty of Lucifer " (continued Sandford, in 
 perfect neglect and contempt of her question), "was an 
 aggravation of his guilt ; because it shewed a double share 
 of ingratitude to the Divine Creator of that beauty." 
 
 " Now you talk of angels," said Miss Milner, " I wish I 
 had wings ; and I should like to fly through the park this 
 morning." 
 
 " You would be taken for an angel in good earnest," 
 said Lord Elmwood. 
 
 Sandford was angry at this little compliment, and cried — 
 " I should think the serpent's skin would be much more 
 characteristic." 
 
 " My Lord," cried she, " does not Mr. Sandford use me 
 ill?" Vexed with other things, she felt herself extremely 
 hurt at this, and made the appeal almost in tears." 
 
 " Indeed, I think he does." And he looked at Sandford 
 as if he were displeased. 
 
 This was a triumph so agreeable to her, that she imme- 
 diately pardoned the offence ; but the offender did not 
 so easily pardon her. 
 
 "Good morning, ladies," said Lord Elmwood, rising to go 
 away. 
 
 "My Lord," said Miss Woodley, "you promised Miss 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 29 
 
 Milner to accompany her one evening to the opera ; this 
 
 is opera night." 
 
 "Will you go, my Lord?" asked Miss Milner, in a voice 
 
 so soft, that he seemed as if he wished, but could not 
 
 resist it. 
 
 " I am to dine at Mr. Fenton's to-day," he replied ; " and 
 
 if he and his sister will go, and you will allow them part of 
 
 your box, I will promise to come." 
 
 This was a condition by no means acceptable to her ; but 
 
 as she felt a desire to see him in company with his intended 
 
 bride, (for she fancied she would be able to perceive his 
 
 secret sentiments, could she once see them together) she 
 
 answered not ungraciously, "Yes, my compliments to Mr. 
 
 and Miss Fenton, and I hope they will favour me with 
 
 their company-" 
 
 " Then, Madam, if they come, you may expect me — else 
 
 not." He bowed, and left the room. 
 
 All the day was passed in anxious expectation by Miss 
 
 Milner, what would be the event of the evening ; for upon 
 her penetration that evening all her future prospects she 
 
 thought depended. If _she saw by his looks, his words, or 
 
 assiduities, that he loved Miss Fenton, she flattered herself 
 
 she- would never think of him again with hope ; but if she 
 observed him treat her with inattention or indifference, 
 she would cherish, from that moment the fondest expecta- 
 tion. Against that short evening her toilet was consulted 
 the whole day ; the alternate hope and fear which fluttered 
 in her heart, gave a more than usual brilliancy to her eyes, 
 and more than usual bloom to her complexion. But vain 
 her beauty ; vain all her care to decorate that beauty ; vain 
 her many looks to her box-door in hopes to see it open — 
 Lord Elmwood never came. 
 
 The music was discord — everything she saw was distaste- 
 ful — in a word, she was miserable. 
 
 K 
 
 
I30 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 She longed impatiently for the curtain to drop because 
 she was uneasy where she was ; yet she asked herself, 
 " Shall I be less unhappy at home ? Yes ; at home I shall 
 see Lord Elmwood, and that will be happiness. But he will 
 behold me with neglect, and that will be misery ! Ungrate- 
 ful man ! I will no longer think of him." Yet, could she 
 have thought of him without joining Miss Fenton in the same 
 idea, her anguish had been supportable ; but while she 
 painted them as lovers, the tortures of the rack are not 
 in many degrees more painful than those which she en- 
 dured. 
 
 There are but few persons who have ever felt the real pas- 
 sion of jealousy, because few have felt the real passion of 
 love; but with those who have experienced them both, 
 jealousy has not only affected the mind, but every fibre of 
 their frame; and Miss Milners every limb felt agonizing 
 torment when Miss Fenton, courted and beloved by Lord 
 Elmwood, was present to her imagination. 
 
 The moment the opera was finished she hastened down- 
 stairs, as if to fly from the sufferings she experienced. She 
 did not go into the coffee-room, though repeatedly urged 
 by Miss Woodley, but waited at the door till her carriage 
 drew up. 
 
 Piqued — heart-broken — full of resentment against the 
 object of her uneasiness, and inattentive to all that passed, 
 as she stood, a hand gently touched her own ; and the most 
 humble and insinuating voice said, " Will you permit me to 
 lead you to your carriage ? " She was awakened from her 
 reverie, and found Lord Frederick Lawnley by her side. 
 Her heart, just then melting with tenderness to another, was 
 perhaps more accessible than heretofore ; or, bursting with 
 resentment, thought this the moment to retaliate. What- 
 ever passion reigned that instant, it was favourable to the 
 desires of Lord Frederick, and she looked as if she was glad 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 131 
 
 to see him. He beheld this with the rapture and the hu- 
 mility of a lover ; and though she did not feel the least 
 particle of love in return, she felt gratitude in proportion to 
 the insensibility with which she had been treated by her 
 guardian; and Lord Frederick's supposition was not very 
 unwarrantable if he mistook this gratitude for a latent spark 
 of affection. The mistake, however, did not force him from 
 his respect. He handed her to her carriage, bowed low, and 
 disappeared. Miss Woodley wished to divert her thoughts 
 from the object which could only make her wretched, and, as 
 they rode home, by many encomiums upon Lord Frederick, 
 endeavoured to incite her to a regard for him. Miss Milner 
 was displeased at the attempt, and exclaimed — 
 
 " What ! love a rake — a man of professed gallantry ? Im- 
 possible. To me a common rake is as odious as a common 
 prostitute is to a man of the nicest feelings. Where can be 
 the joy, the pride of inspiring a passion which fifty others 
 can equally inspire ? " 
 
 " Strange," cried Miss Woodley, " that you, who possess 
 so many follies incident to your sex, should, in the disposal 
 of your heart, have sentiments so contrary to women in 
 general." '„ 
 
 " My dear Miss Woodley," returned she, " put in com- 
 petition the languid addresses of a libertine with the 
 animated affection of a sober man, and judge which has 
 the dominion. Oh ! in my calendar of love a solemn lord I 
 chief justice or a devout archbishop ranks before a licentious 
 king." 
 
 Miss Woodley smiled at an opinion which she knew half 
 her sex would ridicule; but by the air of sincerity with 
 which it was delivered she was convinced her recent be- 
 haviour to Lord Frederick was but the mere effect of 
 chance. 
 
 Lord Elmwood's carriage drove to his door just at the 
 K 2 
 
132 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 time hers did. Mr. Sandford was with him, and they were 
 both come from passing the evening at Mr. Fenton's. 
 
 " So, my lord," said Miss Woodley, as soon as they met 
 in the drawing-room, " you did not come to us ? " 
 
 " No," answered he ; "I was sorry ; but I hope you did 
 not expect me." 
 
 "Not expect you, my Lord?" cried Miss Milner. "Did 
 not you say that you would come? " 
 
 "If I had, I certainly should have come," returned he; 
 ; but I only said so conditionally." 
 
 " That I am witness to," cried Sandford ; " for I was present 
 at the time, and he said it should depend upon Miss Fenton." 
 
 "And she, with her gloomy disposition," said Miss Milner, 
 " chose to sit at home." 
 
 " Gloomy disposition ! " repeated Sandford. " She has a 
 great share of sprightliness ; and I think I never saw her in 
 better spirits than she was this evening, my Lord." 
 
 Lord Elmwood did not speak. 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. Sandford," cried Miss Milner, " I meant 
 no reflection upon Miss Fenton's disposition. I only meant 
 to censure her taste for staying at home." 
 
 " I think," replied Sandford, " a much heavier censure 
 should be passed upon those who prefer rambling abroad." 
 
 " But I hope, ladies, my not coming," said Lord Elmwood, 
 " was no inconvenience to you ; for you had still, I see, a 
 gentleman with you." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; two gentlemen," answered the son of Lady 
 Evans, a youth from school, whom Miss Milner had taken 
 along with her. 
 
 " What two ? " asked Lord Elmwood. 
 
 Neither Miss Milner nor Miss Woodley answered. 
 
 " You know, Madam," said young Evans, " that handsome 
 gentleman who handed you into your carriage, and whom 
 you called my Lord." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 33 
 
 " Oh, he means Lord Frederick Lawnley," said Miss 
 Milner, carelessly; but a blush of shame spread over her 
 face. 
 
 " And did he hand you into your coach ? " asked Lord 
 Elmwood, earnestly. 
 
 "By mere accident, my Lord," Miss Woodley replied; 
 " for the crowd was so great " 
 
 " I think, my Lord," said Sandford, " it was very lucky 
 that you were not there." 
 
 " Had Lord Elmwood been with us we should not have 
 had occasion for the assistance of any other," said Miss 
 Milner. 
 
 "Lord Elmwood has been with you, Madam," returned 
 Sandford, "very frequently, and yet — — " 
 
 " Mr. Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, interrupting him, 
 "it is near bed-time; your conversation keeps the ladies 
 from retiring." 
 
 "Your Lordship's does not," said Miss Milner; "for you 
 say nothing." 
 
 " Because, Madam, I am afraid to offend." 
 
 " But do not you also hope to please ? And without risk- 
 ing the one it is impossible to arrive at the other." 
 
 " I think, at present, the risk would be too hazardous, and 
 so I wish you a good night." And he went out of the room 
 somewhat abruptly. 
 
 " Lord Elmwood," said Miss Milner, " is very grave. He 
 does not look like a man who has been passing the evening 
 with the woman he loves." 
 
 " Perhaps he is melancholy at parting from her," said Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 " More likely offended," said Sandford, " at the manner in 
 which that lady has spoken of her." 
 
 " Who, I ? I protest I said nothing " 
 
 " Nothing ! Did not you say that she was gloomy ? " 
 
134 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Nothing but what I thought, I was going to add, Mr. 
 Sandford." 
 
 " When you think unjustly, you should not express your 
 thoughts." 
 
 " Then perhaps I should never speak." 
 
 " And it were better you did not, if what you say is to give 
 pain. Do you know, Madam, that my Lord is going to be 
 married to Miss Fenton?" 
 
 " Yes," answered Miss Milner. 
 
 "Do you know that he loves her?" 
 
 " No," answered Miss Milner. 
 
 " How ! Do you suppose he does not ? " 
 
 " I suppose that he does, yet I don't know it." 
 
 " Then, if you suppose that he does, how can you have 
 the imprudence to find fault with her in his presence ? " 
 
 "I did not. To call her gloomy was, I knew, to 
 commend her both to him and to you, who admire such 
 tempers." 
 
 " Whatever her temper is, every one admires it ; and so far 
 from its being what you have described, she has great 
 vivacity — vivacity which comes from the heart." 
 
 "No; if it came from thence I should admire it too; 
 but, if she has any, it rests there, and no one is the better 
 for it." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said Miss Woodley, " it is time for us to re- 
 tire ; you and Mr. Sandford must finish your dispute in the 
 morning." 
 
 " Dispute, Madam ! " said Sandford ; " I never disputed 
 with any one beneath a doctor of divinity in my life. I was 
 only cautioning your friend not to make light of those 
 virtues which it would do her honour to possess. Miss 
 Fenton is a most amiable young woman, and worthy of just 
 such a husband as my Lord Elmwood will make her." 
 
 " I am sure," said Miss Woodley, " Miss Milner thinks so. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 135 
 
 She has a high opinion of Miss Fenton. She was at pre- 
 sent only jesting." 
 
 "But, Madam, a jest is a very pernicious thing when 
 delivered with a malignant sneer. I have known a jest 
 destroy a lady's reputation; I have known a jest give one 
 person a distaste for another; I have known a jest break off 
 a marriage." 
 
 " But I suppose there is no apprehension of that in the 
 present case ? " said Miss Woodley, wishing he might 
 answer in the affirmative. 
 
 "Not that I can foresee. No, Heaven forbid," he re- 
 plied; "for I look upon them to be formed for each other; 
 their dispositions, their pursuits, their inclinations the same. 
 Their passions for each other just the same; pure, white as 
 snow." 
 
 "And, I dare say, not warmer," replied Miss Milner. 
 
 He looked provoked beyond measure. 
 
 "My dear," cried Miss Woodley, "how can you talk 
 thus ? I believe in my heart you are only envious because 
 my Lord Elmwood has not offered himself to you." 
 
 " To her ! " said Sandford, affecting an air of the utmost 
 surprise; "to her! Do you think he received a dispensa- 
 tion from his vows, to become the husband of a coquette — a 
 ." He was going on. 
 
 " Nay, Mr. Sandford," cried Miss Milner, " I believe, 
 after all, my worst crime, in your eyes, is that of being a 
 heretic." 
 
 "By no means — it is the only circumstance that can 
 apologize for your faults ; and if you had not that excuse, 
 there would be none for you." 
 
 " Then, at present, there is an excuse — I thank you, Mr. 
 Sandford — this is the kindest thing you ever said to me. 
 But I am vexed to see that you are sorry for having 
 said it." 
 
I36 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Angiy at your being a heretic ! " he resumed. " Indeed 
 I should be much more concerned to see you a disgrace to 
 our religion." 
 
 Miss Milner had not been in a good humour the whole 
 evening — she had been provoked several times to the full 
 extent of her patience ; but this harsh sentence hurried her 
 beyond all bounds, and she arose from her seat in the most 
 violent agitation, exclaiming, " What have I done to be thus 
 treated ? " 
 
 Though Mr. Sandford was not a man easily intimidated, 
 he was upon this occasion evidently alarmed; and stared 
 about him with so violent an expression of surprise, that it 
 partook in some degree of fear. 
 
 Miss Woodley clasped her friend in her arms, and cried 
 with the tenderest affection and pity, " My dear Miss 
 Milner, be composed." 
 
 Miss Milner sat down, and was so for a minute ; but her 
 dead silence was almost as alarming to Sandford as her rage 
 had been ; and he did not perfectly recover himself till he 
 saw tears pouring down her face. He then heaved a sigh 
 of content that all had thus ended ; but in his heart resolved 
 never to forget the ridiculous affright into which he had 
 been thrown. He stole out of the room without uttering a 
 syllable ; but as he never retired to rest before he had re- 
 peated a long form of evening prayer, — when this evening 
 he came to that part which supplicates "Grace for the 
 wicked," he took care to mention Miss Milner's name with 
 the most fervent devotion. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 37 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Of the many restless nights that Miss Milner passed, this 
 was not one. It is true she had a weight of care upon her 
 heart, even heavier than usual, but the burden had overcome 
 her strength. Wearied out with hopes, with fears, and, at 
 the end, with disappointment and rage, she sank at once 
 into a deep slumber. But the more forgetfulness had then 
 prevailed, the more powerful was the force of remembrance 
 when she awoke. At first, so sound her sleep had been, 
 that she had a difficulty in calling to mind why she was un- 
 happy ; but that she was unhappy she well recollected ; 
 when the cause came to her memory, she would have slept 
 again — but it was impossible. 
 
 Though her rest had been unbroken, it had not been re- 
 freshing — she was far from well, and sent word of her indis- 
 position, as an apology for not being present at breakfast. 
 Lord Elmwood looked concerned when the message was de- 
 livered. Mr. Sandford shook his head. 
 
 " Miss Milner's health is not good ! " said Mrs. Horton a 
 few minutes after. 
 
 Lord Elmwood laid down the newspaper to attend to 
 what she said. 
 
 "To me, there is something very extraordinary about 
 her ! " continued Mrs. Horton, finding she had caught his 
 Lordship's attention. 
 
 " So there is to me ! " added Sandford, with a sarcastic 
 sneer. 
 
I38 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " And so there is to me ! " said Miss Woodley, with a 
 serious face and a heartfelt sigh. 
 
 Lord Elmwood gazed by turns at each, as each delivered 
 their sentiments — and when they were all silent he looked 
 bewildered, not knowing what judgment to form from any 
 one of these sentences. 
 
 Soon after breakfast, Mr. Sandford withdrew to his own 
 apartment ; Mrs. Horton, in a little time, went to hers ; 
 Lord Elmwood and Miss Woodley were left alone. He im- 
 mediately rose from his seat, and said — 
 
 " I think, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner was extremely to 
 blame, though I did not choose to tell her so before Mr. 
 Sandford, in giving Lord Frederick an opportunity of speak- 
 ing to her, unless she means that he shall renew his ad- 
 dresses." 
 
 " That, I am certain," replied Miss Woodley, " she does 
 not mean — and I assure you, my Lord, seriously, it was by 
 mere accident she saw him yesterday evening, or permitted 
 his attendance upon her to her carriage." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," he returned quickly ; " for 
 although I am not of a suspicious nature, yet in regard to 
 her affection for him, I cannot but still have my doubts." 
 
 " You need have none, my Lord," replied Miss Woodley, 
 with a smile of confidence. 
 
 "And yet you must own her behaviour has warranted 
 them. Has it not been, in this particular, incoherent and 
 unaccountable ? " 
 
 " The behaviour of a person in love, no doubt," answered 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Don't I say so?" replied he warmly; "and is not that a 
 just reason for my suspicions ? " 
 
 " But is there only one man in the world on whom those 
 suspicions can fix?" said Miss Woodley, with the colour 
 mounting into her face. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 139 
 
 " Not that I know of— not one more that I know of," he 
 replied, with astonishment at what she had insinuated, and 
 yet with a perfect assurance that she was in the wrong. 
 
 " Perhaps I am mistaken," answered she. 
 
 " Nay, that is impossible too," returned he with anxiety — 
 " You share her confidence — you are perpetually with her ; 
 and for that reason, if she did not confide in you (which I 
 know, and rejoice that she does) you would yet be ac- 
 quainted with all her inclinations." 
 
 " I believe I am perfectly acquainted with them," replied 
 Miss Woodley, with a significance in her voice and manner 
 which convinced him there was some secret to learn. 
 
 After a hesitation — 
 
 " It is far from me," replied he, " to wish to be intrusted 
 with the private sentiments of those who desire to withhold 
 them from me ; much less would I take any unfair means to 
 be informed. To ask any more questions of you, I believe, 
 would be unfair. Yet I cannot but lament that I am not as 
 well instructed as you are. I wish to prove my friendship to 
 Miss Milner, but she will not suffer me — and every step that 
 I take for her happiness, I take in the most perplexing un- 
 certainty." 
 
 Miss Woodley sighed — but she did not speak. 
 
 He seemed to wait for her r^ply; but as she made 
 none, he proceeded — 
 
 " If ever breach of confidence could be tolerated, I cer- 
 tainly know no occasion that would so justly authorise it as 
 the present. I am not only proper from character, but 
 from circumstances, to be relied upon : my interest is so 
 nearly connected with the interest, and my happiness 
 with the happiness of my ward, that those principles, as 
 well as my honour, would protect her against every peril 
 arising from my being trusted." 
 
 " Oh ! my Lord," cried Miss Woodley, with a most forcible 
 
I40 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 accent, " You are the last person on earth she would pardon 
 me for intrusting with her secret." 
 
 " Why so ? " said he, warmly. " But that is the way — the 
 person who is our friend we distrust — where a common in- 
 terest is concerned, we are ashamed of drawing on a com- 
 mon danger — afraid of advice, though that advice is to 
 preserve us. Miss Woodley," said he, changing his voice 
 with excess of earnestness, " do you not believe, that I 
 would do anything to make Miss Milner happy?" 
 
 "Anything in honour, my Lord." 
 
 "She can desire nothing farther," he replied in agita- 
 tion. " Are her desires so unwarrantable, that I cannot 
 grant them ? " 
 
 Miss Woodley again did not speak — and he continued — 
 
 " Great as my friendship is, there are certainly bounds to 
 it — bounds that shall save her in spite of herself;" — and he 
 raised his voice. 
 
 "In the disposal of themselves," resumed he, with a less 
 vehement tone, "that great, that terrific disposal in mar- 
 riage, (at which I have always looked with fear and dis- 
 may) there is no accounting for the rashness of a woman's 
 choice, or sometimes for the depravity of her taste. But 
 in such a case, Miss Milner's election of a husband shall 
 not direct mine. If she does not know how to estimate 
 her own value, I do. Independent of her fortune, she has 
 beauty to captivate the heart of any man ; and with all her 
 follies, she has a frankness in her manner, an unaffected 
 wisdom in her thoughts, a vivacity in her conversation, and 
 withal, a softness in her demeanour, that might alone engage 
 the affections of a man of the nicest sentiments, and the 
 strongest understanding. I will not see all these qualities 
 and accomplishments debased. It is my office to protect 
 her from the consequences of a degrading choice, and I 
 will execute the obligation." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 141 
 
 " My Lord, Miss Milner's taste is not a depraved one ; it 
 is but too refined." 
 
 " What can you mean by that, Miss Woodley ? You talk 
 mysteriously. Is she not afraid that I will oppose her in- 
 clinations ? " 
 
 " She is sure that you will, my Lord." 
 
 " Then the person must be unworthy of her." 
 
 Miss Woodley rose from her seat — she clasped her hands 
 — every look and every gesture proved her alternate reso- 
 lution and irresolution to proceed farther. Lord Elm wood's 
 attention was arrested before ; but now it was fixed to a 
 degree of curiosity and surprise, which her extraordinary 
 manner could only have excited. 
 
 " My Lord," said she, with a tremulous voice, — " pro- 
 mise me, declare to me, nay, swear to me, that it shall 
 ever remain a secret in your own breast, and I will reveal 
 to you on whom she has placed her affections." 
 
 This preparation made Lord Elmwood tremble ; and he 
 ran over instantly in his mind all the persons he could 
 recollect, in order to arrive at the knowledge by thought, 
 quicker than by words. It was in vain he tried; and he 
 once more turned his enquiring eyes upon Miss Woodley. 
 He saw her silent and covered with confusion. Again he 
 searched his own thoughts; nor ineffectually as before. 
 At the first glance the object was presented, and he 
 beheld — himself. 
 
 The rapid emotion of varying passions which immediately 
 darted over his features informed Miss Woodley that her 
 secret was discovered. She hid her face, while the tears 
 that fell down to her bosom confirmed the truth of his 
 mind's suggestion more forcibly than oaths could have done. 
 A short interval of silence followed, during which she suf- 
 fered tortures for the manner in which he would next 
 address her. A few seconds gave her this reply: — 
 
142 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " For God's sake take care what you are doing. You are 
 destroying my prospects of futurity — you are making this 
 ~ world too dear to me." 
 
 Her drooping head was then lifted up, and she caught the 
 eye of Dorriforth. She saw it beam expectation, amaze- 
 ment, joy, ardour, and love. Nay, there was a fire, a 
 vehemence in the quick, fascinating rays it sent forth she 
 never before had seen. It filled her with alarm. She 
 wished him to love Miss Milner, but to love her with mode- 
 ration. Miss Woodley was too little versed in the subject to 
 know this would have been not to love at all ; at least, not to 
 the extent of breaking through engagements and all the 
 various obstacles that still militated against their union. 
 
 Lord Elmwood was sensible of the embarrassment his 
 presence gave Miss Woodley, and understood the re- 
 proaches which she seemed to vent upon herself in silence. 
 To relieve her from both, he laid his hand with force upon 
 his heart, and said, " Do you believe me ? " 
 
 " I do, my Lord," she answered, trembling. 
 
 " I will make no unjust use of what I know," he replied 
 with firmness. 
 
 " I believe you, my Lord." 
 
 "But for what my passions now dictate," continued he, 
 " I will not hereafter answer. They are confused — they are 
 triumphant at present. I have never yet, however, been 
 vanquished by them ; and even upon this occasion my 
 reason shall combat them to the last — and my reason shall 
 fail me before I act dishonourably." 
 
 He was going to leave the room. She followed him, and 
 cried, " But, my Lord, how shall I see again the unhappy 
 object of my treachery ? " 
 
 " See her," replied he, " as one to whom you meant no 
 injury, and to whom you have done none." 
 
 " But she would account it an injury." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 43 
 
 "We are not judges of what belongs to ourselves," he 
 replied. " I am transported at the tidings you have re- 
 vealed, and yet, perhaps, it had been better if I had never 
 heard them." 
 
 Miss Woodley was going to say something farther, but, 
 as if incapable of attending to her, he hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
144 A SIMPLE STORY 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Miss Woodley stood for some time to consider which 
 way she was to go. The first person she met would inquire 
 why she had been weeping. And if Miss Milner was to 
 ask the question, in what words could she tell, or in what 
 manner deny the truth? To avoid her was her first cau- 
 tion, and she took the only method : she had a hackney 
 coach ordered, rode several miles out of town, and returned 
 to dinner with so little remains of her swollen eyes, that 
 complaining of the headache was a sufficient excuse for 
 them. 
 
 Miss Milner was enough recovered to be present at 
 dinner, though she hardly tasted a morsel. Lord Elmwood 
 did not dine at home, at which Miss Woodley rejoiced, but 
 at which Mr. Sandford appeared highly disappointed. He 
 asked the servants several times what my Lord said when 
 he went out. They replied, " Nothing more than that he 
 should not be at home to dinner." 
 
 " I can't imagine where he dines," said Sandford. 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. Sandford, can't you guess ? " cried Mrs. 
 Horton, who by this time was made acquainted with his in- 
 tended marriage. " He dines with Miss Fenton, to be sure." 
 
 " No," replied Sandford, " he is not there. I came from 
 thence just now, and they had not seen him all day." 
 
 Poor Miss Milner on this began to eat a little; for 
 where we hope for nothing we receive small indulgences 
 with joy. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 145 
 
 Notwithstanding the anxiety and trouble under which 
 Miss Woodley had laboured all the morning, her heart for 
 many weeks had not felt so light as it did this day at 
 dinner. The confidence that she reposed in the promises 
 of Lord Elmwood, the firm reliance she had upon his deli- 
 cacy and his justice, the unabated kindness with which her 
 friend received her, while she knew that no one suspicious 
 thought had taken harbour in her bosom, and the conscious 
 integrity of her own intentions, though she might have 
 been misled by her judgment, all comforted her with the 
 hope she had done nothing she ought to wish recalled. 
 But though she felt thus tranquil in respect to what she 
 had divulged, yet she was a good deal disquieted with the 
 dread of next seeing Lord Elmwood. 
 
 Miss Milner, not having spirits to go abroad, passed the 
 evening at home. She read part of a new opera, played 
 upon her harp, mused, sighed, occasionally talked with Miss 
 Woodley, and so passed the tedious hours till near ten, when 
 Mrs. Horton asked Mr. Sandford to play a game of piquet, 
 and, on his excusing himself, Miss Milner offered in his 
 stead, and was gladly accepted. They had just begun to 
 play when Lord Elmwood came into the room. Miss 
 Milner's countenance immediately brightened, and though 
 she was in a negligent morning dress, and looked paler 
 than usual, she did not look less beautiful. Miss Woodley 
 was leaning on the back of her chair to observe the game, 
 and Mr. Sandford sat reading one of the Fathers at the 
 other side of the fire-place. Lord Elmwood, as he advanced 
 to the table, bowed, not having seen the ladies since the 
 morning, nor Miss Milner that day. They returned the 
 salute, and he was going up to Miss Milner, as if to inquire 
 of her health, when Mr. Sandford, laying down his book, 
 said — 
 
 " My Lord, where have you been all day ? " 
 
 L 
 
146 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "I have been very busy," replied he, and walking from 
 the card-table, went up to him. 
 
 Miss Milner played one card for another. 
 
 "You have been at Mr. Fenton's this evening, I sup- 
 pose?" said Sandford. 
 
 " No ; not at all to day." 
 
 " How came that about, my Lord ? " 
 
 Miss Milner played the ace of diamonds instead of the 
 king of hearts. 
 
 " I shall call to-morrow," answered Lord Elm wood ; and 
 then, walking with a very ceremonious air up to Miss 
 Milner, said he hoped she was perfectly recovered. 
 
 Mrs. Horton begged her to mind what she was about. 
 
 She replied, " I am much better, Sir." 
 
 He then returned to Sandford again; but never, during 
 all this time, did his eye once encounter Miss Woodley's, 
 and she, with equal care, avoided his. 
 
 Some cold dishes were now brought up for supper. Miss 
 Milner lost her deal, and the game ended. 
 
 As they were arranging themselves at the supper-table, 
 "Do, Miss Milner," said Mrs. Horton, "have something 
 warm for your supper — a chicken boiled, or something of 
 that kind ; you have eaten nothing to-day." 
 
 With feelings of humanity, and apparently no other sen- 
 sation— but never did he feel his philanthropy so forcible — 
 Lord Elmwood said, " Let me beg of you, Miss Milner, to 
 have something provided for you." 
 
 The earnestness and emphasis with which these few 
 words were pronounced were more flattering than the finest- 
 turned compliment would have been. Her gratitude was 
 expressed in blushes and by assuring him she was now so 
 well as to sup on the provisions before her. She spoke, 
 however, and had not made her trial ; for the moment she 
 carried a morsel to her lips she laid it on the plate again, and 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 147 
 
 turned paler from the vain endeavour to force her appetite. 
 Lord Elmwood had always been attentive to her ; but now 
 he watched her as he would a child, and when he saw by 
 her struggles that she could not eat, he took her plate from 
 her, gave her something else, and all with a care and watch- 
 fulness in his looks as if he had been a tender-hearted boy 
 and she his darling bird, the loss of which would embitter 
 all the joy of his holidays. 
 
 This attention had something in it so tender, so officious, 
 and yet so sincere, that it brought the tears into Miss Wood- 
 ley's eyes, attracted the notice of Mr. Sandford, and the 
 observation of Mrs. Horton, while the heart of Miss Milner 
 overflowed with a gratitude that gave place to no sentiment 
 except her love. 
 
 To relieve the anxiety which her guardian expressed, she 
 endeavoured to appear cheerful, and that anxiety at length 
 really made her so. He now pressed her to take one glass 
 of wine with such solicitude that he seemed to say a thou- 
 sand things besides. Sandford still made his observations, 
 and, being unused to conceal his thoughts before the pre- 
 sent company, he said bluntly — 
 
 "Miss Fenton was indisposed the other night, my 
 Lord, and you did not seem half thus anxious about 
 her." 
 
 Had Sandford laid all Lord Elmwood's estate at Miss 
 Milner's feet, or presented her with that eternal bloom 
 which adorns the face of a goddess, he would have done 
 less to endear himself to her than by this one sentence. 
 She looked at him with a most benign countenance, and 
 felt affliction that she had ever offended him. 
 
 " Miss Fenton," Lord Elmwood replied, " has a brother 
 with her. Her health and happiness are in his care — Miss 
 Milner's are in mine." 
 
 "Mr. Sandford," said Miss Milner, "I am afraid that I 
 L 2 
 
I48 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 behaved uncivilly to you last night. Will you accept of an 
 atonement ? " 
 
 " No, Madam," returned he ; "I accept no expiation with- 
 out amendment." 
 
 "Well, then," said she, smiling, "suppose I promise never 
 to offend you again, what then ? " 
 
 " Why, then you'll break your promise." 
 
 "Do not promise him," said Lord Elmwood, "for he 
 means to provoke you to it." 
 
 In the like conversation the evening passed, and Miss 
 Milner retired to rest in far better spirits than her morn- 
 ing's prospect had given her the least pretence to hope. 
 Miss Woodley, too, had cause to be well pleased ; but her 
 pleasure was in great measure eclipsed by the reflection 
 that there was such a person as Miss Fenton. She wished 
 she had been equally acquainted with hers as with Miss 
 Milner's heart, and she would then have acted without in- 
 justice to either; but Miss Fenton had of late shunned 
 their society, and even in their company was of a temper 
 too reserved ever to discover her mind. Miss Woodley was 
 obliged, therefore, to act to the best of her own judgment 
 only, and leave all events to Providence. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. I49 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 every thing, and every person, wore a new face. He was 
 the professed lover of Miss Milner — she the happiest of 
 human beings ; Miss Woodley partaking in the joy. Mr. 
 Sandford lamented, with the deepest concern, that Miss 
 Fenton had been supplanted ; and what added poignantly 
 to his concern was, that she had been supplanted by Miss 
 Milner. 
 
 Though a churchman, he bore his disappointment with 
 the impatience of one of the laity. He could hardly speak 
 to Lord Elmwood ; he would not look at Miss Milner, and 
 was displeased with every one. It was his intention, when 
 he first became acquainted with Lord Elmwood's resolution, 
 to quit his house ; and as the Earl had, with the utmost 
 degree of inflexibility, resisted all his good counsel upon this 
 subject, he resolved, in quitting him, never to be his adviser 
 again. 
 
 But in preparing to leave his friend, his pupil, his patron, 
 who, upon most occasions, had implicitly obeyed his 
 will, the spiritual got the better of the temporal man, 
 and he determined to stay, lest in totally abandoning him to 
 the pursuit of his own passions, he should make his punish- 
 ment even greater than his offence. 
 
 " My Lord," said he, " on the stormy sea, upon which you 
 are embarked, though you will not shun the rocks that your 
 faithful pilot would point out, he will, nevertheless, sail in 
 
150 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 your company, and lament over your watery grave. The 
 more you slight my advice the more you require it ; so that, 
 until you command me to leave your house (as I suppose 
 you will soon do, to oblige your lady), I will continue along 
 with you." 
 
 Lord Elmwood liked him sincerely, and was glad that he 
 took this resolution. Yet as soon as his reason and affec- 
 tions had once told him that he ought to break with Miss 
 Fenton, and marry his ward, he became so decidedly of this 
 opinion, that Sandford's never had the most trivial weight ; 
 nor would he even flatter the supposed authority he pos- 
 sessed over him, by urging him to remain in his house a 
 single day contrary to his inclinations. Sandford observed, 
 with grief, this firmness ; but finding it vain to contend, 
 submitted, not however with a good grace. 
 
 Amidst all the persons affected by this change in Lord 
 Elmwood's marriage-designs, Miss Fenton was, perhaps, 
 affected the least : she would have been content to have 
 married — she was content to live single. 
 
 Mr. Sandford had been the first who made overtures 
 to her on the part of Lord Elmwood, and was the first 
 sent to ask her to dispense with the obligation. She 
 received both of these proposals with the same insipid 
 smile of approbation, and the same cold indifference at the 
 heart. 
 
 It was a perfect knowledge of this disposition in his 
 intended wife, which had given to Lord Elmwood's thoughts 
 on matrimony, the idea of dreary winter ; but the sensibility 
 of Miss Milner had now reversed that prospect into per- 
 petual spring ; or the dearer variety of spring, summer, and 
 autumn. 
 
 It was a knowledge also of this torpor in Miss Fenton's 
 nature, from which he formed the purpose of breaking with 
 her ; for Lord Elmwood still retained enough of the sanctity 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 151 
 
 of his former state to have yielded up his own happiness, 
 and even that of his beloved ward, rather than have plunged 
 one heart into affliction by his perfidy. This, before he 
 offered his hand to Miss Milner, he was perfectly convinced 
 would not be the case. Even Miss Fenton herself assured 
 him, that her thoughts were more upon the joys of heaven 
 than upon those of earth ; and as this circumstance would, 
 she believed, induce her to retire into a convent, she con- 
 sidered it a happy, rather than an unhappy, event. Her 
 brother, on whom her fortune devolved if she took this holy 
 resolution, was exactly of her opinion. 
 
 Lost in the maze of happiness that surrounded her, Miss 
 Milner oftentimes asked her heart, and her heart whispered 
 like a flatterer, " Yes." " Are not my charms even more in- 
 vincible than I ever believed them to be ? Dorriforth, the 
 grave, the pious, the anchorite Dorriforth, by their force, is 
 animated to all the ardour of the most impassioned lover, 
 while the proud priest, the austere guardian, is humbled, if 
 I but frown, into the veriest slave of love." 
 
 She then asked. "Why did I not keep him longer in 
 suspense ? He could not have loved me more, I believe ; 
 butjiiy power over him might have been greater still. I am 
 the happiest of women in the affection he has proved to me, 
 but I wonder whether it would exist under ill-treatment ? If 
 it would not, he still does not love me as I wish to be 
 loved. If it would, my triumph, my felicity, would be en- 
 hanced." 
 
 These thoughts were mere phantoms of the brain, and 
 never, by system, put into action ; but, repeatedly indulged, 
 they were practised by casual occurrences, and the dear- 
 bought experiment of being loved in spite of her faults (a 
 glory proud women ever aspire to) was, at present, the 
 ambition of Miss Milner. 
 
 Unthinking woman ! she did not reflect, that to the 
 
152 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 searching eye of Lord Elmwood, she had faults, with her 
 utmost care to conceal or overcome them, sufficient to try- 
 all his love, and all his patience. But what female is not 
 fond of experiments ? To which, how few there are, that do 
 not fall a sacrifice ! 
 
 Perfectly secure in the affections of the man she loved, 
 her declining health no longer threatened her. Her de- 
 clining spirits returned as before, and the suspicions of her 
 guardian being now changed to the liberal confidence of a 
 doting lover, she again professed all her former follies, all 
 her fashionable levities, and indulged them with less restraint 
 than ever. 
 
 For awhile, blinded by his passion, Lord Elmwood en- 
 couraged and admired every new proof of her restored 
 happiness ; nor, till sufferance had tempted her beyond her 
 usual bounds, did he remonstrate. 
 
 But she who, as his ward, had been ever gentle, and 
 (when he strenuously opposed) always obedient, became, as 
 a mistress, sometimes haughty, and, to opposition, always 
 insolent. 
 
 He was surprised, but the novelty pleased him ; and 
 Miss Milner, whom he tenderly loved, could put on no 
 change, or appear in no new character, that did not, for the 
 time she adopted it, seem to become her. 
 
 Among the many causes of complaint which she gave 
 him, want of economy in the disposal of her income was 
 one. Bills and drafts came upon him without number, 
 while the account, on her part, of money expended, 
 amounted chiefly to articles of dress that she sometimes 
 never wore ; toys that were out of fashion before they 
 were paid for, and charities directed by the force of 
 whim. 
 
 Another complaint was, as usual, extreme late hours, and 
 often company that he did not approve. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 53 
 
 She was charmed to see his love struggling with his 
 censure ; his politeness with his anxiety ; and by the light, 
 frivolous, or resentful manner in which she treated his 
 admonitions, she triumphed in shewing to Miss Woodley, 
 and more especially to Mr. Sandford, how much she dared 
 upon the strength of his affections. 
 
 Everything being in preparation for their marriage, which was 
 to take place at Elmwood House during the summer months, 
 she resolved for the short time she had to remain in London 
 to let no occasion pass of tasting all those pleasures that were 
 not likely ever to return ; but which, though eager as she 
 was in their pursuit, she never placed in competition with 
 those she hoped would succeed — those more sedate and 
 superior joys of domestic and conjugal happiness. Often, 
 merely to hasten on the tedious hours that intervened, she 
 varied and diverted them, with the many recreations her 
 intended husband could not approve. 
 
 It so happened, and it was unfortunate it did, that a law- 
 suit concerning some possessions in the West Indies, and 
 other intricate affairs that came with his title and estate, 
 frequently kept Lord Elmwood from his house part of the 
 day, sometimes the whole evening; and when at home, 
 would often closet him for hours with his lawyers. 
 
 But while he was thus off his guard, Sandford never was 
 so, and had Miss Milner been the dearest thing on earth 
 to him, he could not have watched her more vigilantly ; or 
 had she been the frailest thing on earth, he could not have 
 been more hard upon her, in all the accounts of her conduct 
 he gave to her guardian. 
 
 Lord Elmwood knew, on the other hand, that Sandford's 
 failing was to think ill of Miss Milner. He pitied him 
 for it, and he pitied her for it ; and in all the aggravation 
 which his representations gave to her real follies, affec- 
 tion for them both, in the heart of Dorriforth, stood 
 
154 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 between accusation and every other unfavourable im- 
 pression. 
 
 But facts are glaring ; and he, at length, beheld those 
 faults in their true colours, though previously pointed out by 
 the prejudice of Mr. Sandford. 
 
 As soon as Sandford perceived his friend's confutation 
 and uneasiness — " There, my Lord ! " cried he, exultingly, 
 "did I not always say the marriage was an improper 
 one? But you would not be ruled — you would not 
 see." 
 
 " Can you blame me for not seeing," replied his Lord- 
 ship, " when you were blind ? Had you been dispassionate, 
 had you seen Miss Milner's virtues as well as her faults, I 
 should have believed and been guided by you ; but you 
 saw her failings only, and therein have been equally 
 deceived with me, who have only beheld her perfections." 
 
 " My observations, however, my Lord, would have been 
 of most use to you ; for I have seen what to avoid." 
 
 "But mine have been the most gratifying," replied he, 
 " for I have seen — what I must always love." 
 
 Sandford sighed, and lifted up his hands. 
 
 "Mr. Sandford," resumed Lord Elmwood, with a voice 
 and manner such as were usual to him when not all the 
 power of Sandford, or of any other, could change his fixed 
 determination ; " Mr. Sandford, my eyes are now open to 
 every failing, as well as to every accomplishment ; to every 
 vice, as well as to every virtue, of Miss Milner ; nor will 
 I suffer myself to be again prepossessed in her favour, 
 by your prejudice against her ; for I believe it was com- 
 passion at your unkind treatment that first gained her my 
 heart." 
 
 " I, my Lord ? " cried Sandford ; " do not load me with the 
 burthen — with the mighty burthen of your love for her." 
 
 " Do not interrupt me. Whatever your meaning has 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 155 
 
 been, the effect of it is what I have described. Now I 
 will no longer," continued he, "have an enemy, such as 
 you have been, to heighten her charms, which are too 
 transcendent in their native state. I will hear no more 
 complaints against her, but I will watch her closely my- 
 self—and if I find her mind and heart (such as my 
 suspicions have of late whispered) too frivolous for that 
 substantial happiness I look for with an object so beloved, 
 depend upon my word — the marriage shall yet be broken 
 off." 
 
 " I depend upon your word, it will then, " replied Sand- 
 ford, eagerly. 
 
 "You are unjust, Sir, in saying so before the trial," 
 replied Lord Elmwood, "and your injustice shall make me 
 more cautious, lest I follow your example." 
 
 " But, my Lord " 
 
 "My mind is made up, Mr. Sandford," returned he, in- 
 terrupting him — " I am no longer engaged to Miss Milner 
 than she shall deserve I should be — but, in my strict ob- 
 servations upon her conduct, I will take care not to wrong 
 her as you have done." 
 
 " My Lord, call my observations wrong, when you have 
 reflected upon them as a man, and not as a lover — divest 
 yourself of your passion, and meet me upon equal ground." 
 
 " I will meet no one — I will consult no one — my own 
 judgment shall be the judge, and in a few months shall 
 marry me to her, or — banish me from her for ever." 
 
 There was something in these last words, in the tone 
 and firmness with which they were delivered, that the heart 
 of Sandford rested upon with content — they bore the 
 symptoms of a menace that would be executed; and he 
 parted from his patron with congratulations upon his 
 wisdom, and with giving him the warmest assurances of 
 his firm reliance on his word, l 
 
I56 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Lord Elmwood having come to this resolution, was more 
 composed than he had been for several days before ; while 
 the horror of domestic wrangles — a family without subor- 
 dination — a house without economy — in a word, a wife 
 without discretion, had been perpetually present to his 
 mind. 
 
 Mr. Sandford, although he was a man of understanding, 
 of learning, and a complete casuist, yet all the faults he 
 committed were entirely — for the want of knowing better. 
 He constantly reproved faults in others, and he was most 
 assuredly too good a man not to have corrected and 
 amended his own, had they been known to him — but they 
 were not. He had been for so long a time the spiritual 
 superior of all with whom he lived, had been so busied with 
 instructing others, that he had not once recollected that 
 he himself wanted instruction ; and in such awe did his 
 habitual severity keep all about him, that although he had 
 numerous friends, not one told him of his failings — except 
 just now Lord Elmwood, but whom, in this instance, as a 
 man in love, he would not credit. Was there not then 
 some reason for him to suppose he had no faults? — his 
 enemies, indeed, hinted that he had, but enemies he never 
 hearkened to ; and thus, with all his good sense, wanted the 
 sense to follow the rule, Believe what your ejiemies say of 
 you, rather than what is said by your friends. For could 
 an enemy, to whom he would have listened, have whispered 
 to Sandford as he left Lord Elmwood, "cruel, barbarous 
 man ! you go away with your heart satisfied, nay, even 
 elated, in the prospect that Miss Milner's hopes, on which 
 she alone exists, those hopes which keep her from the 
 deepest affliction, and cherish her with joy and gladness, 
 will all be disappointed. You flatter yourself it is for the 
 sake of your friend, Lord Elmwood, that you rejoice, and 
 because he has escaped a peril. You wish him well; but 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 157 
 
 there is another cause for your exultation which you will not 
 seek to know — it is, that in his safety shall dwell the punish- 
 ment of his ward. For shame ! for shame ! forgive her 
 faults, as this of yours requires to be forgiven." 
 
 Had any one said this to Sandford, whom he would have 
 credited, or had his own heart suggested it, he was a man 
 of that rectitude and conscientiousness, that he would 
 have returned immediately to Lord Elmwood, and have 
 strengthened all his favourable opinions of his intended 
 wife — but having no such monitor, he walked on, highly 
 contented, and meeting Miss Woodley, said, with an air of 
 triumph — 
 
 "Where is your friend? — where's Lady Elmwood?" 
 
 Miss Woodley smiled and answered — she was gone with 
 such and such ladies to an auction. " But why give her that 
 title already, Mr. Sandford ? " 
 
 " Because," answered he, " I think she will never have 
 it." 
 
 "Bless me, Mr. Sandford," said Miss Woodley, "you 
 shock me ! " 
 
 " I thought I should," replied he, " and therefore I told it 
 you." 
 
 " For heaven's sake what has happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing new — her indiscretions only." 
 
 " I know she is imprudent," said Miss Woodley — " I can 
 see that her conduct is often exceptionable — but then Lord 
 Elmwood surely loves her, and love will overlook a great 
 deal." 
 
 " He does love her — but he has understanding and resolu- 
 tion. He loved his sister, too, tenderly loved her, and yet 
 when he had taken the resolution, and passed his word 
 that he would never see her again, — even upon her death- 
 bed he would not retract it, — no entreaties could prevail 
 upon him. And now, though he maintains, and I daresay 
 
I58 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 loves, her child, yet you remember, when you brought 
 him home, that he would not suffer him in his sight." 
 
 " Poor Miss Milner ! " said Miss Woodley, in the most 
 pitying accents. 
 
 "Nay," said Sandford, "Lord Elmwood has not yet 
 passed his word that he will never see her more — he has 
 only threatened to do it; but I know enough of him, to 
 know that his threats are generally the same as if they 
 were performed." 
 
 "You are very good," said Miss Woodley, "to acquaint 
 me of this in time — I may now warn Miss Milner of it, 
 and she may observe more circumspection." 
 
 "By no means," cried Sandford, hastily — "What would 
 you warn her for? — it would do her no good — besides," 
 added he, " I don't know whether Lord Elmwood does 
 not expect secrecy on my part ; and if he does " 
 
 "But with all deference to your opinion," said Miss 
 Woodley, (and with all deference did she speak) "don't 
 you think, Mr. Sandford, that secrecy upon this occasion 
 would be criminal ? For consider the anguish that it may 
 occasion to my friend; and if, by advising her, we can 
 save her from " She was proceeding. 
 
 " You may call it criminal, Madam, not to inform her of 
 what I have hinted at," cried he ; " but I call it a breach of 
 confidence — if it was divulged to me in confidence " 
 
 He was going to explain; but Miss Milner entered, and 
 put an end to the discourse. She had been passing the 
 whole morning at an auction, and had laid out near two 
 hundred pounds in different things for which she had no 
 one use, but bought them because they were said to be 
 cheap — amongst the rest was a lot of books upon chemistry, 
 and some Latin authors. 
 
 " Why, Madam," cried Sandford, looking over the cata- 
 logue where her purchases were marked by a pencil, "do 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 59 
 
 you know what you have done? You can't read a word 
 of these books." 
 
 " Can't I, Mr. Sandford ? But I assure you that you 
 will be very much pleased with them, when you see how 
 elegantly they are bound." 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Horton, "why have you bought 
 china ? You and my Lord Elmwood have more now than 
 you have places to put them in." 
 
 "Very true, Mrs. Horton — I forgot that — but then you 
 know I can give these away." 
 
 Lord Elmwood was in the room at the conclusion of 
 this conversation — he shook his head and sighed. 
 
 " My Lord," said she, " I have had a very agreeable 
 morning ; but I wished for you ; if you had been with me 
 I should have bought a great many other things ; but I 
 did not like to appear unreasonable in your absence." 
 
 Sandford fixed his inquisitive eyes upon Lord Elmwood, 
 to observe his countenance — he smiled, but appeared 
 thoughtful. 
 
 " And, oh ! my Lord, I have bought you a present," 
 said she. 
 
 " I do not wish for a present, Miss Milner." 
 
 " What ! not from me ? Very well." 
 
 " If you present me with yourself, it is all that I ask." 
 
 Sandford moved upon his chair as if he sat uneasy. 
 
 "Why then, Miss Woodley," said Miss Milner, "you 
 shall have the present. But then it won't suit you — it is 
 for a gentleman. I'll keep it and give it to my Lord 
 Frederick the first time I meet with him. I saw him 
 this morning, and he looked divinely — I longed to speak 
 to him." 
 
 Miss Woodley cast by stealth, an eye of apprehension 
 upon Lord Elmwood's face, and trembled at seeing it 
 flushed with resentment. 
 
l6o A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Sandford stared with both his eyes full upon him ; then 
 drew himself upright on his chair, and took a pinch of snuff 
 upon the strength of the earl's uneasiness. 
 
 A silence ensued. 
 
 After a short time — "You all appear melancholy," said 
 Miss Milner ; " I wish I had not come home yet." 
 
 Miss Woodley was in agony — she saw Lord Elmwood's 
 extreme displeasure, and dreaded lest he should express it 
 by some words he could not recall, or she could not forgive 
 — therefore, whispering to her she had something particular 
 to say, she took her out of the room. 
 
 The moment she was gone, Mr. Sandford rose nimbly 
 from his seat, rubbed his hands, walked briskly across the 
 room, then asked Lord Elmwood in a cheerful tone, 
 " Whether he dined at home to-day ? " 
 
 That which had given Sandford cheerfulness, had so de- 
 pressed Lord Elmwood, that he sat dejected and silent. At 
 length he answered in a faint voice, " No, I believe I shall 
 not dine at home." 
 
 "Where is your Lordship going to dine? asked Mrs. 
 Horton ; " I thought we should have had your company to- 
 day ; Miss Milner dines at home, I believe." 
 
 " I have not yet determined where I shall dine," replied 
 he, taking no notice of the conclusion of her speech. 
 
 "My Lord, if you mean to go to the hotel, I'll go with 
 you, if you please," cried Sandford officiously. 
 
 "With all my heart, Sandford," and they both went out 
 together, before Miss Milner returned to the apartment. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. l6l 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Miss Woodley, for the first time, disobeyed the will of 
 Mr. Sandford; and as soon as Miss Milner and she were 
 alone, repeated all he had revealed to her; accompanying 
 the recital with her usual testimonies of sympathy and 
 affection. But had the genius of Sandford presided over 
 this discovery, it could not have influenced the mind of 
 Miss Milner to receive the intelligence with a temper more 
 exactly the opposite of that which it was the intention of 
 the informant to recommend. Instead of shuddering at 
 the menace Lord Elmwood had uttered, she said, she 
 "dared him to perform it. He dares not," repeated she. 
 
 " Why dares not?" said Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Because he loves me too well; because his own happi- 
 ness is too dear to him." 
 
 " I believe he loves you," replied Miss Woodley, " and 
 yet there is a doubt if " 
 
 " There shall be no .longer a doubt," cried Miss Milner ; 
 " I'll put him to the proof." 
 
 " For shame, my dear ! you talk inconsiderately : what 
 can you mean by proof? " 
 
 " I mean I will do something that no prudent man ought 
 to forgive ; and yet, with all his vast share of prudence, 
 he shall forgive it, and make a sacrifice of just resentment 
 to partial affection." 
 
 " But if you should be disappointed, and he should not 
 make the sacrifice ? " said Miss Woodley. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 A SIMPLE STORY 
 
 "Then I have only lost a man who had no regard for 
 me." 
 
 " He may have a great regard for you, notwithstanding." 
 
 "But for the love I have felt, and do still feel, for my 
 Lord Elmwood, I will have something more than a great 
 regard in return." 
 
 " You have his love, I am sure." 
 
 " But is it such as mine ? I could love him if he had a 
 thousand faults. And yet," said she, recollecting herself, 
 " and yet, I believe his being faultless, was the first cause 
 of my passion." 
 
 Thus she talked on, sometimes in anger, sometimes appa- 
 rently in jest, till her servant came to let her know the dinner 
 was served. Upon entering the dining-room, and seeing 
 Lord Elmwood's place at table vacant, she started back. 
 She was disappointed of the pleasure she expected in dining 
 with him; and his sudden absence, so immediately after 
 the intelligence that she had received from Miss Woodley, 
 increased her disquietude. She drew her chair, and sat 
 down with an indifference that predicted she would not 
 eat ; and as soon as she was seated, she placed her fingers 
 sullenly upon her lips, nor touched her knife and fork, nor 
 spoke a word in reply to anything that was said to her 
 during the whole dinner. Miss Woodley and Mrs. Horton 
 were both too well acquainted with the good disposition 
 of her heart, to take offence, or appear to notice this be- 
 haviour. They dined, and said nothing either to provoke 
 or soothe her. Just as the dinner was going to be removed, 
 a loud rap came at the door. "Who is that?" said Mrs. 
 Horton. One of the servants went to the window, and 
 answered, " My Lord and Mr. Sandford, Madam." 
 " Come back to dinner, as I live," cried Mrs. Horton. 
 Miss Milner continued her position and said nothing; 
 but at the corners of her mouth, which her fingers did not 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 63 
 
 entirely conceal, there were discoverable a thousand dimpled 
 graces like small convulsive fibres, which a restrained smile 
 upon Lord Elmwood's return had sent there. 
 
 Lord Elmwood and Sandford entered. 
 
 " I am glad you are returned, my Lord," said Mrs. 
 Horton, "for Miss Milner has not tasted of one thing?" 
 
 " It was only because I had no appetite," returned she, 
 blushing like crimson. 
 
 "We should not have come back," said Sandford, "but 
 at the place where we went to dine, all the rooms were 
 filled with company." 
 
 Lord Elmwood put the wing of a fowl on Miss Milner's 
 plate, but without previously asking if she chose any; 
 yet she condescended to eat ; they spoke to each other, too, 
 in the course of conversation, but it was with a reserve that 
 appeared as if they had been quarrelling, and felt so to 
 themselves, though no such circumstance had happened. 
 
 Two weeks passed away in this kind of distant behaviour 
 on both sides, without either of them venturing a direct 
 quarrel, and without either of them expressing (except in- 
 advertently) their strong affection for each other. 
 
 During this time they were once, however, very near 
 becoming the dearest friends in expression, as well as in 
 sentiment. This arose from a favour that he granted, in 
 compliance with her desire, though that desire had not 
 been urged, but merely insinuated ; and as it was a favour 
 which he had refused to the repeated requests of many 
 of his friends, the value of the obligation was heightened. 
 
 She and Miss Woodley had taken an airing to see the 
 poor child, young Rushbrook. Lord Elmwood inquiring of 
 the ladies how they had passed the morning, Miss Milner 
 frankly told him ; and added, what pain it gave her to 
 leave the child behind, as he had again cried to come 
 away with her. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Go for him, then, to-morrow," said Lord Elm wood, " and 
 bring him home." 
 
 " Home ! " she repeated, with surprise. 
 
 "Yes," replied he, "if you desire it, this shall be his 
 home ; you shall be a mother, and I will, henceforward, be a 
 father to him." 
 
 Sandford, who was present, looked unusually sour at this 
 high token of regard for Miss Milner ; yet, with resent- 
 ment on his face, he wiped a tear of joy from his eye, for 
 the boy's sake. His frown was the force of prejudice, his tear 
 the force of nature. 
 
 Rushbrook was brought home ; and whenever Lord 
 Elmwood wished to shew a kindness to Miss Milner, with- 
 out directing it immediately to her, he took his nephew 
 upon his knee, talked to him, and told him, he " was glad 
 they had become acquainted." 
 
 In the various, though delicate, struggles for power 
 
 between Miss Milner and her guardian, there was not one 
 
 person a witness to these incidents, who did not suppose, 
 
 that all would at last end in wedlock ; for the most common 
 
 \ '\ty t 
 
 observer perceived that ardent love was the foundation of 
 
 every discontent, as well as of every joy they experienced. 
 One great incident, however, totally reversed the hope of all 
 future accommodation. 
 
 The fashionable Lady G gave a masked ball ; tickets 
 
 were presented to persons of quality and fashion ; among 
 the rest, three were sent to Miss Milner. She had never 
 been at a masquerade, and received them with ecstasy — the 
 more especially as, the masque being at the house of a 
 woman of fashion, she did not conceive there could be any 
 objection to her going. She was mistaken ; the moment 
 she mentioned it to Lord Elmwood, he desired her, some- 
 what sternly, "Not to think of being there." She was 
 vexed at the prohibition, but more at the manner in which 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 65 
 
 it was delivered, and boldly said that she should certainly 
 
 go- 
 She expected a rebuke for this ; but, what alarmed her 
 much more, he said not a word ; but he looked with a 
 resignation which foreboded her greater sorrow than the 
 severest reproaches would have done. She sat for a minute, 
 reflecting how to rouse him from this composure ; she first 
 thought of attacking him with upbraidings ; then she 
 thought of soothing him, and at last of laughing at him. 
 This was the most dangerous method of all, and yet, this 
 she ventured upon. 
 
 " I am sure, your Lordship," said she, " with all your 
 saintliness, can have no objection to my being present at 
 the masquerade, if I go as a nun." 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 " That is a habit," continued she, " which covers a multi- 
 tude of faults ; and, for that evening, I may have the chance 
 of making a conquest even of you — nay, I question not, 
 if, under that inviting attire, even the pious Mr. Sandford 
 would not ogle me." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Why hush?" cried Miss Milner, aloud, though Miss 
 Woodley had spoken in a whisper. " I am sure," continued 
 she, " I am only repeating what I have read in books about 
 nuns and their confessors." 
 
 "Your conduct, Miss Milner," replied Lord Elmwood, 
 "gives evident proofs of the authors you have read ; you 
 may spare yourself the trouble of quoting them." 
 
 Her pride was hurt at this, beyond bearing ; and as she 
 could not, like him, govern her anger, it flushed in her face, 
 and almost forced her to tears. 
 
 " My Lord," said Miss Woodley, (in a tone so soft and 
 peaceful, that it might have calmed the resentment of 
 both,) "my Lord, suppose you were to accompany Miss 
 
1 66 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Milner ? there are tickets for three, and you can then have 
 no objection." 
 
 Miss Milner's brow was immediately smoothed ; and 
 she fetched a sigh, in anxious expectation that he would 
 consent. 
 
 " / go, Miss Woodley ? " he replied, with astonishment. 
 "Do you imagine I would play the buffoon at a mas- 
 querade ? " 
 
 Miss Milner's face changed to its former appearance. 
 
 " I have seen grave characters there, my Lord," said 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Dear Miss Woodley," cried Miss Milner, "why persuade 
 Lord Elmwood to put on a mask, just at the time he has 
 laid it aside ? " 
 
 His patience was now tempted to its height, and he 
 answered, " If you suspect me of inconsistency, Madam, you 
 shall find me changed." 
 
 Pleased that she had been able at last to irritate him, 
 she smiled with a degree of triumph, and in that humour 
 was going to reply ; but before she could speak four 
 words, and before she thought of it, he abruptly left the 
 room. 
 
 She was highly offended at this insult, and declared, 
 "from that moment she banished him from her heart for 
 ever." To prove that she set his love and his anger at 
 equal defiance, she immediately ordered her carriage, and 
 said, she "was going to some of her acquaintance, whom 
 she knew to have tickets, and with whom she would fix 
 upon the habit she was to appear in at the masquerade ; 
 for nothing, unless she was locked up, should alter the 
 resolution she had formed of being there." To remonstrate 
 at that moment, Miss Woodley knew would be in vain. 
 Her coach came to the door, and she drove away. 
 
 She did not return to dinner, nor till it was late in the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 167 
 
 evening. Lord Elm wood was at home ; but he never once 
 mentioned her name. 
 
 She came home, after he had retired, in great spirits ; and 
 then, for the first time in her whole life, appeared careless 
 what he might think of her conduct : but her whole 
 thoughts were occupied upon the business which had em- 
 ployed the chief part of her day, and her dress engrossed all 
 her conversation, as soon as Miss Woodley and she were 
 alone. She told her she had been shewn the greatest 
 variety of beautiful and becoming dresses she had ever 
 beheld; "and yet, 55 said she, "I have at last fixed upon a 
 very 7 plain one : but one I look so well in that you will 
 hardly know me when I have it on. ; ' 
 
 " You are seriously, then, resolved to go," said Miss 
 Woodley, "if you hear no more on the subject from your 
 guardian ? " 
 
 " Whether I do hear or not, Miss Woodley, I am equally 
 resolved to go." 
 
 " But you know, my dear, he has desired you not ; and 
 you used always to obey his commands." 
 
 " As my guardian, I certainly did obey him ; and I 
 could obey him as a husband ; but as a lover I will 
 not." 
 
 " Yet that is the way never to have him for a hus- 
 band," 
 
 "As he pleases; for if he will not submit to be my 
 -lover, I will not submit to be his wife ; nor has he the 
 affection that I require in a husband." 
 
 Thus the old sentiments, repeated again and again, pre- 
 vented a separation till towards morning. 
 
 Miss Milner, for that night, dreamed less of her guardian 
 than of the masquerade. On the evening of the next day 
 it was to be. She was up early, breakfasted in her dressing- 
 room, and remained there most of the day, busied in a 
 
1 68 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 thousand preparations for the night ; one of them was to 
 arrange her hair in falling ringlets. Her next care was that 
 her dress should display her fine person to the best advan- 
 tage. It did so. 
 
 Miss Woodley entered as it was trying on, and was all 
 astonishment at the elegance of the habit, and its beautiful 
 effect upon her graceful figure ; but, most of all, she was 
 astonished at her venturing on such a character ; for though 
 it represented the goddess of Chastity, yet from the buskins 
 and the petticoat festooned far above the ankle, it had, on a 
 first glance, the appearance of a female much less virtuous. 
 Miss Woodley admired this dress, yet objected to it ; 
 but as she admired first, her objections after had no 
 weight. 
 
 " Where is Lord Elmwood ? " said Miss Milner ; " he 
 must not see me." 
 
 " No, for Heaven's sake," cried Miss Woodley ; " I 
 would not have him see you in such a disguise for the 
 universe." 
 
 " And yet," returned the other with a sigh, " why am I 
 then thus pleased with my dress ? for I had rather he should 
 admire me than all the world besides, and yet he alone 
 must not see me in it." 
 
 "But he would not admire you so dressed," said Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 " How shall I contrive to avoid him," said Miss Milner, 
 "if in the evening he should offer to hand me into my 
 carriage? But I believe he will not be in good humour 
 enough to do that." 
 
 "You had better dress at the house of the ladies with 
 whom you go," said Miss Woodley ; and this was agreed 
 upon. 
 
 At dinner they learnt that Lord Elmwood was to go that 
 evening to Windsor, in order to be in readiness for the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 69 
 
 King's hunt early in the morning. This intelligence having 
 dispersed Miss Milner's fears, she concluded upon dressing 
 at home. 
 
 Lord Elmwood appeared at dinner in an even, but not 
 in a good temper. The subject of the masquerade was 
 never mentioned, nor indeed was it once in his thoughts; 
 for though he was offended at his ward's behaviour on 
 the occasion, and considered that she committed a fault 
 in telling him " she would go," yet he never suspected 
 she meant to do so, not even at the time she said she 
 did ; much less that she would persist, coolly and de- 
 liberately, in so direct a contradiction to his will. 
 
 She, on her part, flattered herself that his going to 
 Windsor was intended in order to give her an opportunity 
 of passing the evening as she pleased, without his being 
 obliged to know of it, and consequently to complain. 
 
 Miss Woodley, who was willing to hope as she wished, 
 began to be of the same opinion ; and, without reluctance, 
 dressed herself as a wood - nymph to accompany her 
 friend. 
 
170 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 At half after eleven, Miss Milner's chair, and another 
 with Miss Woodley, took them from Lord Elmwood's to 
 call upon the party (wood-nymphs and huntresses) who 
 were to accompany them, and make up the suite of 
 Diana. 
 
 They had not left the house two minutes, when a thunder- 
 ing rap came at the door: it was Lord Elmwood in a 
 post-chaise. Upon some occasion the next day's hunt had 
 been deferred. He had been made acquainted with it, and 
 came from Windsor at that late hour. 
 
 After he had informed Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford, 
 who were sitting together, of the cause of his sudden 
 return, and had some supper ordered to be brought in 
 for him, he inquired — "What company had been supping 
 there?" 
 
 " We have been alone the whole evening, my Lord," re- 
 plied Mrs. Horton. 
 
 " Nay," returned he, " I saw two chairs, with several 
 servants, come out of the door as I drove up, but what 
 livery I could not discern." 
 
 " We have had no creature here," repeated Mrs. 
 Horton. 
 
 " Nor has Miss Milner had visitors?" asked he. 
 
 This brought Mrs. Horton to her recollection, and she 
 
 cried, " Oh ! now I know " and then checked herself, 
 
 as if she knew too much. 
 
 " What do you know, Madam ? " said he, sharply. 
 
 " Nothing," said Mrs. Horton, " I know nothing," and 
 she lifted up her hands and shook her head. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 171 
 
 " So all people say, who know a great deal," cried 
 Sandford, " and I suspect that is at present your case." 
 
 " Then I know more than I wish, I am sure, Mr. Sand- 
 ford," returned she, shrugging up her shoulders. 
 
 Lord Elmwood was all impatience. 
 
 " Explain, Madam, explain." 
 
 "Dear, my Lord," said she, "if your Lordship will 
 recollect, you may just have the same knowledge that I 
 have." 
 
 " Recollect what ! " said he, sternly. 
 
 " The quarrel you and your ward had about the 
 masquerade." 
 
 " What of that? She is not gone there?" he cried. 
 
 " I am not sure she is," returned Mrs. Horton ; " but if 
 your Lordship saw two sedan chairs going out of this 
 house, I cannot but suspect it must be Miss Milner and my 
 niece going to the masquerade." 
 
 He made no answer, but rang the bell violently. A 
 servant entered. 
 
 " Send Miss Milner's maid hither," said he, " imme- 
 diately." The man withdrew. 
 
 " Nay, my Lord," cried Mrs. Horton, " any of the other 
 servants could tell you just as well, whether Miss Milner 
 is at home or gone out." 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied he. 
 
 The maid entered. 
 
 " Where is your mistress ? " said Lord Elmwood. 
 
 The woman had received no orders to conceal where 
 the ladies had gone, and yet a secret influence which 
 governs the thoughts of all waiting-women and chamber- 
 maids, whispered to her that she ought not to tell the truth. 
 
 " Where is your mistress ? " repeated he, in a louder voice 
 than before. 
 
 " Gone out, my Lord," she replied. 
 
172 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " My Lady did not tell me." 
 
 " And don't you know ? " 
 
 " No, my Lord," she answered, and without blushing. 
 
 "Is this the night of the masquerade ? " said he. 
 
 " I don't know, my Lord, upon my word ; but I believe, 
 my Lord, it is not." 
 
 Sandford, as soon as Lord Elmwood had asked the last 
 question, ran hastily to the table, at the other side of the 
 room, took something from it, and returned to his place 
 again ; and when the maid said, " It was not the night of 
 the masquerade," he exclaimed — 
 
 "But it is, my Lord — it is; yes, it is," and shewing a 
 newspaper in his hand, pointed to the paragraph which 
 contained the information. 
 
 " Leave the room," said Lord Elmwood to the woman : 
 " I have done with you." She went away. 
 
 " Yes, yes, here it is," repeated Sandford, with the paper 
 still in his hand. He then read the paragraph — " ' The 
 
 masquerade at the Right Honourable Lady G-. 's this 
 
 eveiiing ' — This evening, my Lord, you find — ' it is expected 
 will be the most brilliant of a?iy thing of the kind for these 
 many years past. ' " 
 
 "They should not put such things in the papers," said 
 Mrs. Horton, "to tempt young women to their ruin." 
 
 The word ruin grated upon Lord Elmwood's ear, and he 
 said to the servant who came to wait on him while he 
 supped, " Take the supper away." 
 
 He had not attempted either to eat, or even to sit down ; 
 and he now walked backwards and forwards in the room, 
 lost in thought and care. 
 
 A little time after, one of Miss Milner's footmen came in 
 upon some occasion, and Mr. Sandford said to him, " Pray 
 did you attend your Lady to the masquerade ? " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 73 
 
 " Yes, Sir," replied the man. 
 
 Lord Elmwood stopped himself short in his walk, and 
 said to the servant, " You did ?" 
 
 " Yes, my Lord," replied he. 
 
 He walked again. 
 
 " I should like to know what she was dressed in," said 
 Mrs. Horton. And turning to the servant, " Do you know 
 what your Lady had on ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madam," replied the man, "she was in men's clothes.' 5 
 
 " How ! " cried Lord Elmwood. 
 
 " You tell a story, to be sure," said Mrs. Horton to the 
 servant. 
 
 " No," cried Sandford, " I am sure he does not ; for he 
 is an honest, good, young man, and would not tell a lie upon 
 any account, Would you, Thomas ? " 
 
 Lord Elmwood ordered Miss Milner's woman to be again 
 sent up. She same. 
 
 " In what dress did your lady go to the masquerade ? " 
 he asked, and with a look so extremely morose, it seemed 
 to command the answer in a single word, and that word to 
 be truth. 
 
 A mind with a spark of sensibility more than this woman 
 possessed could not have equivocated with such an interro- 
 gator ; but her reply was, " She went in her own dress, my 
 Lord." 
 
 " Was it a man's or a woman's ? " asked he, with a look 
 of the same command. 
 
 " Ha, ha, my Lord," half laughing and half crying, " a 
 woman's dress, to be sure, my Lord." 
 
 On which Sandford cried— 
 
 " Call the footman up, and let him confront her." 
 
 He was called, but Lord Elmwood, now disgusted at the 
 scene, withdrew to the further end of the room, and left 
 Sandford to question them. 
 
174 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 With all the authority and consequence of a country 
 magistrate, Sandford, his back to the fire and the witnesses 
 before him, began with the footman. 
 
 " In what dress do you say that you saw your lady deco- 
 rated when you attended and went along with her to the 
 masquerade ? " 
 
 " In men's clothes," replied the man, boldly and firmly as 
 before. 
 
 " Bless my soul, Thomas, how can you say such a thing ? " 
 cried the woman. 
 
 " What dress do you say she went in ? " cried Sandford 
 to her. 
 
 " In women's clothes, indeed, Sir." 
 
 " This is very odd," said Mrs. Horton. 
 
 " Had she on, or had she not on, a coat ? " asked Sand- 
 ford. 
 
 " Yes, Sir ; a petticoat," replied the woman. 
 
 " Do y ou say she had on a petticoat?" said Sandford to 
 the man. 
 
 " I can't answer exactly for that," replied he; "but I know 
 she had boots on." 
 
 " They were not boots," replied the maid, with vehemence. 
 " Indeed, Sir," turning to Sandford, " they were only half 
 boots." 
 
 " My girl," said Sandford kindly to her, " your own evi- 
 dence convicts your mistress. What has a woman to do 
 with any boots ? " 
 
 Impatient at this mummery, Lord Elmwood rose, ordered 
 the servants out of the room, and then, looking at his watch, 
 found it was near one. " At what hour am I to expect her 
 home ? " said he. 
 
 " Perhaps not till three in the morning," answered Mrs. 
 Horton. 
 
 " Three ! more likely six," cried Sandford. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 175 
 
 " I can't wait with patience till that time," answered Lord 
 Elmwood, with a deep and most anxious sigh. 
 
 " You had better go to bed, my Lord," said Mrs. Horton, 
 " and, by sleeping, the time will pass away unperceived." 
 
 " If I could sleep, Madam." 
 
 " Will you play a game of cards, my Lord ? " said Sand- 
 ford ; " for I will not leave you till she comes home. And 
 though I am not used to sit up all night " 
 
 "All night!" repeated Lord Elmwood; "she dares not 
 stay all night." 
 
 "And yet, after going," said Sandford, "in defiance to 
 your commands, I should suppose she dared." 
 
 " She is in good company, at least, my Lord," said Mrs. 
 Horton. 
 
 " She does not know herself what company she is in," 
 replied he. 
 
 " How should she," cried Sandford, " where every one 
 hides his face?" 
 
 Till five o'clock in the morning, in conversation such as 
 this, the hours lingered away. Mrs. Horton, indeed, retired 
 to her chamber at two, and left the gentlemen to a more 
 serious discourse, but a discourse still less advantageous to 
 poor Miss Milner. 
 
 She, during this time, was at the scene of pleasure she 
 had painted to herself; and all the pleasure it gave her was, 
 that she was sure she should never desire to go to a mas- 
 querade again. Its crowd and bustle fatigued her, its 
 freedom offended her delicacy, and, though she perceived 
 that she was the first object of admiration in the place, yet 
 there was one person still wanting to admire, and the regret 
 at having transgressed his injunctions for so trivial an 
 entertainment weighed upon her spirits and added to her 
 weariness. She would have come away sooner than she 
 did : but she could not, with any degree of good manners, 
 
176 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 leave the company with whom she went ; and not till after 
 four were they prevailed on to return. 
 
 Daylight just peeped through the shutters of the room in 
 which Lord Elmwood and Sandford were sitting when the 
 sound of her carriage and the sudden stop it made at the 
 door caused Lord Elmwood to start from his chair. He 
 trembled extremely, and looked pale. Sandford was 
 ashamed to seem to notice it, yet he could not help asking 
 him to take a glass of wine. He took it, and for once 
 evinced he was reduced so low as to be glad of such a 
 resource. 
 
 What exact passion thus agitated Lord Elmwood at this 
 crisis it is hard to define. Perhaps it was indignation at 
 Miss Milner's imprudence and exultation at being on the 
 point of revenge. Perhaps his emotion arose from joy to 
 find that she was safe returned ; perhaps it was perturbation 
 at the grief he felt that he must upbraid her ; perhaps it 
 was not one alone of these sensations, but all of them com- 
 bined. 
 
 She, wearied out with the tedious night's dissipation, and 
 far less joyous than melancholy, had fallen asleep as she 
 rode home, and came half asleep out of her carriage. 
 " Light me to my bedchamber instantly," said she to her 
 maid, who waited in the hall to receive her. 
 
 But one of Lord Elmwood's valets went up to her and 
 answered, " Madam, my Lord desires to see you before you 
 retire." 
 
 " Your Lord ! " she cried. " Is he not from town ? " 
 
 " No, Madam, my Lord has been at home ever since you 
 went out, and has been sitting up with Mr. Sandford wait- 
 ing for you." 
 
 She was wide awake immediately. The heaviness was 
 removed from her eyes ; but fear, sorrow, and shame seized 
 upon her heart. She leaned against her maid as if un- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 177 
 
 able to support herself under those feelings, and said to 
 Miss Woodley — 
 
 " Make my excuse. I cannot see him to-night — I am unfit 
 — indeed I cannot." 
 
 Miss Woodley was alarmed at the prospect of going to 
 him by herself, and thus, perhaps, irritating him still more. 
 She therefore said, " He has sent for you ; for heaven's sake 
 do not disobey him a second time." 
 
 " No, dear Madam, don't," cried her woman ; " for he is 
 like a lion. He has been scolding me." 
 
 " Good God ! " exclaimed Miss Milner, and in a tone 
 that seemed prophetic: "then he is not to be my husband 
 after all." 
 
 " Yes," cried Miss Woodley, " if you will only be humble 
 and appear sorry. You know your power over him, and all 
 may yet be well." 
 
 She turned her speaking eyes upon her friend, the tears 
 starting from them, her lips trembling, "Do I not appear 
 sorry ? " she cried. 
 
 The bell at that moment rang furiously, and they has- 
 tened their steps to the door of the apartment where Lord 
 Elmwood was. 
 
 "No," replied Miss Woodley to her last question; "this 
 shuddering is only fright. Say to him you are sorry, and 
 beg his pardon." 
 
 " I cannot," replied she, " if Mr. Sandford be with him." 
 
 The servant opened the door, and she and Miss Woodley 
 went in. Lord Elmwood by this time was composed, and 
 received her with a slight inclination of his head. She 
 bowed to him in return, and said, with some marks of 
 humility — 
 
 " I suppose, my Lord, I have done wrong." 
 
 " You have, indeed, Miss Milner," answered he ; " but do 
 not suppose that I mean to upbraid you : I am, on the con- 
 
 N 
 
I7o A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 trary, going to release you from any such apprehension for_ 
 the future '." 
 
 Those last three words he delivered with a countenance 
 so serious and so determined, with an accent so firm and 
 so decided, they pierced through her heart. Yet she did 
 not weep, nor even sigh ; but her friend, knowing what she 
 felt, exclaimed, " Oh I " as if for her. 
 
 She herself strove with her anguish, and replied (but with 
 a faltering voice), " I expected as much, my Lord." 
 
 " Then, Madam, you perhaps expect all that I intend ? " 
 
 " In regard to myself," she replied, " I suppose I do." 
 
 " Then," said he, " you may expect that in a few days we 
 shall part." 
 
 " I am prepared for it, my Lord," she answered ; and, 
 while she said so, sank upon a chair. 
 
 "My Lord, what you have to say farther," said Miss 
 Woodley, in tears, "defer till the morning: Miss Milner, 
 you see, is not able to bear it now." 
 
 " I have nothing to say farther," replied he, coolly. " I 
 have now only to act." 
 
 " Lord Elmwood," cried Miss Milner, divided between 
 grief and anger, " you think to terrify me by your menaces ; 
 but I can part with you — Heaven knows I can. Your late 
 behaviour has reconciled me to a separation. 
 
 On this he was going out of the room, but Miss Woodley, 
 catching hold of him, cried, " Oh ! my Lord, do not leave 
 her in this sorrow. Pity her weakness, and forgive it." She 
 was proceeding, and he seemed as if inclined to listen, 
 when Sandford called out, in a tone of voice so harsh — 
 
 " Miss Woodley, what do you mean ? " She gave a start, 
 and desisted. 
 
 Lord Elmwood then turned to Sandford, and said, " Nay, 
 Mr. Sandford, you need entertain no doubts of me. I have 
 judged, and have deter " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 79 
 
 He was going to say determined; but Miss Milner, who 
 dreaded the word, interrupted the period, and exclaimed, 
 " Oh, could my poor father know the days of sorrow I have 
 experienced since his death, how would he repent his fatal 
 choice of a protector! " 
 
 This sentence, in which his friend's memory was recalled, 
 with an additional allusion to her long and secret love for 
 him, affected Lord Elmwood. He was much moved, but 
 ashamed of being so, and as soon as possible conquered 
 the propensity to forgive. Yet for a short interval he did 
 not know whether to go out of the room or to remain in it ; 
 whether to speak or to be silent. At length he turned 
 towards her, and said — 
 
 "Appeal to your father in some other form. In that," 
 pointing to her dress, " he will not know you. Reflect upon 
 him, too, in your moments of dissipation, and let his me- 
 mory control your indiscretions — not merely in an hour of 
 contradiction call peevishly upon his name, only to wound 
 the dearest friend you have." 
 
 There was a degree of truth, and a degree of passionate 
 feeling, in the conclusion of this speech, that alarmed Sand- 
 ford : he caught up one of the candles, and, laying hold of 
 his friend's elbow, drew him out of the room, crying, 
 " Come, my Lord, come to your bedchamber — it is very late 
 — it is morning — it is time to rise." And by a continual re- 
 petition of. these words, in a very loud voice, he wilfully 
 drowned whatever Lord Elmwood, or any other person, 
 might have wished either to have said or to have heard. 
 
 In this manner Lord Elmwood was forced out of the 
 apartment, and the evening's vicissitudes ended. 
 
 N 2 
 
l8o A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Two whole days passed in the bitterest suspense on the 
 part of Miss Milner, while neither one word nor look from 
 Lord Elmwood denoted the most trivial change of the sen- 
 timents he had declared on the night of the masquerade. 
 Still those sentiments, or intentions, were not explicitly de- 
 livered ; they were more like intimations than solemn 
 declarations — for though he had said, " He would never re- 
 proach her for the future" and that " She might expect they 
 should part," he had not positively said they should ; and 
 -> upon this doubtful meaning of his words, she hung with the 
 strongest agitation of hope and of fear. 
 
 Miss Woodley, seeing the distress of her mind, (much as 
 she endeavoured to conceal it) entreated, nay, implored of 
 her, to permit her to be a mediator ; to suffer her to ask for 
 a private interview with Lord Elmwood, and if she found 
 him inflexible, to behave with a proper spirit in 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 
 peremptorily forbade this, and acknowledging to her friend 
 every weakness she felt on the occasion, yet concluded with 
 solemnly declaring, " That after what had passed between 
 her and Lord Elmwood, he must be the first to make a con- 
 cession, before she herself would condescend to be recon- 
 ciled." 
 
 " I believe I know Lord Elmwood's temper," replied Miss 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. l8l 
 
 Woodley, "and I do not think he will be easily induced 
 to beg pardon for a fault, which he thinks you have com- 
 mitted." 
 
 " Then he does not love me." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Miss Milner, this is the old argument. He 
 may love you too well to spoil you; consider that he is 
 your guardian as well as your lover; he means also to 
 become your husband; and he is a man of such nice 
 honour, 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 experiment, 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 ; you will then 
 see what effect that measure will have upon his pride." 
 
 "But you will then make it too late for him to be 
 humble. If you resolve on this, my dear Miss Milner, you 
 are undone at once — you may thus hurry yourself into a 
 marriage with a man you do not love, and the miseiy of 
 your whole future life may be the result. Or, would you 
 force Mr. Dorriforth (I mean Lord Elmwood) to another 
 duel with my Lord Frederick ? " 
 
 "No, call him Dorriforth," — answered she, with the tears 
 stealing from her eyes : " I thank you for calling him so ; for 
 by that name alone he is 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 
 
152 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 soft bewailings to her friend — before Lord Elmwood she 
 maintained a degree of pride and steadiness, which sur- 
 prised 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 re- 
 trieve that haughty character which had inspired so many of 
 her admirers with passion, and take the chance of its effect 
 upon this only suitor, to whom she ever acknowledged a 
 mutual attachment. But although she resumed and acted 
 this character well — so well, that every one but Miss 
 Woodley thought her in earnest — yet, with nice and at- 
 tentive anxiety, she watched even the slightest circum- 
 stances that might revive her hopes, or confirm her despair. 
 Lord Elmwood's behaviour 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 ardour with which he had first declared 
 his passion to her, and the thousand proofs he had since 
 given of its reality. Upon the constancy of his disposition, 
 she depended for the hope that sentiments like these were not 
 totally eradicated ; and from the extreme desire which Mr. 
 Sandford now, more than ever, discovered of depreciating 
 her in his patron's esteem — from the now, more than com- 
 mon zeal, which urged him to take Lord Elmwood from her 
 company whenever he had it in his power, she was led to 
 believe, that while his friend entertained such strong fears 
 of his relapsing into love, she had reason to indulge the 
 strongest hopes that he would relapse. 
 
 But the reserve, and even indifference, that she had so 
 well assumed for a few days, and which might, perhaps, have 
 effected her design, she had not the patience to persevere in, 
 without calling levity to their aid. She visited repeatedly 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 83 
 
 without saying where, or with whom ; kept later hours than 
 usual ; appeared in the highest spirits ; sung, laughed, and 
 never heaved a sigh, but when she was alone. 
 
 Still Lord Elmwood protracted a resolution that he was 
 determined he would never break when taken. 
 
 Miss Woodley was excessively uneasy, and with cause ; 
 she saw her friend was providing herself with a weight of 
 cares, which she might soon find infinitely too much for her 
 strength to bear ; she would have reasoned with her, 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 caused 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 deter- 
 mination, 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 
 
184 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, this calmness was near deserting him. 
 
 Entering the drawing-room, one evening, he started, on 
 seeing Lord Frederick Lawnley there, in earnest conversa- 
 tion 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 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 85 
 
 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 duel ; for though Lord Elm- 
 wood had assured the uncle of Lord Frederick, who once 
 waited upon him on the subject of Miss Milner, that all 
 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 protestation, 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 con- 
 struction 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, had not 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 dis- 
 
1 86 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 course upon some trivial occurrences, gave him time to 
 recover himself by degrees : still, it was merely by de- 
 grees ; 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 hap- 
 pened, 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 such artifice, while my heart was another's ; and I 
 assure you, seriously, that it was from the circumstance he 
 described he came with me home: yet, I must own, that 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 187 
 
 if I had not had this design upon Lord Elmwood's jealousy 
 in idea, I would have walked on foot through the streets, 
 rather than have suffered his rival's civilities. But he 
 pressed his services so violently, and my Lady Evans (in 
 whose coach I was when the accident happened) pressed 
 me so violently to accept them, that he cannot expect any 
 farther meaning from this acquiescence than my own 
 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 
 proofs of Lord Elmwood's love. Did you see him ? I am 
 afraid you did not see how he trembled — nor observe how 
 that manly voice faltered, as mine does sometimes? — his 
 proud heart was humbled too, as mine is sometimes. Oh ! 
 Miss Woodley, I have been counterfeiting indifference 
 to him — I now find that all his indifference to me has 
 been counterfeit also, and that we not only love, but love 
 equally." 
 
 "Suppose this all as you hope— I yet think it highly 
 necessary that your guardian should be informed, seriously 
 informed, it was mere accident (for, at present, that plea 
 seems but as a subterfuge) which brought Lord Frederick 
 hither." 
 
 "No, that will be destroying the work so successfully 
 begun. I will not suffer any explanation to take place, 
 but let my Lord Elmwood act just as his love shall dictate ; 
 and now I have no longer a doubt of its excess, instead of 
 stooping to him, I wait in the certain expectation of his 
 submission to me." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 In vain, for three long days, did Miss Milner wait 
 impatiently for this submission; not a sign, not a symp- 
 tom appeared. Nay, Lord Elmwood had, since the 
 evening of Lord Frederick's visit, (which, at the time it 
 took place, seemed to affect him so exceedingly) become 
 just the same man he was before the circumstance occurred ; 
 except, indeed, that he was less thoughtful, and now and 
 then cheerful ; but without any appearance that his cheer- 
 fulness was affected. Miss Milner was vexed — she was 
 alarmed — but was ashamed to confess those humiliating 
 sensations, even to Miss Woodley. She supported, therefore, 
 when in company, the vivacity she had so long assumed ; 
 but gave way, when alone, to a still greater degree of 
 melancholy than usual. She no longer applauded her 
 scheme of bringing Lord Frederick to the house, and was 
 terrified lest, on some pretence, he should dare to call again. 
 But as these were feelings which her pride would not suffer 
 her to 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 burdened with a load of grief that she 
 blushed to acknowledge ; while her companion was charged 
 with apprehensions that she too was loath to disclose, one of 
 Lord Elmwood's valets tapped gently at the door, and 
 delivered a letter to Miss Milner. By the person who 
 brought it, as well as by the address, she knew it came from 
 Lord Elmwood, and laid it down upon her toilet, as if she 
 was fearful to unfold it. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 89 
 
 "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 hand-writing on the outside 
 — at the seal — inspected its folds — and seemed to wish, 
 by some equivocal method, to guess at the contents, without 
 having the courage to come at the certain knowledge of 
 them. 
 
 Curiosity, at length, got the better of her fears — she 
 opened the letter, and, scarcely able to hold it while she 
 perused it, read the following words : — 
 
 " Madam, — While I considered 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 per- 
 mitted 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, the slightest desire to be regarded by you, in any 
 other respect than as one ' who wishes you well.' That you 
 
I90 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 ever beheld me in the endearing quality of a destined and 
 an affectionate husband, (such as I would have proved) has 
 been a deception upon my hopes : they acknowledge the 
 mistake, and are humbled — but I entreat you to spare their 
 farther trial, and for a single week not to insult me with the 
 open preference of another. In the short space of that 
 period I shall have taken my leave of you— -for ever. 
 
 "I shall visit Italy, and some other parts of the 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 principal 
 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 resent- 
 ment, 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 in- 
 adequate to your expectations, 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 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 191 
 
 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, 
 yoic will call your serious judgment to direct you. 
 " I am, Madam, 
 
 " Your sincerest friend, 
 
 "ELMWOOD." 
 
 After she had read every syllable of this letter carefully, 
 it dropped from her hands ; but she uttered not a word. 
 There was, however, a paleness in her face, a deadness in 
 her eye, and a kind of palsy over her frame, which Miss 
 Woodley, who had seen her in every stage of her unhappi- 
 ness, 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 contented mind could alone effect what 
 she desired. 
 
 " You must endeavour," said Miss Woodley, " to feel the 
 disposition you wish to make appear." 
 
 '• I will," replied she. " I will feel a proper pride ; and, 
 consequently, a proper indifference to this treatment." 
 
 And so desirous was she to attain the appearance of these 
 sentiments, that she made the strongest efforts to calm her 
 thoughts, in order to acquire it. 
 
 " I have but a few days to remain with him," she said to 
 herself, " and we part for ever. During those few days it is 
 
I9 2 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 blameable, 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 weak- 
 ness he has had so many fatal proofs, is yet in possession 
 of some fortitude — fortitude to bid him farewell, without 
 discovering one .affected or one real pang, though her death 
 should be the consequence of her suppressed sufferings." 
 
 Thus she resolved and thus she acted. The severest 
 judge could not have arraigned her conduct, from the day 
 she received Lord Elmwood's letter to the day appointed 
 for 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 during 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 behaviour exactly, it was the same as his 
 letter — polite, friendly, composed, and resolved. Some of 
 the company stayed to supper, which prevented the em- 
 barrassment that must unavoidably have arisen, had the 
 family been by themselves. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 93 
 
 The next morning they breakfasted in their 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 gentlemen of his 
 acquaintance being at table, one of them said — 
 
 "And so, my Lord, you absolutely set off on Tuesday 
 morning ? " 
 
 This was Friday. 
 
 Sandford and he both replied at the same time, " Yes." 
 And Sandford, but not Lord Elmwood, looked at Miss 
 Milner when he spoke. Her knife and fork gave a sudden 
 spring in her hand, but no other emotion witnessed what she 
 felt. 
 
 "Aye, Elmwood," cried another gentleman at table, 
 " you'll bring home, I am afraid, a foreign wife, and that I 
 sha'n't forgive." 
 
 " It is his errand abroad, I make no doubt," said another 
 visitor. 
 
 Before he could return an answer, Sandford cried — 
 
 "And what objection to a foreigner for a wife? Do not 
 crowned heads all marry foreigners? And who happier 
 in the 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 friend's being thus forced to 
 give an opinion upon so delicate a subject, endeavoured to 
 satisfy the gentleman, by answering to the question her- 
 self— 
 
194 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " 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," she returned, with the utmost command of her 
 voice and looks ; for Miss Woodley, by replying first, had 
 given her time to collect herself. 
 
 The colour flew to Lord 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 the topic, but 
 that of his journey still employed the conversation ; and 
 what horses, servants, and carriages he took with him, was 
 minutely asked, and so accurately answered, either by him- 
 self or by Mr. Sandford, that Miss Milner, although she had 
 known her doom before, now received a circumstantial 
 account of it; and as circumstances increase or diminish 
 all we feel, the hearing of these things in detail increased 
 the bitterness of their truth. 
 
 Soon after dinner the ladies retired ; and from that time, 
 though Miss Milner's behaviour continued the same, yet her 
 looks and her voice were totally altered. For the world she 
 could not have looked cheerfully : for the world, she could 
 not have spoken with a sprightly accent : she frequently 
 began in one, but not three words did she utter before her 
 tones sank into a melody of dejection. Not only her colour 
 but her features became changed : her eyes lost their bril- 
 liancy, her lips seemed to hang without the power of motion ; 
 her head drooped, and her dress looked neglected. 
 
 Conscious of this appearance, and conscious of the cause 
 from whence it arose, it was her desire to hide herself from 
 the fatal object, the source of her despondency. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 95 
 
 Accordingly, 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 
 from totally absenting herself. 
 
 Miss Woodley felt so acutely the torments of her friend, 
 that had not her reason told her that the inflexible mind 
 of Lord Elmwood was fixed beyond her power to shake, 
 she had cast herself at his feet, and implored the return 
 of his affection and tenderness, as the only means to save 
 his once-beloved ward from an untimely grave. But her 
 understanding — her knowledge of his firm and immove- 
 able temper, and of all his provocations — her knowledge 
 of his word long since given to Sandford, " That if 
 once resolved, he would not recall his resolution — the 
 certainty of the various plans arranged for his travels, all 
 convinced her, that by any interference, she would only 
 expose Miss Milner's love and delicacy to a contemptuous 
 rejection. 
 
 If the conversation, when the family were assembled, did 
 not every day turn upon the subject of Lord 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 spectre, she could not have shuddered 
 with more horror than when she unexpectedly passed his 
 large trunks in the hall, nailed and corded, ready to be sent 
 off to meet him at Venice. 
 
 At the sight she flew from the company that chanced 
 to be with her, and stole to the first lonely corner of the 
 house to conceal her tears. She reclined her head upon 
 her hands, and bedewed them with the sudden anguish that 
 had overcome her. She heard a footstep advancing towards 
 the spot where she hoped to have been secreted ; she lifted 
 up her eyes, and saw Lord Elmwood. Pride was the first 
 
 O 2 
 
196 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 the other's language, without either 
 having uttered a word. 
 
 The just construction she put upon his looks and manner 
 upon this occasion kept up her spirits for some little time ; 
 and she blessed Heaven for the singular favour of shewing 
 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 
 Dorriforth, to her guardian, to Lord Elm wood ; to all her 
 hopes at once. 
 
 The moment she awoke on Monday morning, the recol- 
 lection 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 in general met. 
 She was rejoiced on hearing his voice as she opened the 
 door, yet the mere sound made her tremble so much that 
 she could scarcely totter to the table. 
 
 Miss Woodley looked at her as she entered, and was 
 never so shocked at seeing her : for never had she yet seen 
 her look so ill. As she approached, she made an inclination 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 97 
 
 of her head to Mrs. Horton, then to her guardian, as was 
 her custom, when she first saw them in a morning: he 
 looked in her face as he bowed in return, then fixed his eyes 
 upon the fire-place, rubbed his forehead, and began talking 
 with Mr. Sandford. 
 
 Sandford, during breakfast, by accident cast a glance 
 upon Miss Milner. His attention was caught by her death- 
 like countenance, and he looked earnestly. He then turned 
 to Lord Elmwood to see if he was observing her 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 circum- 
 stance, but she took one in return for his attention. He 
 looked grave beyond his usual gravity, and yet not with his 
 usual ill-temper. She did not eat what she had so politely 
 taken, but laid it down soon after. 
 
 Lord Elmwood was the first who rose from breakfast, 
 and he did not return to dinner. 
 
 At dinner Mrs. Horton said she " hoped he would, how- 
 ever, favour them with his company to 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 
 
I90 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 morning" which conveyed the sense never again to see 
 him after this evening, were like the knell of death to Miss 
 Milner. She felt the symptoms of fainting, and, hurried by 
 the dread of a swoon, snatched from the hand of a servant a 
 glass of water, which Sandford had just then called for, and 
 drank it hastily. As she returned the glass to the servant 
 she began to apologize to Mr. Sandford; but, before she 
 could utter what she intended, he said, rather kindly, 
 " Never mind, you are welcome. I am glad you took it." 
 She looked at him to observe whether he had really spoken 
 kindly or ironically; but before his countenance could satisfy 
 her, her thoughts were called away from that trivial matter 
 and again fixed upon Lord Elmwood. 
 
 The moments seemed tedious till he came home to 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 con- 
 tracted 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 encou- 
 raged 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. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 1 99 
 
 " My Lord," replied Mrs. Horton, " I sincerely wish you 
 health and happiness likewise." 
 
 He then went to Miss Woodley, and, taking her hand, re- 
 peated much the same as he had said to Mrs. Horton. 
 
 Miss Milner now trembled beyond all power of conceal- 
 ment. 
 
 " My Lord," replied Miss Woodley, a good deal affected, 
 " I sincerely hope my prayers for your happiness may be 
 heard." 
 
 She and Mrs. Horton were both standing, as well as Lord 
 Elmwood; but Miss Milner kept her seat till his eye was 
 turned upon her and he moved slowly towards her. She 
 then rose. Every one who was present, attentive to what he 
 would now say and how she would receive what he said, 
 here cast their eyes upon them and listened with impatience. 
 They were all disappointed. He did not utter a syllable. 
 Yet he took her hand and held it closely between his. He 
 then bowed most respectfully and left her. 
 
 No sentence of " I wish you well ; I wish you health and 
 happiness." No " prayers for blessings on her." Not even 
 the word "farewell" escaped his lips. Perhaps to have 
 attempted any of these might have impeded his utterance. 
 She had behaved with fortitude the whole evening, and 
 she continued to do so till the moment he turned away from 
 her. Her eyes then overflowed with tears, and, in the agony 
 of her mind, not knowing what she did, she laid her cold 
 hand upon the person next to her. It happened to be 
 Sandford ; but, not observing it was he, she grasped his 
 hand with violence. Yet he did not snatch it away, nor look 
 at her with his wonted severity. And thus she stood, silent 
 and motionless, while Lord Elmwood, now at the door, 
 bowed once more to all the company and retired. 
 
 Sandford had still Miss Milner's hand fixed upon his ; and, 
 when the door was shut after Lord Elmwood, he turned his 
 
20O A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 head to look in her face, and turned it with some marks of 
 apprehension for the grief he might find there. She strove 
 to overcome that grief, and, after a heavy sigh, sat down as 
 if resigned to the fate to which she was decreed. 
 
 Instead of following Lord Elmwood as usual, Sandford 
 poured out a glass of wine and drank it. A general silence 
 ensued for near three minutes. At last, turning himself 
 round on his chair towards Miss Milner, who sat like a 
 statue of despair at his side, " Will you breakfast with us 
 to-morrow ? " said he. 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " We sha'n't breakfast before half after six," continued he, 
 " I dare say ; and if you can rise so early — why, do." 
 
 " Miss Milner," said Miss Woodley, for she caught eagerly 
 at the hope of her passing this night in less unhappiness 
 than she had foreboded, " pray rise at that hour to break- 
 fast. Mr. Sandford would not invite you if he thought it 
 would displease Lord Elmwood." 
 
 " Not I," replied Sandford, churlishly. 
 
 " Then desire her maid to call her," said Mrs. Horton to 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 " Nay, she will be awake, I have no doubt," returned her 
 niece. 
 
 "No," replied Miss Milner; "since Lord Elmwood has 
 thought proper to take his leave of me without even speak- 
 ing a word, by my own design never will I see him again." 
 And her tears burst forth as if her heart burst at the same 
 time. 
 
 " Why did not you speak to him ? " cried Sandford. 
 " 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." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 201 
 
 "And do you imagine he does not wish you so," cried 
 Sandford. " You should judge him by your own heart ; 
 and what you feel for him, imagine he feels for you, my 
 dear." 
 
 Though u my dear" is a trivial phrase, yet, from certain 
 people and upon certain occasions, it is a phrase of infinite 
 comfort and assurance. Mr. Sandford seldom said "my 
 dear" to any one — to Miss Milner, never; and upon this 
 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, " How- 
 ever my fate may have been precipitated by the unkindness 
 of Mr. Sandford, yet, for that particle of concern which he 
 has shewn for me this evening, I will always be grateful to 
 him." 
 
 "Ay," cried Mrs. Horton, "good Mr. Sandford may shew 
 his kindness now, without any danger from its consequences. 
 Now Lord Elmwood is going away for ever he is not afraid 
 of your seeing him once again." And she thought she 
 praised him by this suggestion. 
 
202 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 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 abso- 
 lutely 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 loose to the anguish I endure." 
 
 As daylight shewed itself, " And yet I might see him once 
 again," said she. " I might see him within these two hours, 
 if I pleased, for Mr. Sandford invited me." 
 
 " If you think, my dear Miss Milner," said Miss Woodley, 
 " that a second parting from Lord Elmwood would but give 
 you a second agony, in the name of Heaven do not see him 
 any more ; 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. Sandford's invitation you are coming." 
 
 She listened with a smile to this proposal, yet objected to 
 the indelicacy of her wishing to see him after he had taken 
 his leave ; but as Miss Woodley perceived that she was in- 
 clined 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 SIMPLE STORY. 203 
 
 such a character) to suppose that the paying him a visit at 
 that period of time could be with the most distant imagi- 
 nation 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 it 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 break- 
 fast-room. 
 
 She found Lord Elmwood there in his travelling-dress, 
 standing pensively by the fire-place ; and, as he did not 
 dream of seeing her, he started when she entered, and, 
 with an appearance of alarm, said, " Dear Miss Woodley 
 what's the matter ? " She replied, " Nothing, my Lord ; but 
 I could not be satisfied without seeing your Lordship once 
 again, while I had it in my power." 
 
 " I thank you," he returned, with a sigh — the heaviest 
 
204 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 and most intelligent sigh she ever heard him condescend to 
 give. She imagined, also, that he looked as if he wished 
 to ask how Miss Milner did, but would not allow himself 
 the indulgence. She was half inclined to mention her to 
 him, and was debating in her mind whether she should or 
 not, when Mr. Sandford came into the room, saying, as he 
 entered — 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, my Lord, where did you sleep last 
 night?" 
 
 " Why do you ask ? " said he. 
 
 " Because," replied Sandford, " I went into your bed- 
 chamber just now and I found your bed made. You have 
 not slept there to-night." 
 
 " I have slept nowhere," returned he. " I could not sleep, 
 and, having some papers to look over, and to set off early, 
 I thought I might as well not go to bed at all." 
 
 Miss Woodley was pleased at the frank manner in which 
 he made this confession, and could not resist the strong 
 impulse to say, "You have done just then, my Lord, like 
 Miss Milner; for she has not been in bed the whole night." 
 
 Miss Woodley spoke this in a negligent manner, and yet 
 Lord Elmwood echoed back the words with solicitude, 
 " Has not Miss Milner been in bed the whole night ? " 
 
 " If she is up, why does not she come to take some 
 coffee ? " said Sandford, as he began to pour it out. 
 
 " If she thought it would be agreeable," returned Miss 
 Woodley, " I dare say she would." And she looked at 
 Lord Elmwood while she spoke, though she did not abso- 
 lutely address him ; but he made no reply. 
 
 " Agreeable ! " returned Sandford, angrily. " 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." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 205 
 
 "Then bring her hither," cried Sandford, "directly. 
 Would she have the wickedness to imagine we are not all 
 friends with her ? " 
 
 Miss Woodley left the room, and found Miss Milner 
 almost in despair lest she should hear Lord Elmwood's car- 
 riage drive off before her friend's return. 
 
 "Did he send for me?" were the words she uttered as 
 soon as she saw her. 
 
 " Mr. Sandford did, in his presence," returned Miss 
 Woodley; "and you may go with the utmost decorum, or 
 I would not tell you so." 
 
 She required no protestations of this, but readily 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 Elm- 
 wood rose from his seat and brought a chair for her to sit 
 down. 
 
 Sandford looked at her inquisitively, sipped his tea, and 
 said he never made tea to his own liking. 
 
 Miss Milner took a cup, but had scarcely strength to 
 hold it. 
 
 It seemed but a very short time they were at breakfast, 
 when the carriage that was to take Lord Elmwood away 
 drove to the door. Miss Milner started at the sound; so 
 did he. But she had nearly dropped her cup and saucer ; 
 on which Sandford took them out of her hand, saying — 
 
 " Perhaps you had rather have coffee ? " 
 
 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 break- 
 fasted, he did not attempt to move. 
 
 At last, rising briskly, as if it was necessary to go in haste 
 
 '/ 
 
206 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 when he did go, he took up his hat, which he had brought 
 with him into the room, and was turning to Miss Woodley 
 to take his leave, when Sandford cried, " My Lord, you are 
 in a great hurry." And then, as if he wished to give poor 
 Miss Milner every moment he could, added, looking about, 
 " I don't know where I have laid my gloves." 
 
 Lord Elmwood, after repeating to Miss Woodley his last 
 night's farewell, now went up to Miss Milner, and, taking 
 one of her hands, again held it between his, but still without 
 speaking ; while she, unable to suppress her tears as here- 
 tofore, suffered them to fall in torrents. 
 
 " What is all this ? " cried Sandford, going up to them in 
 anger. 
 
 They neither of them replied or changed their situation. 
 
 " Separate this moment," cried Sandford, " or resolve to 
 be separated only by — death." 
 
 The commanding and awful manner in which he spoke 
 this sentence made them both turn to him in amazement, 
 and, as it were, petrified with the sensation his words had 
 caused. 
 
 He left them for a moment, and, going to a small book- 
 case in one corner of the room, took out of it a book, and, 
 returning with it in his hand, said — 
 
 " 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, " Oh, 
 Heavens! " 
 
 " I believe you can say so," returned Sandford, " and, in 
 the name of God and your own happiness, since this is the 
 state of you both, let me put it out of your power to part." 
 
 Lord Elmwood gazed at him with wonder ; and yet as if 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 207 
 
 enraptured by the sudden change this conduct gave to his 
 prospects. 
 
 She sighed with a kind of trembling ecstasy ; while Sand- 
 ford, 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 importuned 
 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 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, ad- 
 dressing himself to her, "act but under the dominion of 
 those vows towards a husband of sense and virtue like him, 
 and you will be all that I, himself, or even Heaven can de- 
 sire. Now, then, Lord Elmwood, this moment give her up 
 for ever, or this moment constrain her with the rites which I 
 shall perform by such ties from offending you as she shall 
 not dare to violate." 
 
 Lord Elmwood struck his forehead in doubt and agitation ; 
 but, still holding her hand, cried, " I cannot part from her. ; ' 
 Then, feeling this reply as equivocal, he fell upon his knees 
 and said, " Will you pardon my hesitation ; and will you, in 
 marriage, shew me that tender love you have not shewn 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 Sandford, then, placing her by his own side, 
 as the form of matrimony requires, gave this for a sign to 
 
208 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Sandford that he should begin the ceremony ; on which he 
 opened his book and — married them. 
 
 With voice and manners so serious, so solemn, and so 
 | fervent, he performed these holy rites, that every idea of 
 jest, or even of lightness, was absent from the mind of the 
 whole party present. 
 
 Miss Milner, covered with shame, sunk on the bosom of 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 When the ring was wanting, Lord Elmwood supplied it 
 with one from his own hand ; but throughout all the rest of 
 the ceremony he appeared lost in zealous devotion to 
 Heaven. Yet no sooner was it finished than his thoughts 
 descended to this world. He embraced his bride with all 
 the transport of the fondest, happiest bridegroom, and in 
 raptures called her by the endearing name of " Wife." 
 
 " But still, my Lord," cried Sandford, " you are only mar- 
 ried by your own Church and conscience, not by your wife's, 
 or by the law of the land ; and let me advise you not to 
 defer that marriage long, lest in the time you should dis- 
 agree, and she refuse to become your legal spouse." 
 
 " I think there is danger," returned Lord Elmwood, 
 1 " and therefore our second marriage must take place to- 
 morrow." 
 
 To this the ladies objected, and Sandford was to fix their 
 second wedding-day, as he had done their first. He, after 
 consideration, gave them four days. 
 
 Miss Woodley then recollected (for every one else had 
 forgot it) that the carriage was still at the door to convey 
 Lord Elmwood far away. It was, of course, dismissed ; and 
 one of those great incidents of delight which Miss Milner 
 that morning tasted was to look out of the 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 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 200, 
 
 that which Miss Milner and Lord Elmwood experienced 
 in one single hour. 
 
 The few days that intervened between this and their 
 second marriage were passed in the delightful care of pre- 
 paring for that happy day ; yet with all its delights 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 
 Milner (with all the fears, the tremors, the superstition of 
 her sex) felt an excruciating shock, when, looking on 
 the ring Lord Elmwood had put upon her finger, in 
 haste, when he married her, she perceived it was a — 
 mourning ring. -w ., . 
 
2IO A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Not any event, throughout life, can arrest the reflection 
 of a thoughtful mind more powerfully, or leave a more 
 lasting impression, than that of returning to a place after a 
 few years' absence, and observing an entire alteration in respect 
 to all the persons who once formed the neighbourhood. To 
 find that many, who but a few years before were left in 
 their bloom of youth and health, are dead — to find that 
 children left at school are married and have children of 
 their own — that some, who were left in riches, are reduced 
 to poverty — that others, who were in poverty, are become 
 rich — to find those once renowned for virtue, now detested 
 for vice — roving husbands grown constant — constant hus- 
 bands 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 ex- 
 perience the sensation which an attention to circumstances 
 like these must excite, he is desired to imagine seventeen 
 years elapsed since he has seen or heard of any of those 
 persons who, in the foregoing part of this narrative have 
 been introduced to his acquaintance ; and then, supposing 
 himself at the period of those seventeen years, follow the 
 sequel of their history. 
 
 To begin with the first female object of this story : the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 211 
 
 beautiful, the beloved Miss Milner — she is no longer beau- 
 tiful — no longer beloved — no longer — tremble while you read 
 it ! — no longer — virtuous. 
 
 Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, is 
 become a hard-hearted tyrant. The compassionate, the 
 feeling, the just Lord Elmwood, an example of implacable 
 rigour and injustice. 
 
 Miss Woodley is grown old, but less with years than 
 grief. 
 
 The boy, Rushbrook, is become a man; and the ap- 
 parent heir of Lord Elmwood's fortune ; while his own 
 daughter — his only child by his once adored Miss Milner, 
 he refuses ever to see again, in vengeance to her mother's 
 crimes. 
 
 The least wonderful change is, the death of Mrs. Horton. 
 Except — 
 
 Sandford, who remains much the same as heretofore. 
 
 We left Lady Elmwood at the summit of human happi- 
 ness — a loving and beloved bride. We now find her upon 
 her death-bed. - 
 
 At thirty-five her " course was run," — a course full of 
 perils, of hopes, of fears, of joys, and, at the end, of sorrows — ■ 
 al] 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, 
 
 P 2 
 
212 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 the expiring penitent would there combat the will of 
 Heaven. 
 
 To detail the progression by which vice gains a pre- 
 dominancy in the heart, may be a useful lesson ; but it is 
 one so little to the gratification of most readers, that the 
 degrees of misconduct by which Lady Elmwood fell are 
 not meant to be related here ; but instead of picturing 
 every occasion of her fall, to come briefly to the events 
 that followed. 
 
 There are, nevertheless, some articles under the former 
 class, which ought not to be entirely omitted. 
 
 Lord Elmwood, after four years' enjoyment of the most 
 perfect happiness that marriage could give — after becoming 
 the father of a beautiful daughter, whom he loved with a 
 tenderness almost equal to his love of her mother — was 
 under the indispensable necessity of leaving them both for 
 a time, in order to rescue from the depredation of his own 
 steward his very large estates in the West Indies. His 
 voyage was tedious — his residence there, from various acci- 
 dents, was prolonged from time to time, till near three years 
 had at length passed away. 
 
 Lady Elmwood, at first only unhappy, became at last pro- 
 voked ; and giving way to that irritable disposition which she 
 had so seldom governed, resolved, in spite of his injunc- 
 tions, 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 resent- 
 ment 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 SIMPLE STORY. 213 
 
 a state ; there, where all the tumultuous passions harboured 
 by turns, one among them soon found the means to occupy 
 all vacancies — a passion commencing innocently, but ter- 
 minating in guilt. 
 
 The dear object of her fondest, her truest affections, 
 absent far off; those affections painted the time so irk- 
 some 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 mind, depraved by 
 fashionable vices, could not repay her for a moment's loss 
 of him, whose felicity she destroyed, whose dishonour she 
 accomplished. Or if the delirium gave her a moment's 
 recompense, what were her sufferings, her remorse, when 
 she was awakened from the fleeting joy by the arrival of her 
 husband ? 
 
 Happy, transporting, would have been that arrival but a 
 few months sooner ! As it would then have been unbounded 
 happiness, it was now — but language affords no word that 
 can describe Lady Elmwood's sensations on being told her 
 lord was arrived, and that necessity alone had so long de- 
 layed his return. 
 
 Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her 
 shame were the more excessive. She fled from the place 
 at his approach— fled from his house — never again to return 
 to a habitation where he was the master. She did not 
 however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter 
 herself in a most dreary retreat, where she partook of no 
 one comfort from society, or from life, but the still unre- 
 mitting friendship of Miss Woodley. Even her infant 
 daughter she left behind, nor would allow herself the con- 
 solation of her innocent, though reproachful, smiles. She 
 left her in her father's house, that she might be under his 
 virtuous protection — parted with her, as she thought, for 
 ever, with all the agonies with which mothers part from 
 
214 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 their infant children. And yet those agonies were still more 
 poignant on beholding the child sent after her, as the per- 
 petual outcast of its father. 
 
 Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had been extravagant — 
 the effect of his hate was the same. Beholding himself 
 separated from her by a barrier not ever to be removed, he 
 vowed, in the deep torments of his revenge, never to be 
 reminded of her by one individual object, much less by one 
 so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that child his 
 affections would be, he imagined, still, in some sort, to divide 
 them with the mother. 
 
 Firm in his 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 offences. 
 
 While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood's 
 agents at his command, himself was engaged in an affair of 
 still weightier importance — that of life or death. He de- 
 termined upon his own death, or the death of the man who 
 had wounded his honour 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 had been Lord Frederick Lawnley) 
 averse 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 favoured), 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. 
 
 This triumph, however, was but short : a month only, after 
 
A SIMPLE STORY 21 5 
 
 the return of Lord Elmwood, the Duke was called upon to 
 answer for his guilt, and was left on the ground, where they 
 met, so defaced with scars, as never again to endanger the 
 honour of a husband. As Lord Elmwood was inexorable to 
 all accommodation, their engagement had 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 himself was dangerously wounded. 
 
 Yet even during the period of his danger, while for days 
 he lay in the continual expectation of his own dissolution, 
 not all the entreaties of his dearest, most intimate, and most 
 respected friends, could prevail upon him to pronounce for- 
 giveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring his daughter 
 to him for his last blessing. 
 
 Lady Elmwood, who was made acquainted with the 
 minutest circumstance as it passed, appeared to wait the 
 news of her husband's decease with patience ; but upon her 
 brow and in every lineament of her face was marked that 
 his death was an event she would not for a day survive, 
 and she would have left her child an orphan, in such a case, 
 to have followed Lord Elmwood to the tomb. She was 
 prevented the trial ; he recovered, and from the ample 
 vengeance he had obtained, upon the irresistible person 
 of the Duke, he seemed, in a short time, to regain his 
 tranquillity. 
 
 He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and languished. 
 Possessed of youth to struggle with her woes, she still 
 lingered on, till near ten years' decline had brought her 
 to that period, with which the reader is now to be pre 
 sented. 
 
2l6 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 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 
 scarcely rendered the light accessible) was laid upon her 
 death-bed the once lovely Lady Elmwood — pale, half- 
 suffocated from the loss of breath ; yet her senses perfectly 
 clear and collected, which served but to sharpen the anguish 
 of dying. 
 
 In one corner of the room, by the side of an old-fashioned 
 settee, kneels Miss Woodley, praying most devoutly for her 
 still beloved friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray com- 
 posedly — floods of tears pour down her furrowed cheeks, 
 and frequent sobs of sorrow break through each pious 
 ejaculation. 
 
 Close by her mother's side, one hand supporting her head, 
 the other drying from her face the cold dew of death, 
 behold Lady Elm wood's daughter — Lord Elmwood's 
 daughter too — yet he is far away, negligent of what either 
 suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often, and attempts an 
 embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motionless. 
 The daughter, perceiving these ineffectual efforts, has her 
 whole face convulsed with grief : she kisses her mother ; 
 holds her to her bosom ; and hangs upon her neck, as if 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 21 7 
 
 she wished to cling there, not to be parted even by the 
 grave. 
 
 On the other side of the bed sits Sandford — his hairs 
 grown white — his face wrinkled with age — his heart the 
 same as ever — the reprover, the enemy of the vain, the idle, 
 and the wicked, but the friend and comforter of the forlorn 
 and miserable. 
 
 Upon those features where sarcasm, reproach, and anger 
 dwelt, to threaten and alarm the sinner, mildness, tender- 
 ness, and pity beamed, to support and console the penitent. 
 Compassion changed his language, and softened all those 
 harsh tones that used to denounce perdition. 
 
 " In the name of God," said he to Lady Elmwood, " of 
 that God, who suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and 
 pitied all our weaknesses — by him, who has given his word 
 to take compassion on the sinner's tears, I bid you hope for 
 mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived, be 
 comforted. By the sorrows you have known since your 
 degradation, hope, that in some measure, at least, you have 
 atoned. By the sincerity that shone upon your youthful face 
 when I joined your hand, and those thousand virtues you 
 have since given proofs of, trust that you were not born to 
 die the death of the wicked? 
 
 As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling 
 hand clasped his — her dying eyes darted a ray of bright- 
 ness — but her failing voice endeavoured in vain to articulate. 
 At length, fixing her looks upon her daughter as their last 
 dear object, she was just understood to utter the word, 
 " Father." 
 
 " I understand you," replied Sandford, " and by all that 
 influence I ever had over him, by my prayers, my tears," 
 (and they flowed as he spoke) " I will implore him to own 
 his child." 
 
 She could now only smile in thanks. 
 
2l8 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " And if I should fail," continued he, " yet while I live she 
 shall not want a friend and protector — all an old man, like 
 me, can answer for " here his grief 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. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 219 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Lord Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, 
 of a serious, thinking and philosophic turn of mind. His 
 religious studies had completely taught him to consider this 
 world but as a passage to another ; to enjoy with gratitude 
 what Heaven in its bounty should bestow, and to bear with 
 submission whatever in its vengence it might inflict. In a 
 greater degree than most people he practised this doctrine ; 
 and as soon as the shock which he received from Lady 
 Elmwood's infidelity was abated, an entire calmness and 
 resignation ensued ; but still of that sensible and feeling 
 kind that could never suffer him to forget the happiness 
 he had lost ; and it was this sensibility which urged him 
 to fly from its more keen recollection ; and which he 
 avowed as the reason why he would never permit Lady 
 Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. 
 But this injunction (which all his friends, and even the 
 servants in the house who attended his person, had received) 
 was, by many people, suspected rather to proceed from his 
 resentment than his tenderness : nor did he deny, that 
 resentment co-operated with his prudence ; for 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, more especially so near as 
 a parent's, which might again expose him to all the 
 
2 20 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 torments of ingratitude from an object whom he affection- 
 ately loved. 
 
 Upon these principles he adopted the unshaken resolution 
 never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child ; or, ac- 
 knowledging her as such, never to see, to hear of, or take 
 one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death 
 of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he been so 
 inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had 
 solemnly and repeatedly made. She was now destitute of 
 the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty, 
 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 
 offence, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his 
 friends and household ; and as he was an excellent good 
 master, a sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not 
 one of his acquaintance or dependents was hardy enough to 
 incur his certain displeasure, which was always violent 
 to excess, by even the official intelligence of Lady Elm- 
 wood's death. 
 
 Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the 
 austere and morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of 
 late years evinced ; Sandford wished, if possible, that some 
 other would undertake the dangerous task of recalling to his 
 memory that 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 demise declared it was not her intention 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 221 
 
 to leave a sentence behind her in the form of a will. She 
 had no will, she said, but what she would wholly submit to 
 Lord Elmwood ; and, if it were even his will that her child 
 should live in poverty as well as 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 heron this subject, 
 her friend too disinterested ; and at this moment they were 
 both without the smallest means of subsistence, except 
 through the justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sand- 
 ford had, indeed, promised his protection to the daughter ; 
 but his liberality had no other source than from his patron, 
 with whom he still lived as usual, except during part of the 
 winter, when the Earl resided in town ; he then mostly stole 
 a visit to Lady Elmwood. On this last visit he stayed to see 
 her buried. 
 
 After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now pre- 
 paring to go to Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and 
 there to deliver himself the news that must sooner or later 
 be told ; and he meant also to venture, at the same time, 
 to keep the promise he had made to his dying lady : but the 
 news reached his Lordship before Sandford arrived : it was 
 announced in the public papers, and by that means first came 
 to his knowledge. 
 
 He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that 
 
22 2 '*4 SI^¥LE STORY. 
 
 first gave the*inteiligence of ^Lady Elmwood's death was 
 laid before him*" The paragraph ''contained these words : — 
 
 "On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in 
 Northumberland, the Right Honourable Countess Elmwood. 
 This lady, who has not been heard of for many years in 
 the fashionable world, was a rich heiress, and of extreme 
 beauty ; but although she received overture's from many men 
 of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord 
 Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all — and it is said 
 their marriage was followed by an uncommon share of 
 felicity, till his Lordship going abroad, and remaining there 
 some time, the consequences (to a most captivating young 
 woman left without a protector) were such as to cause a 
 separation on his return. Her Ladyship has left one child 
 by the Earl, a daughter, aged fifteen." 
 
 Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as 
 to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for several 
 minutes ; nor did he taste his chocolate during this interval, 
 but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon 
 his hand. He then rose up — walked two or three times 
 across the room — sat down again — took up the paper — and 
 read as usual. Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the 
 perpetual weeper, here complain of his want of sensibility 
 — but let them remember that Lord 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 any one. 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 — 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 223 
 
 " Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead ?" 
 
 " It is, my Lord." 
 
 His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply 
 fetched an involuntary sigh. 
 
 " Mr. Sandford, my Lord," continued the steward, " sent 
 me word of the news, but left it to my own discretion whe- 
 ther I would make your Lordship acquainted with it or not. 
 I let him know I declined." 
 
 "Where is Sandford?" asked Lord Elmwood. 
 
 " He was with my lady," replied the steward. 
 
 " When she died ? " asked he. 
 
 "Yes, my Lord." 
 
 " I am glad of it. He will see that everything she desired 
 is done. Sandford 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. Giffard, then bowing, said, 
 " Has your Lordship any further commands ? " 
 
 " Write to Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as 
 he spoke, " and tell him to have everything performed as she 
 desired. And whoever she may have selected for the guar- 
 dian of her child has my consent to act as such. Nor in 
 
 one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I 
 0* ' -——*——— . " 
 
 oppose her will." The tears rushed into his eyes as he 
 said this, and caused them to start in the steward's ; ob- 
 serving which, he sternly resumed — 
 
 " Do not suppose from this convervation 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. Giffard; "and 
 that your express orders to me, as well as to every other 
 person, remain just the same as formerly — never to mention 
 this subject to you again." 
 
 " They do, Sir." 
 
224 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "My Lord, I always obeyed you, and I hope I always 
 fsjiall." 
 
 " I hope so, too," he replied, in a threatening accent. 
 "Write to Sandford," continued he, "to let him know my 
 pleasure, and that is all you have to do." 
 
 The steward bowed and withdrew. 
 
 But before his letter reached Sandford, Sandford arrived 
 in town ; and Mr. Giffard related word for word what had 
 passed between him and his Lord. Upon every occasion 
 and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and 
 her child, Sandford 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, Sandford thought he appeared more cool and reserved 
 with him than formerly. 
 
 During the whole day the slightest mention of Lady 
 Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiously avoided ; and not 
 till the evening, after Sandford had risen to retire, and had 
 wished Lord Elmwood good night, did he dare to mention 
 the subject. He then, after taking leave and going to the 
 door, turned back and said, " My Lord " 
 
 It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak. 
 His voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, 
 he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no farther. 
 
 " I thought," said Lord Elmwood, angrily — " I thought I 
 had given my orders upon the subject. Did not my steward 
 write them to you ? " 
 
 "He did, my Lord." said Sandford, humbly; "but I was 
 set out before they arrived." 
 
 " Has he not told you my mind, then ? " cried he, more 
 angrily still. 
 
 "He has," replied Sandford; "but " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 225 
 
 " But what, Sir ? " cried Lord Elmwood. 
 
 " Your Lordship," continued Sandford, " was mistaken in 
 supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will ; she left none." 
 
 " No will — no will at all ? " returned he, surprised. 
 
 " No, my Lord," answered Sandford, " she wished every- 
 thing to be as you willed." 
 
 " She left me all the trouble, then, you mean ? " 
 
 " No great trouble, Sir ; for there are but two persons 
 whom she has left behind her to hope for your 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 
 Sandford delivered this reply that Lord Elmwood could not 
 resent, and he only returned — 
 
 " Miss Woodley. Is she yet living?" 
 
 " She is. I left her at the house I came from." 
 
 "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." 
 
 Sandford bowed, and was going. 
 
 "And now," resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern 
 voice, "let me never hear again on this subject. You have 
 here the power to act in regard to the persons you have 
 mentioned ; and upon you their situation, the care, the whole 
 management of them depends. But be sure you never let 
 them be named before me from this moment." 
 
 "Then," said Sandford, "as this must be the last time 
 they are mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to 
 disburden my mind of a charge " 
 
 "What charge?" cried Lord Elmwood, morosely inter- 
 rupting him. 
 
 "Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind 
 her, she left a request." 
 
 Q 
 
226 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "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 inno- 
 cent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see her. 
 Never, for her mother's sake, suffer my heart again to be 
 softened by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if 
 that is the request, it is already answered. My will is 
 fixed." 
 
 " The request, my Lord," replied Sandford, and he took 
 out a pocket-book, from whence he drew several papers, " is 
 contained in this letter; nor do I rightly know what its 
 contents are." And he held it timorously out to him. 
 
 " Is it Lady Elmwood's writing?" asked Lord Elmwood, 
 extremely discomposed. 
 
 "It is, my Lord. She wrote it a few days before she 
 died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you with my own 
 hands." 
 
 " I refuse to read it," cried he, putting it from him, and 
 trembling while he did so. 
 
 " She desired me," said Sandford, still presenting the 
 letter, " to conjure you to read it/or her fathers sake? 
 
 Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in 
 his hand he seemed distressed to know what he should do 
 with it, in what place to go and read it, or how to fortify 
 himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed, too, 
 that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way of 
 excuse — 
 
 " For Mr. Milner's sake I would do much — nay, 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 divorce. Pray," and he hesi- 
 tated, " was she buried by him ? " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 227 
 
 " 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 Sandford, and was going 
 on, but the other interrupted him. 
 
 " No, no ; we will have no disturbing of the dead." 
 
 " Read her letter, then," said Sandford, " and bid her rest 
 in peace." 
 
 " If it is in my power," returned he, " 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 pro- 
 voke me. You may do an injury to the very person you are 
 seeking to befriend. The very maintenance I mean to allow 
 her daughter I can withdraw." 
 
 Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied, with 
 energy, "My Lord, unless you begin the subject I never 
 shall presume to mention it again." 
 
 " I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but 
 of that alone, we are friends. Good night, Sir." 
 
 Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their 
 separate bed-chambers. 
 
 Q 2 
 
2 28 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 After Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it 
 was some time before he read the letter Sandford had given 
 him. He first walked backwards and forwards in the room ; 
 he then began to take off some part of his dress ; but he 
 did it slowly. At length he dismissed his valet, and, sitting 
 down, took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the 
 seal, but not at the direction ; for he seemed to dread seeing 
 Lady Elmwood's handwriting. He then laid it on the table, 
 and began again to undress. He did not proceed, but, 
 taking up the letter quickly, with a kind of effort in making 
 the resolution, broke it open. These were its contents : — ■ 
 
 "My Lord, — Who writes this letter I well know — 
 I well know to whom it is addressed — I feel with the 
 most powerful force both our situations. Nor should I 
 dare to offer you even this humble petition, but that at the 
 time you receive it, there will be no such person as I in 
 existence. 
 
 " For myself, then, all concern will be over — but there 
 is a care that pursues me to the grave, and threatens my 
 want of repose even there. 
 
 "I leave a child — I will not call her mine, that has 
 undone her — I will not call her yours, that will be of no 
 avail — I present her before you as the grand-daughter of 
 Mr. Milner. Oh ! do not refuse an asylum even in your 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 229 
 
 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. 
 
 " ' 1 will go to my father j 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 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 re- 
 fused 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, Dorriforth. Farewell, Lord Elmwood — and 
 before you throw this letter from you with contempt or 
 anger, cast your imagination into the grave where I am 
 lying. Reflect upon all the days of my past life — the 
 anxious moments I have known, and what has been their 
 end. Behold me, also — in my altered face there is no 
 anxiety — no joy or sorrow — all is over. My whole frame 
 
230 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 that they did so, 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. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 23 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 The next morning when Lord Elmwood and Sandford 
 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. Sandford observed it, 
 and was all humbleness, both in his words and looks, in 
 order to soften him. 
 
 As soon as the breakfast was removed, Lord Elmwood 
 drew the letter from his pocket, and holding it towards 
 Sandford, said — 
 
 " That may be of more value to you than it is to me, 
 therefore I give it you." 
 
 Sandford 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." 
 
 Sandford took it, and, putting it up, asked fearfully, " What 
 those two reasons were ? " 
 
 " First," said he, " because I think it is a relic you may 
 like to preserve. My second reason is, that you may shew 
 it to her daughter, and let her know why, and on what con- 
 ditions, I grant her mother's request." 
 
 " You do then grant it ? " cried Sandford, joyfully ; " I 
 thank you — you are kind — you are considerate." 
 
232 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "Be not hasty in your gratitude ; you may have cause to 
 recall it." 
 
 " I know what you have said," replied Sandford ; " you 
 have said you grant Lady Elmwood's request — you 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 favour of her child." 
 
 " I think not," he replied ; " such as it is, however, I grant 
 it ; but, in the strictest sense of the word, no 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 pro- 
 tection. 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 with her mother's supplication ceases, 
 and I abandon her once more." 
 
 Sandford 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 honour 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 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 233 
 
 she does, she lives in security ; when she does not — you 
 know my resolution." 
 
 Sandford bowed : the Earl resumed — 
 
 " Nor can it be a hardship to obey this command — she 
 cannot lament the separation from a parent whom she 
 never knew." Sandford was going eagerly to prove the 
 error of that assertion, but he prevented him by saying — ■ 
 " In a word, without further argument, if she obeys me in 
 this, I will provide for her as my daughter during my 
 life, and leave her a fortune at my death ; but if she 
 dares " 
 
 Sandford interrupted the menace prepared for utterance, 
 saying — 
 
 " And you still mean, I suppose, to make Mr. Rushbrook 
 your heir ? " 
 
 " Have you not heard me say so ? And do you 
 imagine I have changed my determination? I am not 
 given to alter my resolutions, Mr. Sandford ; and I thought 
 you knew I was not. Besides, will not my title be extinct, 
 whoever I make my heir ? Could 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, Sandford, and we may still be good friends. 
 But I am not to be controlled as formerly; my temper is 
 changed of late ; changed to what it was originally, till"" 
 your religions precepts reformed it. You may remember, 
 how troublesome it was to conquer my stubborn disposition 
 in my youth ; then, indeed, you didj but in my more ad- 
 vanced age, you will find the task too difficult." 
 
 Sandford again repeated, " He should not presume, " 
 
234 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 To which Lord Elmwood again made answer — "Do not, 
 Sandford;" and added, "for I have a sincere regard for 
 you, and should be loath, at these years, to quarrel with you 
 seriously." 
 
 Sandford turned away his head to conceal his feelings. 
 
 " Nay, if we do quarrel," resumed Lord Elmwood, " you 
 know it must be your own fault ; and as this is a theme the 
 most likely of any, nay, the only one on which we can 
 have a difference (such as we cannot forgive) take care 
 never from this day to renew it. Indeed, that of itself 
 would be an offence I could not pardon. I have been 
 clear and explicit in all I have said ; there can be no fear 
 of mistaking my meaning ; therefore, all future explanation 
 is unnecessary ; nor will I permit a word, or a hint on the 
 subject from any one, without shewing my resentment 
 even to the hour of my death." He was going out of the 
 room. 
 
 " But before we bid adieu to the subject for ever, my 
 Lord — there was another person whom I named to 
 you " 
 
 "Do you mean Miss Woodley? Oh, by all means let 
 her live at Elmwood House, too. On consideration, I have 
 no objection to see Miss Woodley at any time — I shall 
 be glad to see her. Do not let her be frightened at 
 me — to her I shall be the same that I have always 
 been." 
 
 " She is a good woman, my Lord," cried Sandford, de- 
 lighted. 
 
 " You need not tell me that, Mr. Sandford ; I know her 
 worth." And he left the room. 
 
 Sandford, to relieve Miss Woodley and her lovely charge 
 from the suspense in which he had left them, prepared to 
 set off for their habitation, and meant himself to conduct 
 them from thence to Elmwood Castle, and appoint some 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 235 
 
 retired part of it for Lady Matilda, against the annual visit 
 which her father should pay there. To confirm this 
 caution, 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 further uttered 
 the severest threats should these restrictions ever he in- 
 fringed. 
 
 Sandford 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 pretence that " he could not 
 live in the smoke of London," he set out for the north. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say with what joy Sandford was 
 received by Miss Woodley, and the hapless daughter of 
 Lady Elmwood, even before he told his errand. They 
 both loved him sincerely; more especially Lady Matilda, 
 whose forlorn state, and innocent sufferings, had ever excited 
 his compassion, and caused him to treat her with affection, 
 tenderness, and respect. She knew, too, how much he had 
 been her mother's friend ; for that she also loved him ; and 
 for his being honoured with the friendship of her father, she 
 looked up to him with reverence. For Matilda, with an 
 excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years, and 
 having been early accustomed to the private converse 
 between Lady Elmwood and Miss Woodley, was perfectly 
 acquainted with the whole fatal history of her mother ; and 
 was, by her, taught the esteem and admiration of her father's 
 virtues which they so justly merited. 
 
 Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sandford's presence, once 
 more to cheer their solitary dwelling ; no sooner were the 
 first kind greetings over, than the dread of what he might 
 have to inform them of, possessed poor Matilda and Miss 
 
236 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was changed 
 into affright. Their apprehension was far more forcible 
 than their curiosity ; they dared not ask a question, and 
 even began to wish he would continue silent upon the 
 subject to 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 Sandford, " for 
 you to think of him, though he should never think of 
 you." 
 
 She burst into tears, and said that she " did think of him, 
 but she felt an apprehension of mentioning his name." And 
 she wept bitterly while she spoke. 
 
 " Do not think I reproved you," said Sandford ; " I only 
 told you what was right." 
 
 " 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 Sandford. 
 
 "Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Matilda, clasping her hands 
 together, and the tears falling still faster. 
 
 " Do not be so much alarmed, my dear," said Miss 
 Woodley ; " you know we are prepared for the worst ; and 
 you know you promised your mother, whatever your fate 
 should be, to submit with patience." 
 
 " Yes," replied Matilda, " and I am prepared for every- 
 thing, but my father's refusal to my dear mother." 
 
 "Your father has not refused your mother's request," 
 replied Sandford. 
 
 She was leaping from her seat in ecstasy. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 237 
 
 "But," continued he, "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, Sandford now read 
 the letter to her; and repeated, as nearly as he could 
 remember, the whole of the conversation that passed be- 
 tween Lord Elmwood and himself; noiL 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 con- 
 cerned. Once she called him cruel — then exclaimed, "he 
 was kind ; " but at the end of Sandford's intelligence, con- 
 cluded "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 expectation 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. 
 Yet she had the prudence to conceal those vague hopes 
 from his child, lest a disappointment might prove fatal ; and 
 assuming a behaviour neither too much elated or depressed, 
 
238 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 Sandford, first visiting Lady 
 Elmwood's grave, and bedewing it with their tears. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 It was on a dark evening in the month of March, that 
 Lady Matilda, accompanied by Sandford and Miss Woodley, 
 arrived at Elmwood Castle, the magnificent seat of her 
 father. Sandford chose the evening, rather to steal into 
 the house privately, than by any appearance of parade to 
 suffer Lord Elmwood to be reminded of their arrival by the 
 public prints, or by any other accident. Nor would he give 
 the neighbours or servants reason to suppose the daughter 
 of their Lord was admitted into his house, in any other 
 situation than that in which she really was permitted to 
 be there. 
 
 As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the 
 carriage that brought them, Matilda felt an awful and yet 
 gladsome sensation, which no terms can describe. As she 
 entered the door of the mansion this sensation increased, 
 and as she passed along the spacious hall, the splendid 
 staircase, and many stately apartments, wonder, with a 
 crowd of the tenderest, yet most afflicting sentiments, 
 rushed 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 burden, which 
 was before insupportable. 
 
 "Yes," replied Sandford, "and you are the mistress of 
 it now till your father arrives." 
 
240 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! " exclaimed she, " and will he ever arrive? 
 and shall I live to sleep under the same roof with my 
 father ? " 
 
 " My dear," replied Miss Woodley, " have not you been 
 told so ? " 
 
 "Yes," said she, "but though I heard it with extreme 
 pleasure, yet the expectation never so forcibly affected me 
 as at this moment. I now feel, as the reality approaches, 
 that to be admitted here is kindness enough : I do not ask 
 for more : I am now convinced, from what this trial makes 
 me feel, that to see my father would occasion emotions I 
 could not perhaps survive." 
 
 The next morning gave to Matilda more objects of admir- 
 ation 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 places 
 which her deceased mother had made her residence, was 
 naturally struck with amazement and delight at the grandeur 
 of a seat, which travellers 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 mould 
 in which her own appeared to have been cast; yet 
 Matilda's person was so extremely like what her mother's 
 once had been, that at the first glance she appeared to 
 bear a still greater resemblance to her than to her father 
 — but her mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood's, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 24 1 
 
 softened by the delicacy of her sex, the extreme ' tender- 
 ness 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, as her mother, when she 
 first became the ward of Dorriforth. She was just three 
 years old when her father went abroad, and remembered 
 something of bidding him farewell ; but more of taking 
 cherries from his hand, as he pulled them from the tree 
 to give to her. 
 
 Educated in the school of adversity, and inured to retire- 
 ment from her infancy, she had acquired a taste for all those 
 amusements which a recluse life affords. She was fond of 
 walking and riding — was accomplished in the arts of music 
 and drawing, by the most careful instructions of her mother 
 — and as a scholar, she excelled most of her sex, from the 
 pains which Sandford had taken with that part of her 
 education, and the superior abilities he possessed for the 
 task. 
 
 In devoting certain hours of the day to study with him, 
 others to music, riding, and such harmless recreations, 
 Matilda's time never appeared tedious at Elmwood Castle, 
 although she received and paid no one visit ; for it was soon 
 divulged in the neighbourhood upon what stipulation she 
 resided at her father's, and studiously intimated, that the 
 most prudent and friendly behaviour of her true friends 
 would be, to take no notice whatever that she lived among 
 them ; and as Lord Elmwood's will was a law all around, 
 such was the consequence of that will, known, or merely 
 supposed. 
 
 Neither did Miss Woodley regret the want of 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, 
 
 R 
 
242 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 in this charming habitation, 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 Elm- 
 wood. The week in which he was to come was at length 
 fixed, and some part of his retinue had 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 
 m terrified at his approach. Sandford, observing this involun- 
 tary emotion, put out his hand, and, taking hers, shook it 
 kindly, and bade her (but it was not in a cheering tone) " not 
 be afraid." This gave her no confidence; and she began, 
 before her father's arrival, to seclude herself in the apart- 
 ments allotted for her during the time of his stay ; and, in the 
 timorous expectation of his coming, her appetite declined 
 and she lost all her colour. Even Miss Woodley, whose 
 spirits had been for some time elated with the hopes she had 
 formed from his residence at the castle, on drawing near to 
 the test, found those hopes vanished ; and though she en- 
 deavoured to conceal it, she was full of apprehensions. 
 Sandford had certainly fewer fears than either; yet, upon 
 the eve of the day on which his patron was to arrive, he was 
 evidently cast down. 
 
 Lady Matilda once asked him, "Are you certain, Mr. 
 Sandford, you made no mistake in respect to what Lord 
 Elmwood said when he granted my mother's request ? Are 
 you sure he did grant it ? Was there nothing 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 his house ! Oh, save me from provoking him 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 243 
 
 perhaps to execrate me ! " And here she clasped her hands 
 together with the most fervent petition, in the dread of what 
 might happen. 
 
 " If you doubt my words or my senses," said Sandford, 
 "call Giffard, who is just arrived, 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. Sandford, yet her fears suggested a 
 thousand scruples ; and this reference to the steward she 
 received with the utmost satisfaction, though she did not 
 think it necessary to apply to him, as it perfectly convinced 
 her of the folly of the suspicions she had entertained. 
 
 " And yet, Mr. Sandford," said she, " if it is so, why are 
 you less cheerful than you were? I cannot help thinking 
 but it must be the expected arrival of Lord Elmwood which 
 has occasioned this change." 
 
 " I don't know," replied Sandford, carelessly ; " but I 
 believe I am grown afraid of your father. His temper is a 
 good deal altered from what it once was. He raises his 
 voice and uses harsh expressions upon the least provo- 
 cation ; 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 verily 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 
 
 R 2 
 
244 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 lead- 
 ing to the gallery they had a key, to impede any one from 
 passing that way without first ringing a bell, to answer 
 which was the sole employment of a servant who was placed 
 there during the Earl's residence, lest by any 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, so that she might avoid his presence by 
 retiring to an inner room. 
 
 Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did 
 not dine. Sandford dined as usual with Lord Elmwood. 
 When tea was brought, Miss Woodley asked the servant 
 who attended if he had seen his Lord. The man answered, 
 " Yes, Madam ; and he looks vastly well." Matilda wept 
 with joy to hear it. 
 
 About nine in the evening Sandford rang at the bell and 
 was admitted. Never had he been so welcome. 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. Sandford ? " she returned, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Oh, very well," replied he. 
 
 " Is my Lord in a good temper ?" asked Miss Woodley. 
 
 " Yes ; very well," replied Sandford, with indifference. 
 
 "Did he seem glad to see you ?" asked Matilda. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 245 
 
 " He shook me by the hand," replied Sandford. 
 
 " That was a sign he was glad to see you, was it not ? " 
 said Matilda. 
 
 " Yes ; but he could not do less." 
 
 " Nor more," replied she. 
 
 "He looks very well, our servant tells us," said Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 "Extremely well, indeed," answered Sandford; "and, to 
 tell the truth, I never saw him in better spirits." 
 
 " That is well," said Matilda, and sighed a weight of fears 
 from her heart. 
 
 " Where is he now, Mr. Sandford ? " 
 
 " Gone to take a walk about the 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 to-morrow? " cried Matilda. "What happi- 
 ness ! " 
 
 " He has visitors to-morrow," said Sandford, " coming for 
 a week or two." 
 
 "Thank Heaven," said Miss Woodley; "he will then be 
 diverted from thinking of us." 
 
 "Do you know," returned Sandford, "it is my firm 
 opinion that his thinking of ye at present is the cause of 
 his good spirits." 
 
 " Oh, Heavens ! " cried Matilda, lifting up her hands with 
 rapture. 
 
 " Nay, do not mistake me," said Sandford ; " I would not 
 have you build a foundation for joy upon this surmise; for if 
 he is in spirits that you are in this house — so near him — 
 positively under his protection, yet he will not allow himself 
 
246 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 to think it is the cause of his content ; and the sentiments 
 he has adopted, and which are now become natural to him, 
 will remain the same as ever; nay, perhaps with greater 
 force should he suspect his weakness, as he calls it, acting in 
 opposition to them. 
 
 " If he does but think of me with tenderness," cried 
 Matilda, " I am recompensed." 
 
 " And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to 
 you," said Sandford, " were he to turn you out to 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 ? " 
 
 "No, Mr. Sandford; but supposing we could know them, 
 without proof?" 
 
 " But as that is impossible," answered he, " I shall sup- 
 pose, 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 be- 
 lieved 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. Sandford that his Lord was returned 
 from his walk and had inquired for him. Sandford imme- 
 diately bade his companions good night and left them. 
 
 " How strange is this ! " cried Matilda, when Miss Wood- 
 ley and she were alone ; " my father within a few rooms of 
 me, and yet I am debarred from seeing him! Only by 
 walking a few paces I could be at his feet, and perhaps re- 
 ceive 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 counsel could 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 247 
 
 tempt me to such temerity. And yet to entertain the 
 thought that it is possible I could do this, is a source of 
 infinite comfort." 
 
 This conversation lasted till bedtime, and later; for they 
 sat up beyond their usual hour to indulge it. 
 
 Miss Woodley slept little, but Matilda less. She awaked 
 repeatedly during the night, and every time sighed to her- 
 self, " I sleep in the same house with my father ! Blessed 
 spirit of my mother, look down and rejoice." 
 
248 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 The next day the whole castle appeared to Lady Matilda 
 (though she was in some degree retired from it) all tumult 
 and bustle, as was usually the case while Lord Elmwood 
 was there. She saw from her windows the servants running 
 across the yards and park; horses and carriages driving 
 with fury ; all the suite of a nobleman ; and it sometimes 
 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 Sandford, with all his penetra- 
 tion, 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 extra- 
 ordinary), 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 con- 
 tradictions in Lord Elmwood's behaviour in respect to her, 
 it was Miss Woodley's plan neither to throw herself in his 
 way nor avoid him. She therefore frequently walked about 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 249 
 
 the house while he was in it, not, indeed, entirely without 
 restraint, but at least with the show of liberty. This free- 
 dom, 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, there- 
 fore, stood still. 
 
 Disconcerted, and much affected at his sight (their 
 former intimacy coming to her mind with the many years, 
 and many sad occurrences passed, since she last saw 
 him), all her intentions, all her meditated schemes how to 
 conduct herself on such an occasion, gave way to a sudden 
 shock — and to make the meeting yet more distressing, her 
 very fright, she knew, would serve to recall more power- 
 fully 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, GirTard observing him look at her earnestly, said 
 softly, but so that she heard him — 
 
 " My Lord, it is Miss Woodley." 
 
 Lord Elmwood took off his hat instantly ; and, with an 
 apparent friendly warmth, laying hold of her hand, he 
 said — 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Woodley, 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. 
 
250 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 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 coulcl not reply distinctly, she replied with- 
 out 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 intreated 
 she would dine that very day with him and Mr. Sandford, who 
 were to dine without other company. She courtesied assent, 
 and flew to tell Matilda what had occurred. 
 
 After 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. 
 
 When Miss Woodley made her appearance at dinner, 
 Sandford (who had not seen her since the invitation, and 
 did not know of it) looked amazed ! — on which Lord Elm- 
 wood said — 
 
 "Do you know, Sandford, I met Miss Woodley this 
 morning, and had it not been for Giffard, I should have 
 passed her without knowing her. But Miss Woodley, if I 
 am not so much altered but that you knew me, I take it 
 unkind you did not speak first." 
 
 She was unable to speak even now: he saw it, and 
 changed the conversation ; when Sandford eagerly joined 
 in fresh discourse, which relieved him from the pain of the 
 former. 
 
 As they advanced in their dinner, the embarrassment 
 of Miss Woodley and of Mr. Sandford diminished. Lord 
 Elmwood, in his turn, became not embarrassed, but 
 absent and melancholy. He now and then sighed heavily 
 — and called for wine much oftener than he was accus- 
 tomed. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 25 1 
 
 When Miss Woodley took her leave, he invited her to 
 dine with him and Sandford whenever it was convenient 
 to her ; — he said, besides, many things of the same kind, 
 and all with the utmost civility, yet not with that warmth 
 with which he had spoken in the morning — into that he 
 had been surprised — his coolness was the effect of re- 
 flection. 
 
 When she came to Lady Matilda, and Sandford had 
 joined them, they talked and deliberated on what had 
 passed. 
 
 "You acknowledge, Mr. Sandford," said Miss Woodley, 
 " that you think my presence affected Lord Elmwood, so as 
 to make him much more thoughtful than usual. If you 
 imagine these thoughts were upon Lady 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 Sandford, " therefore you must e'en visit him 
 on, and take your chance, what reflections you may cause — 
 but, be they what they will, time will steal away from you 
 that power of affecting him." 
 
 She concurred in the opinion, and occasionally she walked 
 into Lord Elmwood's apartments, dined, or took her coffee 
 with him, as the accident suited ; and observed, according 
 to Sandford's prediction, that time wore off the impression 
 her visits first made. 
 
 Lord Elmwood now became just the same before her 
 as before others. She easily discerned, too, through all 
 Jthat politeness which he assumed — that he was no longer 
 the considerate, the forbearing character he formerly was ; 
 but haughty, impatient, imperious, and more than ever im- 
 placable. 
 
252 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 When Lord Elmwood had been at his country-seat 
 about six weeks, Mr. Rushbrook, his nephew, and his 
 adopted child — that friendless boy whom Lady Elmwood 
 first introduced into his uncle's house, and by her kindness 
 preserved there — arrived from his travels, and was received 
 by his uncle with all the marks of affection due to the man 
 he thought worthy to be his heir. Rushbrook had been a 
 beautiful boy, and was now an extremely handsome young 
 man. He had made unusual progress in his studies ; had 
 completed the tour of Italy and Germany, and returned 
 home with the air and address of a perfect man of fashion. 
 There was, besides, an elegance and persuasion in his 
 manner almost irresistible. Yet with all these accomplish- 
 ments, when he was introduced to Sandford, and put forth 
 his hand to take his, Sandford, with evident reluctance, 
 gave it to him ; and when Lord Elmwood asked him, in the 
 young man's presence, " If he did not think his nephew 
 greatly improved?" he looked at him from head to foot, 
 and muttered — " He could not say he observed it," 
 
 The colour heightened in Mr. Rushbrook's face upon the 
 occasion ; but he was too well-bred not to be in perfect 
 good-humour. 
 
 Sandford saw this young man treated, in the house of 
 Lord Elmwood, with the same respect and attention as if 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 253 
 
 he had been his son ; and it was but probable that the old 
 priest would make a comparison between the situation of 
 him and of Lady Matilda Elmwood. 
 
 Before her, it was Sandford's meaning to have concealed 
 his thoughts upon the subject, and never to have men- 
 tioned it but with composure : that was, however, impos- 
 sible — unused to hide his feelings, at the name of Rushbrook 
 his countenance would always change, and a sarcastic sneer, 
 sometimes a frown of resentment, would force its way in 
 spite of his resolution. 
 
 Miss Woodley, too, with all her boundless charity and 
 good-will, was, upon this occasion, induced to limit them ; 
 and they did not extend so far as to reach poor Rushbrook. 
 She even professed not to— and in reality, did not — think 
 him handsome or engaging in his manners ; she thought his 
 gaiety frivolousness, his complaisance, affectation, and his 
 good-humour, impertinence. 
 
 It was impossible to conceal these unfavourable senti- 
 ments entirely from Matilda ; for when the subject arose, as 
 it frequently did, Miss WoodleyVundisguised heart, and 
 Sandford's undisguised countenance, told them instantly. 
 Matilda had the understanding to imagine that she was, 
 perhaps, the object who had thus deformed Mr. Rushbrook 
 in the estimation of her friends, and (though he was a 
 stranger to her, and one who had caused her many a jealous 
 heart-ache) frequently she would speak in his vindication. 
 
 " You are very good," said Sandford, one day to her : 
 " you like him, because you know your father loves 
 him." 
 
 This was a hard sentence for the daughter of Lord 
 Elmwood to hear, to whom her father's love would have 
 been more precious than any other blessing ; she, however, 
 checked the assault of envy, and kindly replied — 
 
 " My mother loved him, too, Mr. Sandford." 
 
254 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Yes," answered Sandford, " he has been a grateful man 
 to your poor mother. She did not suppose when she took 
 him into the house — when she entreated your father to take 
 him — and through her caresses and officious praises of him, 
 first gave him that power which he now possesses over his 
 uncle ; she little foresaw, at that time, his ingratitude, and 
 its effects." 
 
 " Very true," said Miss Woodley, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 "What ingratitude?" asked Matilda, "do you suppose 
 Mr. Rushbrook is the cause that my father will not see 
 me? Oh, do not pay Lord Elmwood's motive so ill a 
 compliment." 
 
 "I do not say that he is the absolute cause," returned 
 Sandford; "but if a parent's heart is void, I would have 
 it remain so, till its lawful owner is replaced. Usurpers I 
 detest." 
 
 "No one can take Lord Elmwood's heart by force," 
 replied his daughter, " it must, I believe, be a free gift 
 to the possessor : and as such, whoever has it, has a right 
 to it." 
 
 In this manner she would plead the young man's excuse 
 — perhaps but to hear what could be said in his dis- 
 favour, for secretly his name was bitter to her — and once 
 she exclaimed in vexation, on Sandford's saying Lord 
 Elmwood and Mr. Rushbrook were gone out shooting 
 together — 
 
 "All that pleasure is eclipsed which I used to take in 
 listening to the report of my father's gun, for I cannot now 
 distinguish his from his parasite's." 
 
 Sandford (much as he disliked Rushbrook) for this ex- 
 pression which comprised her father in the reflection, 
 turned to Matilda in extreme anger — but as he saw the 
 colour rise into her face for what, in the strong feelings of 
 her heart, had escaped her lips, he did not say a word — and 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 255 
 
 by her tears that followed, he rejoiced to see how much she 
 reproved herself. 
 
 Miss Woodley, vexed to the heart, and provoked every 
 time she saw Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook together, and 
 noticed the familiar terms on which this young man lived with 
 his benefactor, now made her visits to him very seldom. 
 
 If Lord Elmwood observed this, he did not appear to 
 observe it ; and though he received her politely when she 
 did pay him a visit, it was always very coldly ; nor did she 
 suppose if she never went, he would ever ask for her. For 
 his daughter's sake, however, she thought it right some- 
 times to shew herself before him ; for she knew it must be 
 impossible that, with all his apparent indifference, he could 
 ever see her without thinking for a moment of his child ; , 
 and what one fortunate thought might sometime bring 
 about, was an object much too serious for her to over- 
 look. 
 
 She, therefore, after remaining confined to her own suite 
 of rooms nearly three weeks (excepting those anxious walks 
 she and Matilda stole, while Lord Elmwood dined, or before 
 he rose in the morning) went one forenoon into his apart- 
 ments, where, as usual, she found him with Mr. Sandford 
 and Mr. Rushbrook. 
 
 After she had sat about half-an-hour, conversing with 
 them all, though but very little with the latter, Lord Elm- 
 wood was called out of the room upon some business ; 
 presently after, Sandford ; and now, by no means pleased 
 with the companion with whom she was left, she rose, and 
 was also retiring, when Rushbrook fixed his speaking eyes 
 upon her, and cried — 
 
 " Miss Woodley, will you pardon me what I am going to 
 say ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Sir — you can, I am sure, say nothing but what 
 I must forgive." But she made this reply with a distance 
 
256 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 and a reserve, very unlike the usual manners of Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
 He looked at her earnestly and cried, " Ah ! Miss 
 Woodley, you don't behave so kindly to me as you used 
 to do ! " 
 
 " I do not understand you, Sir," — she replied very gravely ; 
 "times are changed, Mr. Rushbrook, since you were last 
 here — you were then but a child." 
 
 "Yet I love all those persons now that I loved then," 
 replied he ; " and so I shall for ever." 
 
 " But you mistake, Mr. Rushbrook, I was not even then 
 so very much the object of your affections — there were other 
 ladies you loved better. Perhaps you don't remember Lady 
 Elmwood ? " 
 
 " Do not I," cried he. " Oh ! " (clasping his hands and 
 lifting up his eyes to heaven) " shall I ever forget her ? " 
 
 That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door ; the con- 
 versation of course that moment ended ; but confusion, at 
 the sudden surprise, was on the face of both parties : he 
 saw it, and looked at each of them by turns, with a sternness 
 that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint ; while Rush- 
 brook, with the most natural and happy laugh that ever was 
 affected, cried, "No, don't tell my Lord, pray, Miss 
 Woodley." She was more confused than before, and Lord 
 Elmwood turning to him, asked what the subject was. By 
 this time he had invented one, and, continuing his laugh, 
 said, " Miss Woodley, my Lord, will to this day protest that 
 she saw my apparition when I was a boy ; and she says it is 
 a sign I shall die young, and is really much affected at it." 
 
 Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous speech 
 was concluded ; yet so well had it been acted, that he did 
 not for an instant doubt its truth. 
 
 Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved ; and yet so 
 little is it in the power of those we dislike to do anything to 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 257 
 
 please us, that from this very circumstance she formed a 
 more unfavourable opinion of Mr. Rushbrook than she had 
 done before. She saw in this little incident the art of dis- 
 simulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape ; 
 and detested the method by which they had each escaped 
 Lord Elmwood's suspicion, and perhaps anger, the more, 
 because it was so dexterously managed. 
 
 Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns in- 
 formed of this trait in Mr. Rushbrook's character; and 
 although Miss Woodley had the best of dispositions, and 
 upon every occasion spoke the strictest truth, yet in relating 
 this occurrence, she did not speak all the truth ; for every 
 circumstance that would have told to the young man's ad- 
 vantage literally had slipped her memory. 
 
 The twenty-ninth of October arrived, on which a dinner, 
 a ball, and supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the 
 neighbouring gentry : the peasants also dined in the park 
 off a roasted bullock, several casks of ale were distributed, 
 and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who heard and 
 saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired 
 the cause ; but even the servant who waited upon her had 
 too much sensibility to tell her, and answered, " He did not 
 know." Miss Woodley, however, soon learned the reason, 
 and groaning with the painful secret, informed her, " Mr. 
 Rushbrook on that day was come of age." 
 
 " My birthday was last week," replied Matilda ; but not a 
 word beside. 
 
 In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only 
 soberly, but almost silently; for to speak upon any subject 
 that did not engage their thoughts had been difficult, and to 
 speak upon the only one that did had been afflicting. 
 
 Just as they were sitting down to dinner their bell gently 
 rung, and in walked Sandford. 
 
 " Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford ? " 
 S 
 
258 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 cried Miss Woodley, with an ironical sneer (the first her 
 features ever wore). " Pray, were you not invited to dine 
 with the company ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Sandford; "but my head ached; and so I 
 had rather come and take a bit with you." 
 
 Matilda, as if she had seen his heart as he spoke, clung 
 round his neck and sobbed on his bosom; he put her 
 peevishly away, crying, " Nonsense, nonsense — eat your 
 dinner." But he did not eat any himself. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 About a week after this, Lord Elmwood went out two 
 days for a visit ; consequently Rushbrook was for that time 
 master of the house. The first morning he went a-shooting, 
 and returning about noon, inquired of Sandford, who was 
 sitting in the breakfast-room, if he had taken up a volume of 
 plays left upon the table. " I read no such things," replied 
 Sandford, and quitted the room abruptly. Rushbrook then 
 rang for his servant, and desired him to look for the book,' 
 asking him angrily, " Who had been in the apartment ? for 
 he was sure he had left it there when he went out." The 
 servant withdrew to inquire, and presently returned with 
 the volume in his hand, and " Miss Woodley's compliments ; 
 she begs your pardon, Sir : she did not know the book 
 was yours, and hopes you will excuse the liberty she took." 
 
 " Miss Woodley ! " cried Rushbrook with surprise, " she 
 comes so seldom in these apartments, I did not suppose it 
 was she who had it — take it back to her instantly, with my 
 respects, and I beg she will keep it." 
 
 The man went, but returned with the book again, and 
 laying it on the table without speaking, was going away ; 
 when Rushbrook, hurt at receiving no second message, said, 
 " I am afraid, Sir, you did very wrong when you first took 
 this book from Miss Woodley." 
 
 " It was not from her I took it, Sir," replied the man ; " it 
 was from Lady Matilda." 
 
 S 2 
 
260 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Since he had entered the house, Rushbrook had never 
 before heard the name of Lady Matilda. He was-shocked — ■ 
 confounded more than ever ; and to conceal what he felt, in- 
 stantly ordered the man out of the room. 
 
 In the meantime, Miss Woodley and Matilda were talking 
 over this trifling occurrence ; and frivolous as it was, drew 
 from it strong conclusions of Rushbrook's insolence and 
 power. In spite of her pride, the daughter of Lord 
 Elmwood even wept at the insult she had received on this 
 insignificant occasion ; for the volume being merely taken 
 from her at Mr. Rushbrook's command, she felt an insult ; 
 and the manner in which it was done by the servant might 
 contribute to the offence. 
 
 While Miss Woodley and she were upon this conversa- 
 tion, a note came from Rushbrook to Miss Woodley, 
 wherein he entreated he might be permitted to see her. She 
 sent a verbal answer, " She was engaged." He sent again, 
 begging she would name her own time. But sure of a 
 second denial, he followed the servant who took the last 
 message, and as Miss Woodley came out of her apartment 
 into the gallery to speak to him, Rushbrook presented him- 
 self, and told the man to retire. 
 
 "Mr. Rushbrook," said Miss Woodley, "this intrusion is 
 unmannerly ; and destitute as you may think me of the 
 friendship of Lord Elmwood " 
 
 In the ardour with which Rushbrook was waiting to ex- 
 press himself, he interrupted her, and caught hold of her hand. 
 
 She immediately snatched it from him, and withdrew into 
 her chamber. 
 
 He followed, saying in a low voice, " Dear Miss Woodley, 
 hear me." 
 
 At that juncture Lady Matilda, who was in an inner apart- 
 ment, came out of it into Miss Woodley's. Perceiving a 
 gentleman she stopped short at the door. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 26 1 
 
 Rushbrook cast his eyes upon her, and stood motionless — 
 his lips only moved. "Do not depart, Madam," said he 
 " without hearing my apology for being here." 
 
 Though Matilda had never seen him since her infancy, 
 there was no occasion to tell her who it was that addressed 
 her : his elegant and youthful person, joined to the incident 
 which had just occurred, convinced her it was Rushbrook ; 
 she looked at him with an air of surprise, but, with still 
 more, of dignity. 
 
 " Miss Woodley is severe upon me, Madam," continued 
 he ; " she judges me unkindly ; and I am afraid she will pre- 
 possess you with the same unfavourable sentiments." 
 
 Still Matilda did not speak, but looked at him with the 
 same air of dignity. 
 
 " If, Lady Matilda," resumed he, " I have offended you, 
 and must quit you without pardon, I am more unhappy than 
 I should be with the loss of your father's protection : more 
 forlorn, than when, an orphan boy, your mother first took 
 pity on me." 
 
 At this last sentence, Matilda turned her eyes on Miss 
 Woodley, and seemed in doubt what reply she was to 
 give. 
 
 Rushbrook immediately fell upon his knees — " Oh ! Lady 
 Matilda," cried he, " if you knew the sensations of my 
 heart, you would not treat me with this disdain." 
 
 " We can only judge of those sensations, Mr. Rushbrook," 
 said Miss Woodley, " by the effect they have upon your con- 
 duct; and while you insult Lord and Lady Elmwood's 
 daughter by an intrusion like this, and then ridicule her 
 abject state by mockeries like these " 
 
 He rose from his knees instantly, and interrupted her, 
 crying, " What can I do ? What am I to say, to make you 
 change your opinion of me ? While Lord Elmwood has 
 been at home I have kept an awful distance ; and though 
 
262 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 every moment I breathed was a wish to cast myself at his 
 daughter's feet, yet, as I feared, Miss Woodley, that you 
 were incensed against me, by what means was I to procure 
 an interview but by stratagem or force ? This accident has 
 given a third method, and I had not strength — I had not 
 courage, to let it pass. Lord Elmwood will soon return, 
 and we may both of us be hurried to town immediately ; 
 then how, for a tedious winter, could I endure the reflection 
 that I was despised, nay, perhaps considered as an object 
 of ingratitude, by the only child of my deceased bene- 
 factress ? " 
 
 Matilda replied, with all her father's haughtiness, "De- 
 pend upon it, Sir, if you should ever enter my thoughts, it 
 will only be as an object of envy." 
 
 " Suffer me, then, Madam," said he, " as an earnest that 
 you do not think worse of me than I merit — suffer me to be 
 sometimes admitted into your presence " 
 
 She would scarce permit him to finish the period before 
 she replied, " This is the last time, Sir, we shall ever meet, 
 depend upon it ; unless, indeed, Lord Elmwood should dele- 
 gate to you the control of my actions. His commands I 
 never dispute." And here she burst into tears. 
 
 Rushbrook walked towards the window, and did not 
 speak for some time. Then, turning himself to make a 
 reply, both Matilda and Miss Woodley were somewhat sur- 
 prised to see that he had shed tears himself. Having 
 conquered them, he said, " I will not offend you, Madam, 
 by remaining one moment longer ; and I give you my honour 
 that, upon no pretence whatever, will I presume to intrude 
 here again. Professions, I find, have no weight, and only 
 by this obedience to your orders can I give a proof of that 
 respect which you inspire. And let the agitation I now feel 
 convince you, Lady Matilda, that, with all my seeming good 
 fortune, I am not happier than yourself." And so much was 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 263 
 
 he agitated while he delivered this address, that it was with 
 difficulty he came to the conclusion. When he did he 
 bowed with reverence, as if leaving the presence of a deity 
 and retired. 
 
 Matilda immediately entered the chamber she had left, 
 without casting a single look at Miss Woodley by which she 
 might guess the opinion she had formed of Mr. Rush- 
 brook's conduct. The next time they met they did not even 
 mention his name ; for they were ashamed to own a par- 
 tiality in his favour, and were too just to bring any accusation 
 against him. 
 
 But Miss Woodley, the day following, communicated the 
 intelligence of his visit to Mr. Sandford, who, not having 
 been present and a witness of those marks of humility and 
 respect which were conspicuous in the deportment of Mr. 
 Rushbrook, was highly offended at his presumption, and 
 threatened if he ever dared to force his company there 
 again, he would acquaint Lord Elmwood with his arrogance, 
 whatever might be the event. Miss Woodley, however, 
 assured him she believed he would have no cause for such a 
 complaint, as the young man had made the most solemn 
 promise never to commit the like offence ; and she thought 
 it her duty to enjoin Sandford, till he did repeat it, not to 
 mention the circumstance, even to Rushbrook himself. 
 
 Matilda could not but feel a regard for her father's heir in 
 return for that which he had so fervently declared for her;; 
 yet the more favourable her opinion of his mind and man- 
 ners, the more he became an object of her jealousy for the 
 affections of Lord Elmwood ; and he was now, consequently, 
 an object of greater sorrow to her than when she believed 
 him less worthy. These sentiments were reversed on his 
 part towards her. No jealousy intervened to bar his admi- 
 ration and esteem. The beauty of her person, and grandeur 
 of her mien, not only confirmed, but improved, the exalted 
 
 
264 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 idea he had formed of her previous to their meeting, and 
 which his affection for both her parents had inspired. The 
 next time he saw his benefactor he began to feel a new 
 esteem and regard for him for his daughter's sake, as he had 
 at first an esteem for her on the foundation of his love for 
 Lord and Lady Elmwood. He gazed with wonder at his 
 uncle's insensibility to his own happiness, and would gladly 
 have led him to the jewel he cast away, though even his own 
 expulsion should have been the fatal consequence. Such 
 was the youthful, warm, generous, grateful, but unreflecting 
 mind of Rushbrook. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 After this incident Miss Woodley left her apartments less 
 frequently than before. She was afraid, though till now 
 mistrust had been a stranger to her heart — she was afraid 
 that duplicity might be concealed under the apparent friend- 
 ship of Rushbrook ; it did not, indeed, appear so from any 
 part of his late behaviour, but she was apprehensive for the 
 fate of Matilda. She disliked him, too, and therefore she sus- 
 pected him. For nearly three weeks she had not now paid 
 a visit to Lord Elmwood ; and though to herself every visit 
 was a pain, yet, as Matilda took a delight in hearing of her 
 father, — what he said, what he did, what his attention seemed 
 most employed on, and a thousand other circumstantial pieces 
 of information, in which Sandford would scorn to be half so 
 particular, it was a deprivation to her that Miss Woodley 
 did not go oftener. Now, too, the middle of November was 
 come, and it was expected her father would soon quit his 
 country seat. 
 
 Partly, therefore, to indulge her hapless companion, and 
 partly because it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again 
 paid Lord Elmwood a morning visit, and stayed dinner. 
 Rushbrook was officiously polite (for that was the epithet 
 she gave his attention in relating it to Lady Matilda), yet 
 she owned he had not that forward impertinence she had 
 formerly discovered in him, but appeared much more grave 
 and sedate. 
 
266 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " But tell me of my father," said Matilda. 
 
 " I was going, my dear. But don't be concerned — don't 
 let it vex you." 
 
 " What — what ? " cried Matilda, frightened by the preface. 
 
 "Why, on my observing that I thought Mr. Rushbrook 
 looked paler than usual, and appeared not to be in perfect 
 health (which was really the case), your father expressed the 
 greatest anxiety imaginable. He said he could not bear to 
 see him look so ill ; begged him, with all the tenderness of a 
 parent, to take the advice of a physician, and added a thou- 
 sand other affectionate things." 
 
 "I detest Mr. Rushbrook!" said Matilda, with her eyes 
 flashing indignation. 
 
 " Nay, for shame," returned Miss Woodley. " Do you 
 suppose I told you this to make you hate him ? " 
 
 "No; there was no occasion for that," replied Matilda: 
 " My sentiments, though I have never before avowed them, 
 were long ago formed: he was always an object which 
 added to my unhappiness; but since his daring intrusion 
 into my apartments, he has been the object of my hatred." 
 
 " But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please 
 you," cried Miss Woodley. 
 
 " And what is that ? " said Matilda, with indifference ; for 
 the first intelligence had hurt her spirits too much to suffer 
 her to listen with pleasure to anything. 
 
 " Mr. Rushbrook," continued Miss Woodley, " replied to 
 your father that his indisposition was but a slight nervous 
 fever, and he would defer seeking a physician's advice till he 
 went to London ; on which Lord Elmwood said, ' And when 
 do you expect to be there ? ' He replied, ' Within a week or 
 two, I suppose, my Lord.' But your father answered, ' I do 
 not mean to go myself till after Christmas.' ' No, indeed, 
 my Lord! ' said Mr. Sandford, with surprise; 'you have not 
 passed your Christmas here these many years.' 'No,' re- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 267 
 
 turned your father : ' but I think I feel myself more attached 
 to this house at present than ever I did in my life. 5 " 
 
 " You imagine, then, my father thought of me when he 
 said this ! " cried Matilda, eagerly. 
 
 " But I may be mistaken," replied Miss Woodley. " I 
 leave you to judge. Though I am sure Mr. Sandford ima- 
 gined he thought of you ; for I saw a smile over his whole 
 face immediately." 
 
 " Did you, Miss Woodley ? " 
 
 "Yes. It appeared on every feature except his lips; 
 those he kept fast closed, for fear Lord Elmwood should 
 perceive it." 
 
 Miss Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did not, 
 however, acquaint Matilda that Rushbrook followed her to 
 the window when the Earl was out of the room, and Sand- 
 ford half asleep at the other end of it, and inquired respect- 
 fully but anxiously for her; adding, " It is my concern for 
 Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed. I suffer 
 more than she does ; but I am not permitted to tell her so, 
 nor can I hope, Miss Woodley, that you will." She replied, 
 "You are right, Sir." Nor did she reveal this conversation, 
 while not a sentence that passed except that was omitted. 
 
 When Christmas arrived Lord Elmwood had many con- 
 vivial days at Elmwood House; but Matilda was never 
 mentioned by one of his guests, and, most probably, was 
 never thought of. During all those holidays she was un- 
 usually melancholy, but sank into the deepest dejection 
 when she was told the day was fixed on which her father 
 was to return to town. On the morning of that day she 
 wept incessantly, and all her consolation was, " She would 
 go to the chamber window that was fronting the door 
 through which he was to pass to his carriage, and, for the 
 first time, and most probably for the last time in her life, 
 behold him. 
 
268 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 This design was soon forgot in another : — " She would 
 rush boldly into the apartment where he was, and at his feet 
 take leave of him for ever — she would lay hold of his hands, 
 clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her, which would be 
 joy in comparison to this cruel indifference." In the bitter- 
 ness of her grief, she once called upon her mother, and re- 
 proached her memory — but the moment she recollected this 
 offence, (which was almost instantaneously) she became all 
 mildness and resignation. " What have I said ? " cried she, 
 "Dear, dear honoured saint, forgive me; and for your sake 
 I will bear all I have to bear, with patience — I will not 
 groan, I will not even sigh again : this task I set myself to 
 atone for what I have dared to utter." 
 
 While Lady Matilda laboured under this variety of sensa- 
 tions, Miss Woodley was occupied in bewailing and en- 
 deavouring to calm her sorrows — and Lord Elmwood, with 
 Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The Earl, however, 
 loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone. When 
 at last he got up to depart, Sandford thought he pressed his 
 hand, and shook it with more warmth than ever he had 
 done in his life. Encouraged by this supposition, Sandford 
 said " My Lord, won't you condescend to take your leave of 
 'Miss Woodley ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Sandford," replied he, and seemed glad of an 
 excuse to sit down again. 
 
 Impressed with the pitiable state in which he had left his 
 only child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord 
 Elmwood to bid him farewell, was pale, trembling and in 
 tears. 
 
 Sandford, notwithstanding his patron's apparently kind 
 humour, was alarmed at the construction he must put upon 
 her appearance, and cried, " What, Miss Woodley, are you 
 not recovered of your illness yet?" 
 
 Lord Elmwood, however, took no notice of her looks, but 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 269 
 
 after wishing her good health, walked slowly out of the house ; 
 turning back frequently and speaking to Sandford, or to 
 some other person who was behind him, as if part of his 
 thoughts were left behind, and he went with reluctance. 
 
 When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was, 
 Rushbrook, timid before her, as she had been before her 
 benefactor, went up to her, all humility, and said, "Miss 
 Woodley, we ought to be friends ; our concern, our devotion 
 is paid to the same objects, and one common interest should 
 teach us to be friendly." 
 
 She made no reply. " Will you permit me to write to you 
 when I am away ? " said he. " You may wish to hear of 
 Lord Elmwood's health, and of what changes may take 
 place in his resolutions. Will you permit me ? " At that 
 moment a servant came and said, " Sir, my Lord is in the 
 carriage, and waiting for you." He hastened away, and 
 Miss Woodley was relieved from the pain of giving him a 
 denial. t 
 
 No sooner was the travelling carriage, with all its at- 
 tendants, out of sight, than Lady Matilda was conducted by 
 Miss Woodley from her lonely retreat, into that part of the 
 house from whence her father had just departed : and she 
 visited every spot where he had so long resided, with a 
 pleasing curiosity, that for a while diverted her grief. In 
 the breakfast and dining-rooms, she leaned over those seats 
 with a kind of filial piety, on which she was told he had 
 been accustomed to sit. And, in the library, she todk up 
 with filial delight, the pen with which he had been writing ; 
 and looked with the most curious attention into those books 
 that were laid upon his reading-desk. But a hat, lying on 
 one of the tables, gave her a sensation beyond any other she 
 experienced on this occasion — in that trifling article of his 
 dress, she thought she saw himself, and held it in her hand 
 with pious reverence. 
 
270 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 In the meantime, Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were 
 proceeding on the road, with hearts not less heavy than 
 those which they had left at Elmwood House; though 
 neither of them could so well define the cause of this op- 
 pression, as Matilda could account for the weight which op- 
 pressed hers. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 27 1 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 YOUNG as Lady Matilda was during the life of her 
 mother, neither her youth, nor the recluse state in which she 
 lived, had precluded her from the notice and solicitations of 
 a nobleman who had professed himself her lover. Viscount 
 Margrave had an estate not far distant from the retreat 
 Lady Elmwood had chosen ; and being devoted to the sports 
 of the country, he seldom quitted it for any of those joys 
 which the town offered. He was a young man, of a hand- 
 some person, and was, what his neighbours called, " a man 
 of spirit." He was an excellent fox-hunter, and as excellent 
 a companion over his bottle at the end of the chase ; he was 
 prodigal of his fortune, where his pleasures were concerned, 
 and as those pleasures were chiefly social, his sporting com- 
 panions and his mistresses (for these were also of the plural 
 number) partook largely of his wealth. 
 
 Two months previous to Lady Elmwood's death, Miss 
 Woodley and Lady Matilda were taking their usual walk in 
 some fields and lanes near to their house, when chance 
 threw Lord Margrave in their way during a thunderstorm in 
 which they were suddenly caught ; and he had the satisfac- 
 tion to convey his new acquaintances to their home in his 
 coach, safe from the fury of the elements. Grateful for the 
 service he had rendered them, Miss Woodley and her 
 charge permitted him to inquire occasionally after her 
 
272 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 health, and would sometimes see him. The story of Lady 
 Elmwood was known to Lord Margrave, and as he beheld 
 her daughter with a passion such as he had been unused to 
 overcome, he indulged it with the probable hope, that on the 
 death of the mother Lord Elmwood would receive his child, 
 and perhaps accept him as his son-in-law. Wedlock was 
 not the plan which Lord Margrave had ever proposed to 
 himself for happiness ; but the excess of his love on this 
 new occasion, subdued all the resolutions he had formed 
 against the married state ; and not daring to hope for the 
 consummation of his wishes by any other means, he suffered 
 himself to look forward to marriage as his only resource. 
 No sooner had the long expected death of Lady Elmwood 
 happened, than he waited with impatience to hear that Lady 
 Matilda was sent for and acknowledged by her father; for 
 he meant to be the first to lay before Lord Elmwood his 
 pretensions as a suitor. But those pretensions were founded 
 on the vague hopes of a lover only; and Miss Woodley, to 
 whom he first declared them, said eveiything possible to 
 convince him of their fallacy. As to the object of his 
 passion, she was not only insensible, but wholly inattentive 
 to all that was said to her on the subject. Lady Elmwood 
 died without ever being disturbed with it ; for her daughter 
 did not even remember his proposals so as to repeat them 
 again, and Miss Woodley thought it prudent to conceal from 
 her friend every new incident which might give her cause 
 for new anxieties. 
 
 When Sandford and the ladies left the north and came to 
 Elmwood House, so much were their thoughts employed 
 with other affairs, that Lord Margrave did not occupy a place 
 in them ; and during the whole time they had been at their 
 new abode they had never once heard of him. He had, 
 nevertheless, his whole mind fixed upon Lady Matilda, and 
 had placed spies in the neighbourhood to inform him of 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 273 
 
 every circumstance relating to her situation. Having im- 
 bibed an aversion to matrimony, he heard with but little 
 regret that there was no prospect of her ever becoming her 
 father's heir, while such an information gave him the hope 
 of obtaining her upon the terms of a mercenary com- 
 panion. 
 
 Lord Elmwood's departure to town forwarded this hope, 
 and flattering himself that the humiliating state in which 
 Matilda must feel herself in the house of her father, might 
 gladly induce her to take shelter under any other protection, 
 he boldly advanced as soon as the Earl was gone, to make 
 such overtures as his wishes and his vanity told him could 
 not be rejected. 
 
 Inquiring for Miss Woodley, he easily gained admittance ; 
 but at the sight of so much modesty and dignity in the 
 person of Matilda, the appearance of so much good will, 
 and yet such circumspection in her female friend, and 
 charmed at the good sense and proper spirit which were 
 always apparent in Sandford, he fell once more into the 
 dread of never becoming to Lady Matilda anything of more 
 importance to his reputation than a husband. 
 
 Even that humble hope was sometimes denied him, while 
 Sandford set forth the impropriety of troubling Lord Elm- 
 wood on such a subject at present ; and while the Viscount's 
 penetration, small as it was, discovered in his fair one more 
 to discourage than to favour his wishes. Plunged, however, 
 too deep in his passion to emerge from it in haste, he meant 
 still to visit, and to wait for a change to happier circum- 
 stances when he was peremptorily desired by Mr. Sand- 
 ford to desist from ever coming again. 
 
 "And why, Mr. Sandford?" cried he. 
 
 " For two reasons, my Lord ; in the first place, your visits 
 might be displeasing to Lord Elmwood : in the next place, 
 I know they are so to his daughter." 
 
 T 
 
274 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Unaccustomed to be addressed so plainly, particularly in 
 a case where his heart was interested, he nevertheless sub- 
 mitted with patience ; but, in his own mind, determined how 
 long this patience should continue — no longer than it served 
 as the means to prove his obedience, and by that artifice to 
 secure his better reception at some future period. 
 
 On his return home, cheered with the huzzas of his jovial 
 companions, he began to consult those friends as to what 
 scheme was best to be adopted for the accomplishment of his 
 desires. Some boldly advised application to the father in de- 
 fiance of the old priest ; but that was the very last method 
 his Lordship himself approved, as marriage must inevitably 
 have followed Lord Elmwood's consent ; besides, though a 
 peer, Lord Margrave was unused to associate with peers ; 
 and even the formality of an interview with one of his equals, 
 carried along with it a terror, or at least a fatigue, to a rustic 
 Lord. Others of his companions advised seduction; but 
 happily the Viscount possessed no arts of this kind, to affect 
 a heart joined with such an understanding as Matilda's. 
 There were not wanting among his most favourite 
 counsellors some who painted the superior triumph and 
 gratification of force ; those assured him there was nothing 
 to apprehend under this head, as from the behaviour of 
 Lord Elmwood to his child it was more than probable he 
 would be utterly indifferent to any violence that might be 
 offered her. This last advice seemed inspired by the aid of 
 wine ; and no sooner had the wine freely circulated, than 
 this was always the expedient which appeared by far the 
 best. 
 
 While Lord Margrave alternately cherished his hopes and 
 his fears in the country, Rushbrook in town gave way to his 
 fears only. Every day of his life made him more acquainted 
 with the firm, unshaken temper of Lord Elmwood, and every 
 day whispered more forcibly to him, that pity, gratitude, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 275 
 
 and friendship, strong and affectionate as these passions are, 
 were weak and cold to that which had gained the posses- 
 sion of his heart ; he doubted, but he did not long doubt, 
 that which he felt was love. " And yet," said he to himself, 
 " it is love of such a kind as, arising from causes independent 
 of the object itself, can scarcely deserve that sacred name. 
 Did I not love Lady Matilda before I beheld her? — for 
 her mother's sake I loved her — and even for her father's. 
 Should I have felt the same affection for her had she been 
 the child of other parents? No. Or should I have felt 
 that sympathetic tenderness which now preys upon my 
 health, had not her misfortunes excited it ? No." Yet the 
 love which is the result of gratitude and pity only, he 
 thought had little claim to rank with his ; and after the 
 most deliberate and deep reflection, he concluded with 
 this decisive opinion. He should have loved Lady Matilda, 
 in whatever state, in whatever circumstances ; and that 
 the tenderness he felt towards her, and the anxiety for her 
 happiness before he knew her, extreme as they were, 
 were yet cool and dispassionate sensations, compared to 
 those which her person and demeanor had inspired — and 
 though he acknowledged that by the preceding sentiments 
 his heart had been softened, prepared, and moulded, as it 
 were, to receive this last impression ; yet the violence of his 
 passion told him that genuine love, if not the basis on 
 which it was founded, had been the certain consequence. 
 With a strict scrutiny into his heart he sought this know- 
 ledge, but arrived at it with a regret that amounted to 
 despair. 
 
 To shield himself from despondency, he formed in his mind 
 a thousand visions, displaying the joys of his union with 
 Lady Matilda ; but her father's implacability confounded 
 them all. Lord Elmwood was a man who made few 
 resolutions — but those were the effect of deliberation ; and 
 
 T 2 
 
276 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 as he was not the least capricious or inconstant in his 
 temper, they were resolutions which no probable event 
 could shake. Love, which produces wonders, which seduces 
 and subdues the most determined and rigid spirits, had 
 in two instances overcome the inflexibility of Lord Elm- 
 wood ; he married Lady Elmwood contrary to his deter- 
 mination, because he loved ; and for the sake of this 
 beloved object, he had, contrary to his resolution, taken 
 under his immediate care young Rushbrook ; but the magic 
 which once enchanted away this spirit of immutability was 
 no more ; — Lady Elmwood was no more, and the charm was 
 broken. 
 
 As Miss Woodley was deprived of the opportunity of 
 desiring Rushbrook not to write, when he asked her the 
 permission, he passed one whole morning, in the gratifica- 
 tion of forming and writing a letter to her, which he thought 
 might possibly be shewn to Matilda. As he dared not 
 touch upon any of those circumstances in which he was 
 the most interested, this, joined to the respect he wished 
 to pay the lady to whom he wrote, limited his letter to 
 about twenty lines ; yet the studious manner with which 
 these lines were dictated, the hope that they might, and 
 the fear that they might not, be seen and regarded by Lady 
 Matilda, rendered the task an anxiety so pleasing, that he 
 could have wished it might have lasted for a year ; and 
 in this tendency to magnify trifles was discoverable the 
 never-failing symptom of ardent love. 
 
 A reply to this formal address, was a reward he wished 
 for with impatience, but he wished in vain ; and in the midst 
 of his chagrin at the disappointment, a sorrow, little thought 
 of, occurred, and gave him a perturbation of mind he had 
 never before experienced. Lord Elmwood proposed a wife 
 to him : and in a way so assured of his acquiescence, that 
 if Rushbrook's life had depended upon his daring to dispute 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 277 
 
 his benefactor's will, he would not have had the courage 
 to have done so. There was, however, in his reply, and his 
 embarrasment, something which his uncle distinguished 
 from a free concurrence ; and, looking stedfastly at him, 
 he said, in that stern manner which he now almost invariably 
 assumed — 
 
 " You have no engagements, I suppose ? — Have made no 
 previous promises?" 
 
 " None on earth, my Lord," replied Rushbrook, candidly. 
 
 " Nor have you disposed of your heart ? " 
 
 " No, my Lord," replied he ; — but not candidly, nor with 
 any appearance of candour ; — for though he spoke hastily, 
 it was rather like a man frightened than assured. He 
 hurried to tell the falsehood he thought himself obliged 
 to tell, that the pain and shame might be over : but there 
 he was deceived — the lie once told was more troublesome 
 than in the conception, and added another confusion to the 
 first. 
 
 Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sullen 
 scorn, and, rising from his chair, said, " Rushbrook, if you 
 have been so inconsiderate as to give away your heart, tell 
 me so at once, and tell me the object." 
 
 Rushbrook shuddered at the thought. 
 
 " I here," continued the Earl, " tolerate the first untruth 
 you ever told me, as the false assertion of a lover ; and give 
 you an opportunity of recalling it : but after this moment, 
 it is a lie between man and man — a lie to your friend and 
 father, and I will not forgive it." 
 
 Rushbrook stood silent, confused, alarmed, and bewildered 
 in his thoughts. Lord Elmwood proceeded — 
 
 " Name the person, if there is any, on whom you have 
 bestowed your heart; and though I do not give you the 
 hope that I shall not censure your folly, I will at least not 
 reproach you for having at first denied it." 
 
27^ A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 To repeat these words in writing, the reader must condemn 
 the young man that he could hesitate to own he loved, 
 if he was even afraid to name the object of his passion ; 
 but his interrogator had made the two answers inseparable, 
 so that all evasions of the second, Rushbrook knew would 
 be fruitless, after having avowed the first — and how could he 
 confess the latter ? The absolute orders he received from 
 the steward on his first return from his travels, were, "Never 
 to mention his daughter, any more than his late wife, before 
 Lord Elmwood." The fault of having rudely intruded into 
 Lady Matilda's presence, rushed also upon his mind ; for he 
 did not even dare to say by what means he had beheld her. 
 But, more than all, the threatening manner in which this 
 rational and apparently conciliating speech was uttered, the 
 menaces, the severity which sat upon the Earl's countenance 
 while he delivered those moderate words, might have intimi- 
 dated a man wholly independent, and less used to fear him 
 than his nephew had been. 
 
 "You make no answer, Sir," said Lord Elmwood, after 
 waiting a few moments for his reply. 
 
 " I have only to say, my Lord," returned Rushbrook, 
 " that although my heart may be totally disengaged, I may 
 yet be disinclined to marriage." 
 
 " May ! May ! Your heart may be disengaged," repeated 
 he. "Do you dare to reply to me equivocally, when I have 
 asked a positive answer ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I am not positive myself, my Lord ; but I will 
 enquire into the state of my mind, and make you acquainted 
 with it very soon." 
 
 As the angry demeanour of his uncle affected Rushbrook 
 with fear, so that fear, powerfully, but with proper manliness, 
 expressed, again softened the displeasure of Lord Elmwood ; 
 and seeing and pitying his nephew's sensibility, he now 
 changed his austere voice, and said mildly, but firmly — 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 279 
 
 " I give you a week to consult with yourself ; at the 
 expiration of that time I shall talk with you again, and I 
 command you to be then prepared to speak, not only with- 
 out deceit, but without hesitation." He left the room at 
 these words, and left Rushbrook released from a fate, which 
 his apprehensions had beheld impending that moment. 
 
 He had now a week to call his thoughts together, to weigh 
 every circumstance, and to determine whether implicitly 
 to submit to Lord Elmwood's recommendation of a wife, 
 or to revolt from it ; and see another, with more subser- 
 viency to his will, appointed his heir. 
 
 Undetermined how to act upon this trial which was to 
 decide his future destiny, Rushbrook suffered so poignant an 
 uncertainty, that he became at length ill, and before the end 
 of the week that was allotted him for his reply, he was con- 
 fined to his bed in a high fever. Lord Elmwood was 
 extremely affected at his indisposition ; he gave him every 
 care he could bestow, and even much of his personal attend- 
 ance. This last favour had a claim upon the young man's 
 gratitude superior to every other obligation which since 
 his infancy his benefactor had conferred ; and he was at 
 times so moved by those marks of kindness he received, 
 that he would form the intention of tearing from his heart 
 every trace that Lady Matilda had left there, and, as soon 
 as his health would permit him, obey to the utmost every 
 wish his uncle had conceived. Yet again, her pitiable 
 situation presented itself to his compassion, and her 
 beauteous person to his love. Divided between the claims 
 of obligation to the father and tender attachment to the 
 daughter, his illness was increased by the tortures of his 
 mind, and he once sincerely wished for that death of which 
 he was in danger, to free him from the dilemma in which 
 his affections had involved him. 
 
 At the time his disorder was at the height, and he lay 
 
280 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 complaining of the violence of his fever, Lord Elmwood, 
 taking his hand, asked him " If there was any thing he 
 could do for him ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, my Lord, a great deal," he replied, eagerly. 
 
 "What is it, Harry?" 
 
 " Oh, my Lord," replied he, " that is what I must not tell 
 you." 
 
 "Defer it, then, till you are well," said Lord Elmwood, 
 afraid of being surprised or affected by the state of his 
 health into any promises which he might hereafter find the 
 impropriety of granting. 
 
 "And when I recover, my Lord, you give me leave to 
 reveal to you my wishes, let them be what they will ! " 
 
 His uncle hesitated ; but, seeing an anxiety for the answer, 
 by his raising himself upon his elbow in the bed and staring 
 wildly, Lord Elmwood at last said, " Certainly — yes, yes," 
 as a child is answered for its quiet. 
 
 That Lord Elmwood could have no suspicion what the 
 real petition was, which Rushbrook meant to present him, is 
 certain ; but it is certain he expected he had some request 
 to make, with which it might be wrong for him to comply, 
 and therefore he now avoided hearing what it was; for 
 great as his compassion for him was in his present state, it 
 was not of sufficient force to urge him to give him a pro- 
 mise he did not mean to perform. 
 
 Rushbrook, on his part, was pleased with the assurance 
 he might speak when he was restored to health ; but no 
 sooner was his fever abated, and his senses perfectly re- 
 covered from the slight derangement his malady had 
 occasioned, than the lively remembrance of what he had 
 hinted alarmed him, and he was too abashed to look his kind 
 but awful relation in the face. 
 
 Lord Elmwood's cheerfulness, however, on his returning 
 health, and his undiminished attention, soon convinced 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 251 
 
 him that he had nothing to fear. But, alas ! he found, 
 too, he had nothing to hope. As his health returned 
 his wishes re-established also ; and with his wishes, his 
 despair. 
 
 Convinced by what had passed, that his nephew had 
 something on his mind which he feared to reveal, the 
 Earl no longer doubted but that some youthful attachment 
 had armed him against any marriage he should propose ; 
 but he had so much pity for his present weak state, as to 
 delay that further inquiry, which he had threatened before 
 his illness, to a time when his health should be entirely 
 restored. 
 
 It was the end of May before Rushbrook was able to 
 partake in the usual routine of the day. The country was 
 now prescribed him as the means of complete restoration ; 
 and as Lord Elmwood designed to leave London some time 
 in June, he advised him to go to Elmwood House a week or 
 two before him. This advice was received with delight, and 
 a letter was sent to Mr. Sandford to prepare for Mr. Rush- 
 brook's arrival. 
 
252 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 During the illness of Rushbrook, news had been sent 
 of his danger from the servants in town to those at Elm- 
 wood House, and Lady Matilda expressed compassion 
 when she was told of it. She began to conceive, the 
 instant she thought he would soon die, that his visit to her 
 had merit rather than impertinence in its design, and that 
 he might possibly be a more deserving man than she had 
 supposed him to be. 
 
 Even Sandford and Miss Woodley began to recollect 
 qualifications he possessed, which they never had reflected 
 on before ; and Miss Woodley, in particular, reproached 
 herself that she had been so severe and inattentive to him. 
 Notwithstanding the prospects his death pointed out to her, 
 it was with infinite joy she heard he was recovered ; nor 
 was Sandford less satisfied. ; for he had treated the young 
 man too unkindly not to dread lest any ill should befall 
 him. But, although he was glad to hear of his restored 
 health, when he was informed he was coming down to 
 Elmwood House for a few weeks in the style of its master, 
 Sandford, with all his religious and humane principles, 
 could not help conceiving, "That if the youth had been 
 properly prepared to die, he had been as well out of the 
 world as in it." 
 
 He was still less his friend when he saw him arrive with 
 his usual florid complexion. Had he come pale and sickly, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 283 
 
 Sandford had been kind to him ; but in apparently good 
 health and spirits, he could not form his lips to tell him he 
 was "glad to see him." 
 
 On his arrival, Matilda, who for five months had been at 
 large, secluded herself as she would have done upon the 
 arrival of Lord Elmwood ; but with far different sensations. 
 Notwithstanding her restriction on the latter occasion, the 
 residence of her father in that house had been a source of 
 pleasure, rather than of sorrow to her ; but from the abode 
 of Rushbrook she derived punishment alone. 
 
 When, from inquiries, Rushbrook found that on his 
 approach, Matilda had retired to her own confined apart- 
 ments, the thought was torture to him. It was the hope 
 of seeing and conversing with her, of being admitted at all 
 times to her society as the mistress of the house, that had 
 raised his spirits, and effected his perfect cure beyond 
 any other cause ; and he was hurt to the greatest degree 
 at this respect, or rather contempt, shown to him by her 
 retreat. 
 
 It was, nevertheless, a subject too delicate for him to 
 touch upon in any one sense : an invitation for her company 
 on his part, might carry the appearance of superior au- 
 thority, and an affected condescension, which he justly 
 considered as the worst of all insults. And yet, how could 
 he support the reflection that his visit had placed the 
 daughter of his benefactor, as a dependent stranger in that 
 house, where, in reality, he was the dependent, and she the 
 lawful heiress. 
 
 For two or three days he suffered the torment of these 
 meditations, hoping that he should come to an explanation 
 of all he felt, by a fortunate meeting with Miss Woodley ; 
 but when that meeting occurred, though he observed she 
 talked to him with less reserve than she had formerly 
 done, and even gave some proofs of the native kindness of 
 
284 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 her disposition, yet she scrupulously avoided naming Lady 
 Matilda ; and when he diffidently inquired of her health, a 
 cold restraint overspread Miss Woodley's face, and she left 
 him instantly. 
 
 To Sandford it was still more difficult for him to 
 apply ; for though frequently together, they were never 
 sociable ; and as Sandford seldom disguised his feelings 
 — to Rushbrook he was always severe, and sometimes un- 
 mannerly. 
 
 In this perplexed situation, the country air was rather 
 of detriment than service to the late invalid ; and had he 
 not, like a true lover, clung fast to fancied hope, while he 
 could perceive no reality but despair, he would have re- 
 turned to town, rather than by his stay have placed in a 
 subordinate state the object of his adoration. 
 
 Persisting in his hopes, he one morning met Miss 
 Woodley in the garden, and, engaging her a longer time 
 than usual in conversation, at last obtained her promise — 
 " She would that day dine with him and Mr. Sandford." 
 
 But no sooner had she parted from him than she re- 
 pented of her consent ; and upon communicating it, Matilda, 
 for the first time in her life, darted upon her kind com- 
 panion, a look of the most cutting reproach and haughty 
 resentment. 
 
 Miss Woodley's own sentiments had upbraided her 
 before ; but she was not prepared to receive so pointed a 
 mark of disapprobation from her young friend, till now, 
 duteous and humble to her as to a mother, and not less 
 affectionate. Her heart was too susceptible to bear this 
 disrespectful and contumelious frown, from the object of her 
 long-devoted care and concern ; the tears instantly covered 
 her face, and she laid her hands upon her heart, as if she 
 thought it would break. 
 
 Matilda was moved ; but she possessed too much of the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 285 
 
 manly indignation of her father, to discover what she felt 
 for the first few minutes. Miss Woodley, who had given 
 so many tears to her sorrows, but never, till now, one to her 
 anger, had a deeper sense of this indifference than of the 
 anger itself, and, to conceal what she suffered, left the room. 
 Matilda, who had been till this time working at her needle, 
 seemingly composed, now let her work drop from her 
 hand, and sat for a while in a deep reverie. At length 
 she rose up, and followed Miss Woodley to the other apart- 
 ment. 
 
 She entered grave, majestic, and apparently serene, while 
 her poor heart fluttered with a thousand distressing sensa- 
 tions. She approached Miss Woodley (who was still in 
 tears) with silence ; and, awed by her manners, the faithful 
 friend of her deceased mother exclaimed — 
 
 "Dear Lady Matilda, think no more on what I have 
 done ; do not resent it any longer, and I'll beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 Miss Woodley rose as she uttered these last words ; but 
 Matilda laid fast hold of her to prevent the posture she 
 offered to take,, and instantly assumed it herself. 
 
 " Oh, let this be my atonement ! " she cried, with the most 
 earnest supplication. 
 
 They interchanged forgiveness ; and, as this reconciliation 
 was sincere, they each, without reserve, gave their opinion 
 upon the subject that had caused the misunderstanding ; 
 and it was agreed an apology should be sent to Mr. Rush- 
 brook, " That Miss Woodley had been suddenly indisposed," 
 nor could this be said to differ from the truth, for since what 
 had passed she was unfit to pay a visit. 
 
 Rushbrook, who had been all the morning elated with the 
 advance he supposed he had made in that lady's favour, 
 was highly disappointed, vexed, and angry, when this apology 
 was delivered ; nor did he, nor perhaps could he, conceal 
 
286 
 
 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 what he felt, although his unkind observer, Mr. Sandford, 
 was present. 
 
 "lama very unfortunate man ! " said he, as soon as the 
 servant was gone who brought the message. 
 
 Sandford cast his eyes upon him with a look of surprise 
 and contempt. 
 
 "A very unfortunate man, indeed, Mr. Sandford." 
 repeated he, " although you treat my complaint con- 
 temptuously." 
 
 Sandford made no reply, and seemed above making 
 one. 
 
 They sat down to dinner. Rushbrook ate scarcely any- 
 thing, but drank frequently. Sandford took no notice of 
 either, but had a book (which was his custom when he 
 dined with persons whose conversation was not interesting 
 to him) laid by the side of his plate, which he occasionally 
 looked into, as the dishes were removing, or other oppor- 
 tunities served. 
 
 Rushbrook, just now more hopeless than ever of forming 
 an acquaintance with Lady Matilda, began to give way to 
 symptoms of impatience ; and they made their first attack 
 by urging him to treat on the same level of familiarity that 
 he himself was treated, Mr. Sandford, to whom he had 
 till now ever behaved with the most profound tokens of 
 respect. 
 
 " Come," said he to him, as soon as the dinner was re- 
 moved, " lay aside your book and be good company." 
 
 Sandford lifted up his eyes upon him — stared in his face — 
 and cast them on the book again. 
 
 " Pshaw," continued Rushbrook, " I want a companion ; 
 and as Miss Woodley has disappointed me, I must have 
 your company." 
 
 Sandford now laid his book down upon the table, but, 
 still holding his fingers in the pages he was reading, said, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 287 
 
 u And why are you disappointed of Miss Woodley's com- 
 pany? When people expect what they have no right to 
 hope, 't is impertinent assurance to complain they are dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 "I had a right to hope she would come," answered 
 Rushbrook, " for she promised she would." 
 
 " But what right had you to ask her ? " 
 
 " The right every one has to make his time pass as agree- 
 ably as he can." 
 
 " But not at the expense of another." 
 
 "I believe, Mr. Sandford, it would be a heavy expense to 
 you to see me happy : I believe it would cost you even your 
 own happiness." 
 
 " That is a price I have not now to give," replied Sand- 
 ford, and began reading again. 
 
 "What! you have already paid it away? No wonder 
 that at your time of life it should be gone. But what do 
 you think of my having already squandered mine ? " 
 
 "I don't think about you," returned Sandford, without 
 taking his eyes from the book. 
 
 " Can you look me in the face and say that, Mr. Sand- 
 ford? — No, you cannot; for you know you do think of me, 
 and you know you hate me." Here he drank two glasses of 
 wine, one after another. " And I can tell you why you hate 
 me," continued he: "it is from a cause for which I often 
 hate myself." 
 
 Sandford read on. 
 
 " It is on Lady Matilda's account you hate me, and use 
 me thus." 
 
 Sandford put down the book hastily, and put both his 
 hands by his side. 
 
 " Yes," resumed Rushbrook, " you think I am wronging 
 her." 
 
 "I think you insult her," exclaimed Sandford, "by this 
 
288 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 rude mention of her name ; and I command you at your 
 peril to desist." 
 
 "At my peril! Mr. Sandford? Do you assume the 
 authority of my Lord Elm wood ? " 
 
 " I do on this occasion ; and if you dare to give your 
 tongue a freedom " 
 
 Rushbrook interrupted him — "Why then I boldly say 
 (and as her friend you ought rather to applaud than resent 
 it) — I boldly say, that my heart suffers so much for her 
 situation that I am regardless of my own. I love her 
 father — I loved her mother more — but I love her beyond 
 either" 
 
 " Hold your licentious tongue," cried Sandford, " or quit 
 the room." 
 
 " Licentious ! Oh, the pure thoughts that dwell in her 
 innocent mind are not less sensual than mine towards her. 
 Do you upbraid me with my respect, my pity for her? They 
 are the sensations which impel me to speak thus undis- 
 guisedly, even to you, my open — no, even worse — my secret 
 enemy ! " 
 
 " Insult me as you please, Mr. Rushbrook ; but beware 
 how you mention Lord Elmwood's daughter. 
 
 " Can it be to her dishonour that I pity her ; that I would 
 quit the house this moment never to return, so that she 
 supplied the place which I withhold from her ? " 
 
 " Go, then," cried Sandford. 
 
 " It would be of no use to her, or I would. But come, 
 Mr. Sandford, I will dare do as much as you. Only second 
 me, and I will entreat Lord Elmwood to be reconciled — to 
 see and own her." 
 
 "Your vanity would be equal to your temerity— -you 
 entreat? She must greatly esteem those paternal favours 
 which your entreaties gained her ! Do you forget, young 
 man, how short a time it is since you were entreated for f " 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 289 
 
 "I prove that I do not, while this anxiety for Lady- 
 Matilda arises from what I feel on that very account." 
 
 "Remove your anxiety, then, from her to yourself; 
 for were I to let Lord Elmwood know what has now 
 passed " 
 
 "It is for your own sake, not for mine, if you do not." 
 
 " You shall not dare me to it, Mr. Rushbrook." And he 
 rose from his seat. " You shall not dare me to do you an 
 injury. But to avoid the temptation, I will never again 
 come into your company, unless my friend, Lord Elmwood, 
 be present to protect me and his child from your insults." 
 
 Rushbrook rose in yet more warmth than Sandford. 
 " Have you the injustice to say that I have insulted Lady 
 Matilda?" 
 
 " To speak of her at all is, in you, an insult. But you 
 have done more ; you have dared to visit her : to force into 
 her presence, and shock her with your offers of services 
 which she scorns ; and with your compassion, which she is 
 above." 
 
 " Did she complain to you ? " 
 
 " She or her friend did." 
 
 " I rather suppose, Mr. Sandford, that you have bribed 
 some of the servants to reveal this circumstance." 
 
 " The suspicion becomes Lord Elmwood's heir." 
 
 " It becomes the man who lives in a house with you." 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Rushbrook, for what has passed this 
 day : it has taken a weight off my mind. I thought my dis- 
 inclination to you might perhaps arise from prejudice : this 
 conversation has relieved me from those fears, and I thank 
 you." Saying this, he calmly walked out of the room, and 
 left Rushbrook to reflect on what he had been doing. 
 
 Heated with the wine he had drunk, (and which Sandford, 
 engaged on his book, had not observed,) no sooner was he 
 alone, than he became by degrees cool and repentant. 
 
 U 
 
290 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 "What had he done?" was the first question to himself. 
 " He had offended Sandford." The man whom reason as 
 well as prudence had ever taught him to respect, and even 
 to revere. He had grossly offended the firm friend of Lady 
 Matilda, by the unreserved and wanton use of her name. 
 All the retorts he had uttered came now to his memory ; 
 with a total forgetfulness of all that Sandford had said to 
 provoke them. 
 
 He once thought to follow him and beg his pardon ; but 
 the contempt with which he had been treated, more than all 
 the anger, withheld him. 
 
 As he sat forming plans how to retrieve the opinion, ill as 
 it was, which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he re- 
 ceived a letter from Lord Elmwood, kindly inquiring after 
 his health, and saying that he should be down early in the 
 following week. Never were the friendly expressions of his 
 uncle half so welcome to him ; for they served to soothe his 
 imagination, racked with Sandford's wrath and his own dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 29 1 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 When Sandford acted deliberately, he always acted up to 
 his duty : it was his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did 
 so ; but he had declared he would never " be again in his 
 company unless Lord Elm wood was present ;" and with all 
 his forgiveness he found an unforgiving gratification in the 
 duty of being obliged to keep his word. 
 
 The next day Rushbrook dined alone, while Sandford 
 gave his company to the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud 
 to seek to conciliate Sandford by abject concessions ; but he 
 endeavoured to meet him as by accident, and meant to try 
 what, in such a case, a submissive apology might effect. 
 For two days all the schemes he formed on that head 
 proved fruitless : he could never procure even a sight of 
 him. But on the evening of the third day, taking a lonely 
 walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and saw, in the very 
 path he was going, Sandford accompanied by Miss 
 Woodley; and, what agitated him infinitely more, Lady 
 Matilda was with them. He knew not whether to proceed 
 or to quit the path and palpably shun them. To one who 
 seemed to put an unkind construction upon all he said and 
 did, he knew that to do either would be to do wrong. In 
 spite of the desire he felt to pass so near to Matilda, could 
 he have known what conduct would have been deemed the 
 most respectful, to that he would have submitted, whatever 
 painful denial it had cost him. But undetermined whether 
 to go forward, or to cross to another path, he still walked on 
 
 U 2 
 
292 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 till he came too nigh to recede : he then, with a diffidence 
 not affected, but most powerfully felt, pulled off his hat ; 
 and, without bowing, stood respectfully silent while the com- 
 pany passed. Sandford walked on some paces before, and 
 took no farther notice as he went by him, than just touching 
 the fore part of his hat with his finger. Miss Woodley 
 courtesied as she followed ; but Lady Matilda made a full 
 stop, and said, in the gentlest accents, " I hope, Mr. Rush- 
 brook, you are perfectly recovered." 
 
 It was, the sweetest music he had ever listened to ; and he 
 replied, with the most reverential bow, " I am better a great 
 deal, Ma'am ; " then instantly pursued his way, as if he did 
 not dare to utter or wait for another syllable. 
 
 Sandford seldom found fault with Lady Matilda; not 
 because he loved her, but because she seldom did wrong. 
 Upon this occasion, however, he was half inclined to repri- 
 mand her; but yet he did not know what to say. The 
 subsequent humility of Rushbrook had taken from the indis- 
 cretion of her speaking to him, and the event could by no 
 means justify his censure. On hearing her begin to speak, 
 Sandford had stopped; and as Rushbrook, after replying, 
 walked away, Sandford called to her crossly, " Come, come 
 along ; " but at the same time he put out his elbow for her 
 to take hold of his arm. 
 
 She hastened her steps, and did so ; then, turning to Miss 
 Woodley, she said, " I expected you would have spoken to 
 Mr. Rushbrook : it might have prevented me." 
 
 Miss Woodley replied, " I was at a loss what to do. 
 When we met formerly he always spoke first." 
 
 "And he ought now," cried Sandford, angrily; and then 
 added, with a sarcastic smile, " It is certainly proper that 
 the superior should be the first who speaks." 
 
 " He did not look as if he thought himself our superior/ 
 replied Matilda. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 293 
 
 " No," returned Sandford ; " some people can put on what 
 looks they please." 
 
 " Then while he looks so pale," replied Matilda, " and so 
 dejected, I can never forbear speaking to him when we meet, 
 whatever he may think of it." 
 
 " And were he and I to meet a hundred, nay, a thousand 
 times," returned Sandford, " I don't think I should ever 
 speak to him again." 
 
 " Bless me ! what for, Mr. Sandford ? " cried Matilda ; for 
 Sandford, who was not a man that repeated little incidents, 
 had never mentioned the circumstance of their quarrel. 
 
 " I have taken such a resolution," answered he ; " yet I 
 bear him no enmity." 
 
 As this short reply indicated that he meant to say no 
 more, no more was asked ; and the subject was dropped. 
 
 In the meantime Rushbrook, happier than he had been 
 for months, intoxicated with delight at that voluntary mark 
 of civility he had received from Lady Matilda, felt his heart 
 so joyous and so free from every particle of malice, that he 
 resolved, in the humblest manner, to make atonement for 
 the violation of decorum he had lately committed against 
 Mr. Sandford. 
 
 Too happy at this time to suffer a mortification from any 
 indignities he might receive, he sent his servant to him into 
 his study, as soon as he was returned home, to beg to know 
 " If he might be permitted to wait upon him with a message 
 he had to deliver from Lord Elmwood." 
 
 The servant returned — "Mr. Sandford desired he would 
 send the message by him or the house-steward." This was 
 highly affronting ; but Rushbrook was not in a humour to 
 be offended, and he sent again, begging he would admit 
 him ; but the answer was, " He was busy." 
 
 Thus wholly defeated in his hopes of reconciliation, his 
 new transports felt an alloy; and the few days that re- 
 
294 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 mained before Lord Elmwood came he passed in solitary 
 musing, and ineffectual walks and looks towards that path 
 in which he had met Matilda. She came that way no 
 more ; indeed, scarce quitted her apartment, in the practice 
 of that confinement she was to experience on the arrival of 
 her father. 
 
 All her former agitations now returned. On the day he 
 arrived she wept ; all the night she did not sleep ; and the 
 name of Rushbrook again became hateful to her. The Earl 
 came in extremely good health and spirits, but appeared 
 concerned to find Rushbrook less well than when he went 
 from town. Sandford was now under the necessity of being 
 in Rushbrook's company ; yet he would never speak to him 
 but when he was absolutely compelled, or look at him but 
 when he could not help it. Lord Elmwood observed this 
 conduct, yet he neither wondered nor was offended by it. 
 He had perceived what little esteem Sandford had shewed 
 his nephew from his first return ; but he forgave, in Sand- 
 ford's humour, a thousand faults he would not forgive in 
 any other; nor did he deem this one of his greatest faults, 
 knowing the demand upon his partiality from another 
 object. 
 
 Miss Woodley waited on Lord Elmwood as formerly; 
 dined with him, and related, as heretofore, to the attentive 
 Matilda, all that passed. 
 
 About this time Lord Margrave, deprived by the season 
 of all the sports of the field, felt his love for Matilda (which 
 had been violent, even though divided with the love of hunt- 
 ing) now too strong to be subdued ; and he resolved, though 
 reluctantly, to apply to her father for his consent to their 
 union ; but writing to Sandford this resolution, he was once 
 more repulsed, and charged, as a man of honour, to forbear 
 to disturb the tranquillity of the family by any application of 
 the kind. To this Sandford received no answer; for the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 295 
 
 peer, highly incensed at his mistress's repugnance to him, 
 determined more firmly than ever to consult his own happi- 
 ness alone ; and as that depended merely upon his obtaining 
 her, he cared not by what method it was effected. 
 
 About a fortnight after Lord Elmwood came into the 
 country, as he was riding one morning, his horse fell with 
 him, and crushed his leg in so unfortunate a manner as to 
 be at first pronounced of dangerous consequence. He was 
 brought home in a post-chaise ; and Matilda heard of the 
 accident with more grief than would, perhaps, on such an 
 occasion, have been experienced by the most fondled child. 
 
 In consequence of the pain he suffered, his fever was one 
 night very high; and Sandford, who seldom quitted his 
 apartment, went frequently to his bedside, every time with 
 the secret hope he should hear him ask to see his daughter. 
 He was every time disappointed; yet he saw him shake, with 
 a cordial friendship, the hand of Rushbrook, as if he de- 
 lighted in seeing those he loved. 
 
 The danger in which Lord Elmwood was supposed to be 
 was but of short duration, and his sudden recovery suc- 
 ceeded. Matilda, who had wept, moaned, and watched 
 during the crisis of his illness, when she heard he was 
 amending, exclaimed, with a kind of surprise at the novelty 
 of the sensation, "And this is joy that I feel! Oh, I never 
 till now knew what those persons felt who experienced 
 joy!" 
 
 Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley, 
 at her father's inattention to her during his malady ; for she 
 did not hope like them — she did not hope he would behold 
 her, even in dying. 
 
 But, notwithstanding his seeming indifference while his 
 indisposition continued, no sooner was he recovered so as to 
 receive the congratulations of his friends, than there was no 
 one person he evidently showed so much satisfaction at 
 
296 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 seeing as Miss Woodley. She waited upon him timorously, 
 and with more than ordinary distaste at his late conduct, 
 when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth to receive 
 her, he drew her to him, saluted her (an honour he had 
 never in his life conferred before), and with signs of the 
 sincerest friendship and affection. Sandford was present; 
 and, ever associating the idea of Matilda with Miss Wood- 
 ley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had not enjoyed 
 for many a day. 
 
 Matilda listened with delight to the recital Miss Woodley 
 gave on her return, and many times while it lasted ex- 
 claimed, " She was happy." But poor Matilda's sudden 
 transports of joy, which she termed happiness, were not 
 made for long continuance ; and if she ever found cause for 
 gladness, she far oftener had motives for grief. 
 
 As Mr. Sandford was sitting with her and Miss Woodley 
 one evening, about a week after, a person rung at the bell, 
 and inquired for him. On being told of it by the servant, he 
 went to the door of the apartment, and cried, " Oh, is it you? 
 Come in." An elderly man entered, who had been for many 
 years the head gardener at Elmwood House — a man of 
 honesty and sobriety, and with an indigent family of aged 
 parents, children, and other relations, who subsisted 
 wholly on the income arising from his place. The 
 ladies, as well as Sandford, knew him well ; and they 
 all, almost at once, asked, "What was the matter?" 
 for his looks told them something distressful had befallen 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, Sir," said he to Sandford, " I come to entreat your 
 interest." 
 
 "In what, Edwards?" said Sandford, with a mild voice; 
 for, when his assistance was supplicated in distress, his 
 rough tones always took a plaintive key. 
 
 " My Lord has discharged me from his service," returned 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 297 
 
 Edwards, trembling, and the tears starting in his eyes. " I 
 am undone, Mr. Sandford, unless you plead for me." 
 
 " I will," said Sandford, " I will." 
 
 " And yet I am almost afraid for your success," replied 
 the man ; " for my Lord has ordered me out of his house 
 this moment ; and though I knelt down to him to be heard, 
 he had no pity." 
 
 Matilda sighed from the bottom of her heart ; and yet 
 she envied this poor man who had been kneeling to her 
 father. 
 
 "What was your offence ?" cried Sandford. 
 
 The man hesitated ; then, looking at Matilda, said, " I'll 
 tell you, Sir, some other time." 
 
 "Did you name me before Lord Elmwood?" cried she, 
 eagerly, and terrified. 
 
 "No, Madam," replied he ; "but I unthinkingly spoke of 
 my poor Lady, who is dead and gone." 
 
 Matilda burst into tears. 
 
 " How came you to do so mad a thing?" cried Sandford; 
 and the encouragement which his looks had once given him 
 now fled from his face. 
 
 "It was unthinkingly," repeated Edwards ; " I was shew- 
 ing my Lord some plans for the new walks, and told him, 
 among other things, that her Ladyship had many years ago 
 approved of them. — 'Who?' cried he. — Still I did not call to 
 mind, but said, 'Lady Elmwood, Sir, while you were abroad.' 
 — As soon as these words were delivered, I saw my doom in 
 his looks, and he commanded me to quit his house and 
 service that instant." 
 
 " I am afraid," said Sandford, shaking his head, " I can do 
 nothing for you." 
 
 "Yes, Sir, you know you have more power over my Lord 
 than anybody ; and perhaps you may be able to save me 
 and all mine from misery." 
 
298 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " I would if I could," replied Sandford, quickly. 
 
 " You can but tiy, Sir." 
 
 Matilda was all this while bathed in tears ; nor was Miss 
 Woodley much less affected. Lady Elmwood was before 
 their eyes ; Matilda beheld her in her dying moments ; Miss 
 Woodley saw her as the gay ward of Dorriforth. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Rushbrook," said Sandford : " prevail on him 
 to speak for you. He has more power than I have." 
 
 "He has not enough, then," replied Edwards; "for he 
 was in the room with my Lord when what I have told you 
 happened." 
 
 " And did he say nothing?" asked Sandford. 
 
 " Yes, Sir ; he offered to speak in my behalf, but my Lord 
 interrupted him, and ordered him out of the room. He in- 
 stantly went. 
 
 Sandford, now observing the effect which this narration 
 had on the two ladies, led the man to his own apartments, 
 and there assured him he dared not undertake his cause ; but 
 that if time or chance should happily make an alteration in 
 his Lord's disposition, he would be the first who would en- 
 deavour to replace him. Edwards was obliged to submit ; 
 and, before the next day at noon, his pleasant house by the 
 side of the park, his garden, and his orchard, which he had 
 occupied above twenty years, were cleared of their old in- 
 habitant, and all his wretched family. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 This melancholy incident, perhaps, affected Matilda, and 
 all the friends of the deceased Lady Elmwood, beyond any 
 other that had occurred since her death. A few days after 
 this circumstance, Miss Woodley, in order to divert the dis- 
 consolate mind of Lady Matilda (and in the hope of bring- 
 ing her some little anecdotes to console her for that which 
 had given her so much pain), waited upon Lord Elmwood in 
 his library, and borrowed some books out of it. He was 
 now perfectly well from his fall, and received her with his 
 usual politeness, but, of course, not with that peculiar 
 warmth which he had discovered when he received her just 
 after his illness. Rushbrook was in the library at the same 
 time. He showed her several beautiful prints which Lord 
 Elmwood had just received from London, and appeared 
 anxious to entertain and give tokens of his esteem and re- 
 spect for her. But what gave her pleasure beyond any 
 other attention was, that after she had taken (by the aid of 
 Rushbrook) about a dozen volumes from different shelves, 
 and had laid them together, saying she would send her ser- 
 vant to fetch them, Lord Elmwood went carefully to the 
 place where they were, and, taking up each book, examined 
 minutely what it was. One author, he complained, was too 
 light, another too depressing, and put them on the shelves 
 again ; another was erroneous, and he changed it for a 
 better. Thus, he warned her against some, and selected 
 
300 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 other authors, as the. most cautious preceptor culls for his 
 pupil, or a fond father for his darling child. She thanked 
 him for his attention to her, but her heart thanked him for 
 his attention to his daughter; for as she had herself never re- 
 ceived such a proof of his care since all their long acquaint- 
 ance, she reasonably supposed that Matilda's reading, and 
 not hers, was the object of his solicitude. 
 
 Having in these books store of comfort for poor Matilda, 
 she eagerly returned with them ; and in reciting every parti- 
 cular circumstance, made her consider the volumes almost 
 like presents from her father. 
 
 The month of September was now arrived; and Lord 
 Elmwood, accompanied by Rushbrook, went to a small 
 shooting seat, near twenty miles distant from Elmwood 
 Castle, for a week's particular sport. Matilda was once 
 more at large; and one beautiful morning, about eleven 
 o'clock, seeing Miss Woodley walking on the lawn before 
 the house, she hastily took her hat to join her; and, not 
 waiting to put it on, went nimbly down the great staircase 
 with it hanging on her arm. When she had descended a few 
 stairs, she heard a footstep proceeding slowly up ; and (from 
 what emotion she could not tell) she stopped short, half 
 resolved to return back. She hesitated a single instant 
 whether she should or not — then went a few steps further, 
 till she came to the second landing-place; when, by the 
 sudden winding of the staircase, Lord Elmwood was imme- 
 diately before her. 
 
 She had felt something like affright before she saw him ; 
 but her reason told her she had nothing to fear, as he was 
 away. But now, the appearance of a stranger whom she 
 had never before seen ; the authority in his looks, as well as 
 in the sound of his steps ; a resemblance to the portrait she 
 had been shewn of him ; a start of astonishment which he 
 gave on beholding her; but, above all, her /ears, confirmed 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 30 1 
 
 her that it was him. She gave a scream of terror; put 
 out her trembling hands to catch the balustrades for sup- 
 port — missed them — and fell motionless into her father's 
 arms. 
 
 He caught her, as, by the same impulse, he would have 
 caught any other person falling for want of aid. Yet when 
 he found her in his arms, he still held her there, gazed on 
 her attentively, and once pressed her to his bosom. 
 
 At length, trying to escape the snare into which he had 
 been led, he was going to leave her on the spot where she 
 fell, when her eyes opened, and she uttered, "Save me!" 
 Her voice unmanned him. His long-restrained tears now 
 burst forth, and, seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he 
 cried out eagerly to recall her. Her name did not, however, 
 come to his recollection — nor any name but this : " Miss 
 Milner — dear Miss Milner ! " 
 
 That sound did not awaken her; and now again he 
 wished to leave her in this senseless state, that, not re- 
 membering what had passed, she might escape the punish- 
 ment. 
 
 But at this instant Giffard, with another servant, passed 
 by the foot of the stairs ; on which Lord Elmwood called to 
 them, and into Giffard's hands delivered his apparently dead 
 child, without one command respecting her, or one word of 
 any kind ; while his face was agitated with shame, with pity, 
 with anger, with paternal tenderness. 
 
 As Giffard stood trembling, while he relieved his Lord 
 from this hapless burden, her father had to unloose her hand 
 from the side of his coat, which she had caught fast hold of 
 as she fell, and grasped so closely, it was with difficulty re- 
 moved. On attempting to take the hand away he trembled, 
 faltered, then bade Giffard do it. 
 
 "Who? I, my Lord! I separate you!" cried he. But 
 recollecting himself, " My Lord, I will obey your commands 
 
302 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 whatever they are." And seizing her hand, pulled it with 
 violence : it fell, and her father went away. 
 
 Matilda was carried to her own apartments, and laid upon 
 the bed ; and Miss Woodley hastened to attend her, after 
 listening to the recital of what had passed. 
 
 When Lady Elmwood's old and affectionate friend entered 
 the room, and saw her youthful charge lying pale and 
 speechless, yet no father by to comfort or soothe her, she 
 lifted up her hands to Heaven, exclaiming, with a burst of 
 tears, "And is this the end of thee, my poor child? Is this 
 the end of all our hopes — of thy own fearful hopes — and of 
 thy mother's supplications ? Oh, Lord Elmwood ! Lord 
 Elmwood ! " 
 
 At that name Matilda started, and cried, " Where is he ? 
 Is it a dream, or have I seen him ? " 
 
 " It is all a dream, my dear," said Miss Woodley. 
 
 "And yet I thought he held me in his arms," she replied : 
 " I thought I felt his hands press mine. Let me sleep and 
 dream again." 
 
 Now thinking it best to undeceive her, " It is no dream, 
 my dear," returned Miss Woodley. 
 
 "Is it not?" cried she, rising up, and leaning on her 
 elbow. " Then I suppose I must go away — go for ever away." 
 
 Sandford now entered. Having been told the news, he 
 came to condole ; but at the sight of him Matilda was terri- 
 fied, and cried, "Do not reproach me, do not upbraid me; 
 I know I have done wrong — I know I had but one com- 
 mand from my father, and that I have disobeyed." 
 
 Sandford could not reproach her, for he could not speak : 
 he therefore only walked to the window and concealed his 
 tears. 
 
 That whole day and night was passed in sympathetic 
 grief, in alarm at every sound, lest it should be a messenger 
 to pronounce Matilda's destiny. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 303 
 
 Lord Elmwood did not stay upon this visit above three 
 hours at Elmwood House : he then set off again for the 
 seat he had left, where Rushbrook still remained, and from 
 whence his Lordship had merely come by accident to look 
 over some writings which he wanted immediately despatched 
 to town. 
 
 During his short continuance here Sandford cautiously 
 avoided his presence; for he thought, in a case like this, 
 what nature could not of herself effect, no art, no arguments 
 of his could accomplish : to nature, then, and Providence, 
 he left the whole. What these two powerful principles 
 brought about, the reader will be informed, when he peruses 
 the following letter, received early the next morning by Miss 
 Woodley. 
 
304 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A Letter from Giffard, Lord ElmwoocFs House Steward, to 
 Miss Woodley. 
 
 " Madam, — My Lord, above a twelvemonth ago, acquainted 
 me he had permitted his daughter to reside in his house ; 
 but at the same time he informed me the grant was under a 
 certain restriction, which, if ever broken, I was to see his 
 then determination (of which he also acquainted me) put 
 in execution. In consequence of Lady Matilda's indisposi- 
 tion, Madam, I have ventured to delay this notice till morn- 
 ing. I need not say with what concern I now give it, or 
 mention to you, I believe, what is forfeited. My Lord stayed 
 but a few hours yesterday, after the unhappy circumstance 
 on which I write took place ; nor did I see him after, till he 
 was in his carriage; he then sent for me to the carriage 
 door, and told me he should be back in two days' time, and 
 added, ' Remember your duty.' That duty, I hope, Madam, 
 you will not require me to explain in more direct terms. As 
 soon as my Lord returns, I have no doubt but he will ask 
 me if it is fulfilled ; and I shall be under the greatest appre- 
 hension should his commands not be obeyed. 
 
 " If there is anything wanting for the convenience of your 
 and Lady Matilda's departure, you have but to order it, and 
 it is at your service : I mean, likewise, any cash you may 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 305 
 
 have occasion for. I should presume to add my opinion 
 where you might best take up your abode ; but with such 
 advice as you will have from Air. Sandford, mine would be 
 but assuming. 
 
 " I would also have waited upon you, Madam, and have 
 delivered myself the substance of this letter ; but I am an 
 old man, and the changes I have been witness to in my 
 Lord's house, since I first lived in it, have added, I think, to 
 my age many a year: and I have not the strength to 
 see you upon this occasion. I loved my Lady — I love my 
 Lord — and I love their child; nay, so I am sure does my 
 Lord himself; but there is no accounting for his resolu- 
 tions, or for the alteration his disposition has lately under- 
 gone. 
 
 " I beg pardon, Madam, for this long intrusion, and am, 
 and ever will be (while you and my Lord's daughter are so) 
 your afflicted humble servant, 
 
 "Robert Giffard. 
 
 "Elmwood House, Sept. 12." 
 
 When this letter was brought to Miss Woodley, she knew 
 what it contained before she opened it, and therefore took it 
 with an air of resignation : yet though she guessed the 
 momentous part of its contents, she dreaded in what words 
 it might be related ; and having now no essential good to 
 expect, hope, that will never totally expire, clung at this 
 crisis to little circumstances; and she hoped most fer- 
 vently the terms of the letter might not be harsh, but that 
 Lord Elmwood had delivered his final sentence in gentle 
 language. The event proved he had; and, lost to every 
 important comfort, she felt grateful to him for this small 
 one. 
 
 Matilda, too, was cheered by this letter ; for she expected 
 something worse ; and one of the last lines, in which 
 
 x 
 
306 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Giffard said he knew " his Lordship loved her," she thought 
 repaid her for the purport of the other part. 
 
 Sandford was not so easily resigned or comforted. He 
 walked about the room when the letter was shown to him — 
 called it cruel — stifled his tears, and wished to show his 
 resentment only; but the former burst through all his 
 endeavours, and he sunk into grief. 
 
 Nor was the fortitude of Matilda, which came to her 
 assistance on the first onset of this trial, sufficient to arm 
 her, when the moment came at which she was to quit the 
 house — her father's house — never to see that or him 
 again. 
 
 When word was brought that the carriage was at the 
 door, which was to convey her from all she held so dear, 
 and she saw before her the prospect of a long youthful and 
 healthful life, in which misery and despair were all she 
 could discern, that despair seized her at once, and gaining 
 courage from her sufferings, she cried — 
 
 "What have I to fear if I disobey my father's commands 
 once more? He cannot use me worse. I'll stay till he 
 returns, again throw myself in his way, and then I will not 
 faint, but plead for mercy. Perhaps, were I to kneel to him 
 — kneel, like other children to their parents — and beg his 
 blessing, he would not refuse it me." 
 
 " You must not try," said Sandford, mildly. 
 
 "Who," cried she, " shall prevent my flying to my father? 
 Have I another friend on earth ? Have I one relation in the 
 world but him ? This is the second time I have been turned 
 from his house. In my infant state my cruel father turned 
 me out ; but then he sent me to a mother : now I have none, 
 and I will stay with him." 
 
 Again the steward sent to let them know the coach was 
 waiting. 
 
 Sandford now, with a determined countenance, went coolly 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 307 
 
 up to Lady Matilda, and, taking her hand, seemed resolved 
 to lead her to the carriage. 
 
 Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she 
 yet resisted this, and cried, " Would you be the minister of 
 my father's cruelty ? " 
 
 " Then," said Sandford solemnly to her, " farewell — from 
 this moment you and I part. I will take my leave, and do 
 you remain where you are — at least till you are forced away. 
 But I'll not stay to be driven hence ; for it is impossible your 
 father will suffer any friend of yours to continue here after 
 this disobedience. Adieu." 
 
 " I will go this moment," said she, and rose hastily. 
 
 Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her 
 immediately out of the room. 
 
 Sandford followed slow behind, as if he had followed at 
 her funeral. 
 
 When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had 
 met her father, she started back, and scarce knew how to 
 pass it. When she had — " There he held me in his arms," 
 said she ; " and I thought I felt him press me to his heart ; 
 but I now find I was mistaken." 
 
 As Sandford came forward to hand her into the coach — • 
 " Now you behave well," said he. " By this behaviour you 
 do not entirely close all prospect of reconciliation with your 
 father." 
 
 "Do you think it is not yet impossible?" cried she, 
 clasping his hand. " Giffard says he loves me," continued 
 she ; " and do you think he might yet be brought to forgive 
 me?" 
 
 " Forgive you ! " cried Sandford. 
 
 "Suppose I was to write to him and entreat his for- 
 giveness ? " 
 
 "Do not write yet," said Sandford, with no cheering 
 accent. 
 
 x 2 
 
308 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 The carriage drove off; and as it went Matilda leaned her 
 head from the window to survey Elmwood House from the 
 roof to the foundation. She cast her eyes upon the gardens, 
 too — upon the fish-ponds — even the coach-houses and all the 
 offices adjoining — which, as objects that she should never 
 see again, she contemplated as objects of importance. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 309 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Rushbrook, who, at twenty miles' distance, could have 
 no conjecture what had passed at Elmwood House during 
 the short visit Lord Elmwood made there, went that way 
 with his dogs and gun, in order to meet him on his return, 
 and accompany him in the chaise back. He did so ; and, 
 getting into the carriage, told him eagerly the sport he had 
 had during the day; laughed at an accident that had be- 
 fallen one of his dogs ; and for some time did not perceive 
 but that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At length, ob- 
 serving he answered more negligently than usual to what 
 he said, Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him, and 
 cried — 
 
 " My Lord, are you not well ? " 
 
 "Yes; perfectly well, I thank you, Rushbrook," and he 
 leaned back against the carriage. 
 
 " I thought, Sir," returned Rushbrook, " you spoke lan- 
 guidly. I beg your pardon." 
 
 " I have the headache a little," answered he ; then, taking 
 off his hat, brushed the dust from it, and, as he put it on 
 again, fetched a most heavy sigh, which no sooner had 
 escaped him, than, to drown its sound, he said, briskly — 
 
 " And so you tell me you have had good sport to-day ? " 
 
 " No, my Lord ; I said but indifferent." 
 
 " True ; so you did. Bid the man drive faster ; it will be 
 dark before we get home." 
 
3IO A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " You will shoot to-morrow, my Lord ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " How does Mr. Sandford do, Sir ? " 
 
 " I did not see him." 
 
 "Not see Mr. Sandford, my Lord! But he was out, I 
 suppose; for they did not expect you at Elmwood House." 
 
 " No, they did not." 
 
 In such conversation Rushbrook and his uncle continued 
 to the end of their journey. Dinner was then immediately 
 served ; and Lord Elmwood appeared much in his usual 
 spirits ; at least, not suspecting any cause for their abate- 
 ment, Rushbrook did not observe any alteration. 
 
 Lord Elmwood went, however, earlier to bed than ordi- 
 nary, or rather to his bed-chamber; for though he retired 
 some time before his nephew, when Rushbrook passed his 
 chamber-door it was open, and he not in bed, but sitting in 
 a musing posture, as if he had forgot to shut it. 
 
 When Rushbrook's valet came to attend his master, he 
 said to him — 
 
 " I suppose, Sir, you do not know what has happened at 
 the castle ? " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, what ? " cried Rushbrook. 
 
 " My Lord has met Lady Matilda," replied the man. 
 
 " How ? Where ? What's the consequence ? " 
 
 "We don't know yet, Sir; but all the servants suppose 
 her Ladyship will not be suffered to remain there any 
 longer." 
 
 " They all suppose wrong," returned Rushbrook, hastily ; 
 "my Lord loves her, I am certain, and this event may be 
 the happy means of his treating her as his child from this 
 day." 
 
 The servant smiled, and shook his head. 
 
 " Why, what more do you know ? " 
 
 " Nothing more than I have told you, Sir, except that his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 311 
 
 Lordship took no kind of notice of her Ladyship that ap- 
 peared like love." 
 
 Rushbrook was all uneasinesss and anxiety to know the 
 particulars of what had passed ; and now Lord Elmwood's 
 inquietude, which he had but slightly noticed before, came 
 full to his observation. He was going to ask more questions ; 
 but he recollected that Lady Matilda's misfortunes were too 
 sacred to be talked of thus familiarly by the servants of the 
 family ; besides, it was evident this man thought, and but 
 naturally, it might not be for his master's interest the father 
 and the daughter should be united ; and therefore would 
 give to all he said the opposite colouring. 
 
 In spite of his prudence, however, and his delicacy to- 
 wards Matilda, Rushbrook could not let his valet leave him 
 till he had inquired and learned a circumstantial account of 
 what had happened ; except, indeed, the order received by 
 Giffard, which being given after Lord Elmwood was in his 
 carriage, and in concise terms, the domestics who attended 
 him (and from whom this man had gained his intelligence) 
 were unacquainted with it. 
 
 When the servant had left Rushbrook alone, the pertur- 
 bation of his mind was so great, that he was at length 
 undetermined whether to go to bed, or to rush into his 
 uncle's apartment, and at his feet beg for that compassion 
 upon his daughter which he feared he had denied her. But 
 then, to what peril would he not expose himself by such a 
 step ? Nay, he might, perhaps, even injure her whom he 
 wished to serve ; for if his uncle was at present unresolved 
 whether to forgive or to resent this disobedience to his com- 
 mands, another's interference might enrage and precipitate 
 him on the latter resolution. 
 
 This consideration was so weighty it resigned Rushbrook 
 to the suspense he was compelled to endure till the morning, 
 when he flattered himself that by watching every look and 
 
312 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 motion of Lord Elmwood his penetration would be able to 
 discover the state of his heart, and how he meant to act. 
 
 But the morning came, and he found all his prying 
 curiosity was of no avail. Lord Elmwood did not drop one 
 word, give one look, or use one action that was not cus- 
 tomary. 
 
 On first seeing him, Rushbrook blushed at the secret with 
 which he was intrusted ; then as he gazed on the Earl, con- 
 templated the joy he ought to have known in clasping in his 
 arms a child like Matilda, whose tenderness, reverence, and 
 duty had deprived her of all sensation at his sight ; which 
 was, in Rushbrook's mind, an honour that rendered him 
 superior to what he was before. 
 
 They were in the fields all the day as usual ; Lord Elm- 
 wood now cheerful, and complaining no more of the head- 
 ache. Yet once being separated from his nephew, Rush- 
 brook crossed over a stile into another field, and found him 
 sitting by the side of a bank, his gun lying by him, and 
 himself lost in thought. He rose on seeing him, and pro- 
 ceeded to the sport as before. 
 
 At dinner, he said he should not go to Elmwood House 
 the next day, as he had appointed, but stay where he was 
 three or four days longer. From these two small occur- 
 rences, Rushbrook would fain have extracted something by 
 which to judge the state of his mind ; but he found that 
 was impossible. He had caught him so musing many a 
 time before ; and as to his prolonging his stay, that might 
 arise from the sport ; or, indeed, had anything more mate- 
 rial swayed him, who could penetrate whether it was the 
 effect of the lenity or the severity he had dealt towards his 
 child ; — whether his continuance there was to shun her, or 
 to shun the house from whence he had banished her ? 
 
 The three or four days for their temporary sojourn being 
 passed, they both returned together to Elmwood House. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 313 
 
 Rushbrook thought he saw his uncle's countenance change 
 as they entered the avenue ; yet he did not appear less in 
 spirits; and when Sandford joined them at dinner, the Earl 
 went with his usual attention to him, and (as was his custom 
 after any separation) put out his hand cheerfully to take his. 
 Sandford said, " How do you do, my Lord?" cheerfully in 
 return ; but put both his hands into his bosom, and walked 
 to the other side of the room. Lord Elmwood did not seem 
 to observe this affront; nor was it done as an affront; it was 
 merely what poor Sandford could not help ; for he felt that 
 he could not shake hands with him. 
 
 Rushbrook soon learned the news that Matilda was gone ; 
 and Elmwood House was to him a desert — he saw there no 
 real friend of hers, except poor Sandford, and to him Rush- 
 brook knew himself now more displeasing than ever : and all 
 his overtures of atonement he, at this time found more and 
 more ineffectual. Matilda was exiled; and her supposed 
 triumphant rival was, to Sandford, odious beyond what he 
 had ever been. 
 
 In alleviation of their banishment, Miss Woodley, with 
 her charge, had not returned to their old retreat : but were 
 gone to a farm-house, not farther than thirty miles from Lord 
 Elmwood's. Here Sandford, with little inconvenience visited 
 them ; nor did his patron ever take notice of his occasional 
 absence ; for as he had before given his daughter, in some 
 measure, to his charge, so honour, delicacy, and the common 
 ties of duty, made him approve, rather than condemn, his 
 attention to her. 
 
 Though Sandford's frequent visits soothed Matilda, they 
 could not comfort her ; for he had no consolation to bestow 
 that was suited to her mind ; her father having given no one 
 token of regret for what he had done. He had even inquired 
 sternly of Giffard, on his returning home, — ■ 
 
 " If Miss Woodley had left the house." 
 
314 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 The steward, guessing the whole of his meaning, answered, 
 " Yes, my Lord ; and all your commands in that respect 
 have been obeyed." 
 
 He replied, " I am satisfied ; " and, to the grief of the old 
 man, he appeared really so. 
 
 To the farm-house, the place of Matilda's residence, there 
 came, besides Sandford, another visitor, far less welcome — 
 Viscount Margrave. He had heard with surprise, and still 
 greater joy, that Lord Elmwood had once more closed his 
 doors against his daughter. In this, her discarded state, he 
 no longer burdened his lively imagination with the dull 
 thoughts of marriage, but once more formed the barbarous 
 design of making her his mistress. 
 
 Ignorant of a certain decorum which attended all Lord 
 Elmwood's actions, he suspected that his child might be in 
 want; and an acquaintance with the worst part of her sex 
 informed him that relief from poverty was the sure bargain 
 for his success. With these hopes he again paid Miss 
 Woodley and her a visit ; but the coldness of the former, and 
 the haughtiness of the latter, still kept him at a distance, 
 and again made him fear to give one allusion to his purpose : 
 but he returned home, resolved to write what he durst not 
 speak. He did so — he offered his services, his purse, his 
 house ; they were rejected with disdain, and a stronger pro- 
 hibition than ever given to his visits. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 315 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 Lord Elmwood had now allowed Rushbrook a long 
 vacation in respect to his answer upon the subject of mar- 
 riage: and the young man vainly imagined his intentions 
 upon that subject were entirely given up. One morning, 
 however, as he was with him in the library — 
 
 " Henry," said his uncle, with a pause at the beginning 
 of his speech, which indicated that he was going to say 
 something of importance, — " Henry — you have not forgot 
 the discourse I had with you a little time previous to your 
 illness?" 
 
 Henry paused too — for he wished to have forgotten it — 
 but it was too strongly impressed upon his memory. Lord 
 Elmwood resumed — 
 
 "What! equivocating again, Sir? Do you remember it, 
 or do you not?" 
 
 " Yes, my Lord, I do." 
 
 "And are you prepared to give me an answer?" 
 
 Rushbrook paused again. 
 
 " In our former conversation," continued the Earl, " I gave 
 you but a week to determine : there has, I think, elapsed 
 since that time, half a year." 
 
 " About as much, Sir." 
 
 "Then, surely, you have now made up your mind?" 
 
 " I had done that at first, my Lord, if it had met with your 
 concurrence." 
 
 " You wished to lead a bachelor's life, I think you said ? " 
 
316 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Rushbrook bowed. 
 
 " Contrary to my will ?" 
 
 " No, my Lord, I wished to have your approbation." 
 
 " And you wished for my approbation of the very oppo- 
 site thing to that which I proposed? But I am not sur- 
 prised. Such is the gratitude of the world ; and such is 
 yours." 
 
 " My Lord, if you doubt my gratitude " 
 
 " Give me a proof of it, Harry, and I will doubt no 
 longer." 
 
 '• Upon every other subject but this, my Lord, Heaven is 
 my witness that your desires " 
 
 Lord Elmwood interrupted him — 
 
 " I understand you : upon every other subject but the only 
 one which my content requires, you are ready to obey me. 
 I thank you." 
 
 " My Lord, do not torture me with this suspicion ; it is so 
 contrary to my deserts, that I cannot bear it." 
 
 " Suspicion of your ingratitude ! You judge too favourably 
 of my opinion — it amounts to' certainty." 
 
 " Then, to convince you, Sir, I am not ungrateful — tell me 
 who the lady is you have chosen for me, and here I give you 
 my word, I will sacrifice all my future prospects of happi- 
 ness — all, for which I would wish to live — and become her 
 husband as soon as you shall appoint." 
 
 This was spoken with a tone so expressive of despair, that 
 Lord Elmwood replied — 
 
 " And while you obey me, you take care to let me know 
 it will cost you your future peace. This is, I suppose to en- 
 hance the merit of the obligation ; but I shall not accept 
 your acquiescence on those terms." 
 
 " Then, in dispensing with it, I hope for your pardon." 
 
 "Do you suppose, Rushbrook, I can pardon an offence, 
 the sole foundation of which arises from a spirit of dis- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 317 
 
 obedience? for you have declared to me your affections 
 are disengaged. In our last conversation did you not 
 say so ? " 
 
 " At first I did, my Lord : but you permitted me to con- 
 sult my heart more closely ; and I have since found that I 
 was mistaken." 
 
 "You then own you at first told me a falsehood, and 
 yet have all this time kept me in suspense without con- 
 fessing it." 
 
 " I waited, my Lord, till you should inquire " 
 
 " You have then, Sir, waited too long," and the fire flashed 
 from his eyes. 
 
 Rushbrook now found himself in that perilous state that 
 admitted of no medium of resentment, but by such das- 
 tardly conduct on his part as would wound both his truth 
 and courage; and thus, animated by his danger, he was 
 resolved to plunge boldly at once into the depth of his 
 patron's anger. 
 
 " My Lord," said he (but he did not undertake this task 
 without sustaining the trembling and convulsion of his 
 whole frame), — " My Lord — waiving for a moment the sub- 
 ject of my marriage — permit me to remind you, that when 
 I was upon my sick bed you promised, that on my recovery 
 you would listen to a petition I should offer to you." 
 
 "Let me recollect," replied he. "Yes; I do remember 
 something of it. But I said nothing to warrant any im- 
 proper petition." 
 
 " It's impropriety was not named, my Lord." 
 
 " No matter, — that you must judge of, and answer for the 
 consequences." 
 
 " I would answer with my life, willingly ; but I own that I 
 shrink from your displeasure." 
 
 " Then do not provoke it." 
 
 " I have already gone too far to recede ; and 3 ou would 
 
318 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 of course demand an explanation, if I attempted to stop 
 here." 
 
 " I should." 
 
 " Then, my Lord, I am bound to speak ; but do not inter- 
 rupt me : hear me out, before you banish me from your pre- 
 sence for ever." 
 
 " I will, Sir," replied he, prepared to hear something that 
 would excite his resentment, and yet determined to hear 
 with patience to the conclusion. 
 
 " Then, my Lord," cried Rushbrook, in the greatest agita- 
 tion of mind and body, " your daughter " 
 
 The resolution Lord Elmwood had taken (and on which 
 he had given his word to his nephew not to interrupt him) 
 immediately gave way. The colour rose in his face, his eye 
 darted lightning, and his hand was lifted up with the 
 emotion that word had created. 
 
 "You promised to hear me, my Lord," cried Rushbrook, 
 " and I claim your promise." 
 
 He now suddenly overcame his violence of passion, and 
 stood silent and resigned to hear him ; but with a determined 
 look, expressive of the vengeance that should ensue. 
 
 " Lady Matilda," resumed Rushbrook, " is an object that 
 wrests from me the enjoyment of every blessing your kind- 
 ness bestows. I cannot but feel myself as her adversary, — 
 as one who has supplanted her in your affections, — who 
 supplies her place while she is exiled, a wanderer, and an 
 orphan." 
 
 The Earl took his eyes from Rushbrook during this last 
 sentence, and cast them on the floor. 
 
 " If I feel gratitude towards you, my Lord," continued 
 he, "gratitude is innate in my heart; and I must also 
 feel it towards her who first introduced me to your pro- 
 tection." 
 
 Again the colour flew to Lord Elmwood's face, and again 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 319 
 
 he could hardly restrain himself from uttering his indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " It was the mother of Lady Matilda," continued Rush- 
 brook, " who was this friend to me ; nor will I ever think of 
 marriage, or any other joyful prospect, while you abandon 
 the only child of my beloved patroness, and load me with 
 rights which belong to her." 
 
 Here Rushbrook stopped : Lord Elmwood was silent too, 
 for near half a minute ; but still his countenance continued 
 fixed with his unvaried resolves. 
 
 After this long pause, the Earl said with composure, 
 which denoted firmness, " Have you finished, Mr. Rush- 
 brook?" 
 
 " All that I dare to utter, my Lord ; and I fear I have 
 already said too much." 
 
 Rushbrook now trembled more than ever, and looked 
 pale as death; for the ardour of speaking being over, he 
 waited his sentence with less constancy of mind than he ex- 
 pected he should. 
 
 "You disapprove my conduct, it seems," said Lord 
 Elmwood; "and in that you are but like the rest of the 
 world; and yet, among all my acquaintance, you are the 
 only one who has dared to insult me with your opinion. 
 And this you have not done inadvertently, but willingly and 
 deliberately. But as it has been my fate to be used ill, and 
 severed from all those persons to whom my soul has been 
 most attached, with less regret I can part from you than if 
 this were my first trial." 
 
 There was a truth and a pathetic sound in the utterance 
 of these words that struck Rushbrook to the heart ; and he 
 beheld himself as a barbarian, who had treated his bene- 
 volent and only friend with insufferable liberty — void of 
 respect for those corroding sorrows which had embittered so 
 many years of his life, and in open violation of his most 
 
320 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 peremptory commands. He felt that he deserved all he 
 was going to suffer, and he fell upon his knees ; not so much 
 to deprecate the doom he saw impending, as thus humbly to 
 acknowledge it was his due. 
 
 Lord Elmwood, irritated by this posture, as a sign of the 
 presumptuous hope that he might be forgiven, suffered now 
 his anger to burst all bounds ; and, raising his voice, he ex- 
 claimed with rage — 
 
 " Leave my house, Sir. Leave my house instantly, and 
 seek some other home." 
 
 Just as these words were begun, Sandford opened the 
 library door, was witness to them, and to the imploring 
 situation of Rushbrook. He stood silent with amazement. 
 
 Rushbrook arose, and feeling in his mind a presage that 
 he might never from that hour behold his benefactor more, 
 as he bowed in token of obedience to his commands, a 
 shower of tears covered his face ; but Lord Elmwood, un- 
 moved, fixed his eyes upon him, which pursued him with 
 enraged looks to the end of the room. Here he had to pass 
 Sandford ; who, for the first time in his life, took hold of 
 him by the hand, and said to Lord Elmwood, " My Lord, 
 what's the matter ? " 
 
 " That ungrateful villain," cried he, " has dared to insult 
 me. Leave my house this moment, Sir." 
 
 Rushbrook made an effort to go, but Sandford still held 
 his hand ; and meekly said to Lord Elmwood — 
 
 "He is but a boy, my Lord, and do not give him the 
 punishment of a man." 
 
 Rushbrook now snatched his hand from Sandford's, and 
 threw it with himself upon his neck, where he indeed 
 sobbed like a boy. 
 
 " You are both in league," exclaimed Lord Elmwood. 
 
 " Do you suspect me of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook ? " 
 said Sandford, advancing nearer to the Earl. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 32 I 
 
 Rushbrook had now gained the point of remaining in the 
 room ; but the hope that privilege inspired (while he still 
 harboured all the just apprehensions for his fate) gave birth, 
 perhaps, to a more exquisite sensation of pain than despair 
 would have done. He stood silent — confounded; hoping 
 that he was forgiven — fearing that he was not. 
 
 As Sandford approached still nearer to Lord Elmwood, he 
 continued, " No, my Lord ; I know you do not s-uspect me 
 of partiality to Mr. Rushbrook. Has any part of my be- 
 haviour ever discovered it ? " 
 
 " You now, then, only interfere to irritate me." 
 
 " If that were the case," returned Sandford, " there have 
 been occasions when I might have done it more effectually ; 
 when my own heart-strings were breaking, because I would 
 not irritate, or add to what you suffered." 
 
 " I am obliged to you, Mr. Sandford," he returned mildly 
 and thankfully. 
 
 " And if, my Lord, I have proved any merit in a late for- 
 bearance, reward me for it now ; and take this young man 
 from the depth of sorrow in which I see he is sunk, and say 
 you pardon him." 
 
 Lord Elmwood made no answer ; and Rushbrook, draw- 
 ing strong inferences of hope from his silence, lifted up his 
 eyes from the ground, and ventured to look in his face : he 
 found it serene to what it had been, but still strongly marked 
 with agitation. He cast his eyes away again, in shame and 
 confusion. 
 
 On which his uncle said to him, " I shall postpone the 
 exacting of your obedience to my late orders till you think 
 fit once more to provoke them ; and then, not even Sandford 
 shall dare to plead your excuse." 
 
 Rushbrook bowed. 
 
 " Go, leave the room, Sir." 
 
 He instantly obeyed. 
 
 Y 
 
322 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Then Sandford, turning to Lord Elmwood, shook him by 
 the hand, and cried, " My Lord, I thank you — I thank you 
 very kindly, my Lord. I shall now begin to think I have 
 some weight with you." 
 
 " You might indeed think so, did you know how much I 
 have pardoned." 
 
 " What was his offence, my Lord ?" 
 
 " Such as I would not have forgiven you, or any earthly 
 being besides himself; but while you were speaking in his 
 behalf, I recollected there was a gratitude so extraordinary 
 in the hazards he ran, that almost made him pardonable." 
 
 "I guess the subject, then," cried Sandford; "and yet I 
 could not have supposed " 
 
 "It is a subject we cannot speak on, Sandford; there- 
 fore let us drop it." 
 
 At these words the discourse concluded. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 323 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 To the relief of Rushbrook, Lord Elmwood that day dined 
 from home, and he had not the confusion to see him again 
 till the evening. Previous to this, Sandford and he met at 
 dinner ; but as the attendants were present, nothing passed 
 on either side respecting the incident of the morning. 
 Rushbrook, from the peril which had so lately threatened 
 him, was now in his perfectly cool and dispassionate senses ; 
 and, notwithstanding the real tenderness which he bore to 
 the daughter of his benefactor, he was not insensible to the 
 comfort of finding himself once more in the possession of 
 all those enjoyments he had forfeited, and for a moment 
 lost. 
 
 As he reflected on this, to Sandford he felt the first tie of 
 acknowledgment. But for his compassion, he knew he 
 should have been, at that very time of their meeting at 
 dinner, away from Elmwood House for ever, and bearing 
 on his mind a still more painful recollection, — the burden 
 of his kind patron's continual displeasure. Filled with these 
 thoughts, all the time of dinner, he could scarce look at his 
 companion without tears of gratitude ; and whenever he 
 attempted to speak to him, gratitude choked his utterance. 
 
 Sandford, on his part, behaved just the same as ever ; and 
 to shew he did not wish to remind Rushbrook of what he 
 had done, he was just as uncivil as ever. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Among other things he said, "He did not know Lord 
 Elmwood dined from home ; for if he had, he should have 
 dined in his own apartment." 
 
 Rushbrook was still more obliged to him for all this ; and 
 the weight of obligations with which he was oppressed made 
 him long for an opportunity to relieve himself by expressions. 
 As soon, therefore, as the servants were all withdrawn, he 
 began — 
 
 " Mr. Sandford, whatever has been your opinion of me, I 
 take pride to myself that in my sentiments towards you, I 
 have always distinguished you for that humane, disinterested 
 character you have this day proved." 
 
 " Humane and disinterested," replied Sandford, " are flat- 
 tering epithets, indeed, for an old man going out of the 
 world, and who can have no temptation to be otherwise." 
 
 " Then suffer me to call your actions generous and com- 
 passionate, for they have saved me " 
 
 " I know, young man," cried Sandford, interrupting him, 
 "you are glad at what I have done, and that you find a 
 gratification in telling me you are ; but it is a gratification I 
 will not indulge you with. Therefore, say another sentence 
 on the subject, and," rising from his seat, "I'll leave the 
 room, and never come into your company again, whatever 
 your uncle may say to it." 
 
 Rushbrook saw by the solemnity of his countenance he 
 was serious, and positively assured him he would never 
 thank him more ; on which Sandford took his seat again, 
 but he still frowned, and it was many minutes before he 
 conquered his ill-humour. As his countenance became less 
 sour, Rushbrook fell from some general topics he had eagerly 
 started in order to appease him, and said — 
 
 " How hard is it to restrain conversation from the subject 
 of our thoughts ? And yet amidst our dearest friends, and 
 among persons who have the same dispositions and senti- 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 325 
 
 ments as our own, — their minds, too, fixed upon the self-same 
 objects, — this constraint is practised ; and thus society, which 
 was meant for one of our greatest blessings, becomes in- 
 sipid, nay, often more wearisome than solitude." 
 
 " I think, young man," replied Sandford, " you have made 
 pretty free with your speech to-day, and ought not to com- 
 plain of the want of toleration on that score." 
 
 " I do complain," replied Rushbrook ; " for if toleration 
 were more frequent, the favour of obtaining it would be 
 less." 
 
 " And your pride, I suppose, is above receiving a favour ? " 
 
 " Never from those I esteem ; and, to convince you of it, I 
 wish this moment to request a favour of you." 
 
 "I dare say I shall refuse it. However, what is it?" 
 
 " Permit me to speak to you upon the subject of Lady 
 Matilda." 
 
 Sandford made no answer, consequently did not forbid 
 him ; and he proceeded — 
 
 "For her sake — as I suppose Lord Elmwood may have 
 told you — I this morning rashly threw myself into the pre- 
 dicament from whence you released me. For her sake I 
 have suffered much ; for her sake I have hazarded a great 
 deal, and am still ready to hazard more." 
 
 "But for your own sake, do not," returned Sandford, 
 dryly. 
 
 "You may laugh at these sentiments as romantic, Mr. 
 Sandford; but if they are, to me they are nevertheless 
 natural." 
 
 " But of what service are they to be either to her or to 
 yourself?" 
 
 "To me they are painful, and to her would be but im- 
 pertinent were she to know them." 
 
 " I sha'n't inform her of them, so do not trouble yourself 
 to caution me against it." 
 
326 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " I was not going — you know I was not — but I was going 
 to say that from no one so well as from you could she be 
 told my sentiments without the danger of receiving offence." 
 
 " And what impression do you wish to give her, from her 
 becoming acquainted with them ? " 
 
 "The impression that she has one sincere friend; that 
 upon every occurrence in life there is a heart so devoted to 
 all she feels, that she never can suffer without the sympathy 
 of another; or can ever command him and all his fortunes, 
 to unite for her welfare, without his ready, his immediate 
 compliance." 
 
 " And do you imagine that any of your professions, or any 
 of her necessities, would ever prevail upon her to put you to 
 the trial ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 " What, then, are the motives which induce you to wish 
 her to be told of this ? " 
 
 Rushbrook hesitated. 
 
 "Do you think," continued Sandford, "the intelligence 
 will give her any satisfaction ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 "Will it be of any to yourself?" 
 
 " The highest in the world." 
 
 " And so all you have been urging upon this occasion is, 
 at last, only to please yourself." 
 
 " You wrong my meaning. It is her merit which inspires 
 me with the desire of being known to her. It is her suffer- 
 ings, her innocence, her beauty " 
 
 Sandford stared; Rushbrook proceeded, "It is her " 
 
 "Nay, stop where you are," cried Sandford; "you are 
 arrived at the zenith of perfection in a woman, and to add 
 one qualification more would be an anti-climax." 
 
 "Oh," cried Rushbrook with warmth, " I loved her before 
 I ever beheld her." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 327 
 
 " Loved her ! " cried Sandford, with marks of astonish- 
 ment : " you are talking of what you did not intend." 
 
 " I am, indeed," returned he in confusion : " I fell by 
 accident on the word love." 
 
 "And by the same accident stumbled on the word beauty; 
 and thus by accident am I come to the truth of all your 
 professions." 
 
 Rushbrook knew that he loved ; and though his affection 
 had sprung from the most laudable motives, yet was he 
 ashamed of it as of a vice : he rose, he walked about the 
 room, and he did not look Sandford in the face for a quarter 
 of an hour. Sandford, satisfied that he had judged rightly, 
 and yet unwilling to be too hard upon a passion which he 
 readily believed must have had many noble virtues for its 
 foundation, now got up and went away, without saying 
 a word in censure, though not a word in approba- 
 tion. 
 
 It was in the month of October, and just dark at the 
 time Rushbrook was left alone, yet in the agitation of his 
 mind, arising from the subject on which he had been talking, 
 he found it impossible to remain in the house, and therefore 
 walked into the fields. But there was another inducement 
 more powerful than the necessity of walking : it was the 
 allurement of passing along that path where he had last 
 seen Lady Matilda ; and where, for the only time, she had 
 condescended to speak to him divested of haughtiness, and 
 with a gentleness that dwelt upon his memory beyond all 
 her other endowments. 
 
 Here he retraced his own steps repeatedly, his whole 
 imagination engrossed with her idea, till the sound of her 
 father's carriage returning from his visit roused him from 
 the delusion of his trance, to the dread of the embarrass- 
 ment he should endure on next meeting him. He hoped 
 Sandford might be present ; and yet he was now almost 
 
328 A SIMPLE STORY, 
 
 as much ashamed of seeing him as his uncle, whom he had 
 so lately offended. 
 
 Loath as much to leave the spot where he was, as to enter 
 the house, he remained there, till he considered it would be 
 ill manners, in his present humiliated situation, not to show 
 himself at the usual supper hour, which was now nearly 
 arrived. 
 
 As he laid his hand upon the door of the apartment to 
 open it, he was sorry to hear by Lord Elmwood's voice 
 he was in the room before him : for there was something 
 much more conspicuously distressing in entering where he 
 already was, than had his uncle come in after him. He 
 found himself, however, re-assured, by overhearing the Earl 
 laugh and speak in a tone expressive of the utmost good 
 humour to Sandford, who was with him. 
 
 Yet again, he felt all the awkwardness of his own situa- 
 tion ; but, making one courageous effort, opened the door 
 and entered. Lord Elmwood had been away half the day, 
 had dined abroad, and it was necessary to take some notice 
 of his return. Rushbrook, therefore, bowed humbly ; and, 
 what was more to his advantage, he looked humbly. His 
 uncle made a slight return to his salutation, but continued 
 the recital he had begun to Sandford ; then sat down to the 
 supper-table — supped — and passed the whole evening with- 
 out saying a syllable, or even casting a look, in remem- 
 brance of what had passed in the morning. Or, if there 
 was any token that showed he remembered the circumstance 
 at all, it was the putting his glass to his nephew's when 
 Rushbrook called for wine, and drinking at the time he 
 did. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 329 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 The repulse Lord Margrave received did not diminish the 
 ardour of his pursuit ; for as he was no longer afraid of 
 resentment from the Earl, whatever treatment his daughter 
 might receive, he was determined the anger of Lady 
 Matilda, or of her female friend, should not impede his 
 pretensions. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, he laid the plan of an open 
 violation of laws both human and divine ; and he deter- 
 mined to bear away that prize by force, which no art was 
 likely to procure. He concerted with two of his favourite 
 companions ; but their advice was, " One struggle more of 
 fair means." This was totally against his inclination ; for 
 he had much rather have encountered the piercing cries of 
 a female in the last agonies of distress than the fatigue of 
 her sentimental harangues, or elegant reproofs, such as he 
 had the sense to understand, but not the capacity to 
 answer. 
 
 Stimulated, however, by his friends to one more trial, in 
 spite of the formal dismission he had twice received, he 
 intruded another visit on Lady Matilda at the farm. Pro- 
 voked beyond bearing at such unfeeling assurance, Matilda 
 refused to come into the room where he was, and Miss 
 Woodley alone received him, and expressed her surprise at 
 the little attention he had paid to her explicit desire. 
 
 " Madam," replied the nobleman, " to be plain with you, 
 I am in love." 
 
33° A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " I do not in the least doubt it, my Lord," replied Miss 
 Woodley : " nor ought you to doubt the truth of what I 
 advance, when I assure you, that you have not the smallest 
 reason to hope your love will be returned ; for Lady Matilda 
 is resolved never to listen to your passion." 
 
 " That man," he replied, " is to blame, who can relinquish 
 his hopes upon the mere resolution of a lady." 
 
 "And that lady would be wrong," replied Miss Woodley, 
 " who should intrust her happiness to the care of a man who 
 can think thus meanly of her, and of her sex." 
 
 " I think highly of them all," he replied ; " and to con- 
 vince you in how high an estimation I hold her in particular, 
 my whole fortune is at her command." 
 
 "Your entire absence from this house, my Lord, she 
 would consider as a much greater mark of your respect." 
 
 A long conversation, as uninteresting as the foregoing, 
 ensued, when the unexpected arrival of Mr. Sandford put 
 an end to it. He started at the sight of Lord Margrave ; 
 but the Viscount was much more affected at the sight of 
 him. 
 
 "My Lord," said Sandford boldly to him, "have you 
 received any encouragement from Lady Matilda to authorise 
 this visit ? " 
 
 " None, upon my honour, Mr. Sandford ; but I hope you 
 know how to pardon a lover ! " 
 
 " A rational one I do ; but you, my Lord, are not of that 
 class while you persecute the pretended object of your 
 affection." 
 
 " Do you call it persecution that I once offered her a share 
 of my title and fortune ; and even now, declare my fortune 
 to be at her disposal ? " 
 
 Sandford was uncertain whether he understood his mean- 
 ing ; but Lord Margrave, provoked at his ill reception, felt 
 a triumph in removing his doubts, and proceeded thus : — 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 33 1 
 
 "For the discarded daughter of Lord Elmwood cannot 
 expect the same proposals which I made, while she was 
 acknowledged and under the protection of her father." 
 
 "What proposals, then, my Lord?" asked Sandford, 
 hastily." 
 
 " Such," replied he, " as the Duke of Avon made to her 
 mother." 
 
 Miss Woodley quitted the room that instant. Bu.t Sand- 
 ford, who never felt resentment but against those in whom 
 he saw some virtue, calmly replied — 
 
 " My Lord, the Duke of Avon was a gentleman, a man of 
 elegance and breeding ; and what have you to offer in re- 
 compense for your defects in qualities like these ? " 
 
 " My wealth," replied he, " opposed to her indigence." 
 
 Sandford smiled, and answered — 
 
 " Do you suppose that wealth can be esteemed which has 
 not been able to make you respectable ? What is it makes 
 wealth valuable ? Is it the pleasures of the table ; the 
 pleasure of living in a fine house, or of wearing fine clothes ? 
 These are pleasures a lord enjoys, but in common with his 
 valet. It is the pleasure of being conspicuous which makes 
 riches desirable ; but if we are conspicuous only for our 
 vice and folly, had we not better remain in poverty ? " 
 
 "You are beneath my notice." 
 
 " I trust I shall continue so ; and that your Lordship will 
 never again condescend to come where I am." 
 
 "A man of rank condescends to mix with any society, 
 when a pretty woman is the object." 
 
 " My Lord, I have a book here in my pocket, which I am 
 eager to read : it is an author who speaks sense and reason. 
 Will you pardon the impatience I feel for such company, and 
 permit me to call your carriage ?" 
 
 Saying this, he went hastily and beckoned to the coach- 
 man. The carriage drove up, the door was opened, and 
 
332 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Lord Margrave, ashamed to be exposed before his attend- 
 ants, and convinced of the utter inutility of remaining any 
 longer where he was, departed. 
 
 Sandford was soon joined by the ladies ; and the conver- 
 sation falling, of course, upon the nobleman who had just 
 taken his leave, Sandford unwarily exclaimed — 
 
 " I wish Rushbrook had been here." 
 
 " Who ?" cried Lady Matilda. 
 
 " I do believe," said Miss Woodley, " that young man has 
 some good qualities." 
 
 "A great many," returned Sandford, mutteringly. 
 
 " Happy young man ! " cried Matilda : " he is beloved by 
 all those whose affection it would be my choice to possess, 
 beyond any other blessing this world could bestow." 
 
 "And yet I question if Rushbrook be happy," said Sand- 
 ford. 
 
 " He cannot be otherwise," returned Matilda, " if he is a 
 man of understanding." 
 
 " He does not want understanding, neither," replied Sand- 
 ford, " although he has certainly many indiscretions." 
 
 " But which Lord Elmwood, I suppose," said Matilda, 
 " looks upon with tenderness." 
 
 " Not upon all his faults," answered Sandford ; " for I 
 have seen him in very dangerous circumstances with your 
 father." 
 
 "Have you, indeed?" cried Matilda : "then I pity him." 
 
 " And I believe," said Miss Woodley, " that from his heart 
 he compassionates you. Now, Mr. Sandford," continued 
 she, " though this is the first time I ever heard you speak in 
 his favour (and I once thought as indifferently of Mr. Rush- 
 brook as you can do), yet now I will venture to ask you 
 whether you do not think he wishes Lady Matilda much 
 happier than she is ?" 
 
 " I have heard him say so," answered Sandford. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 333 
 
 "It is a subject," returned Lady Matilda, "which I did 
 not imagine you, Mr. Sandford, would have permitted him to 
 have mentioned lightly in your presence." 
 
 " Lightly ! Do you suppose, my dear, we turned your 
 situation into ridicule ?" 
 
 " No, Sir; but there is a sort of humiliation in the grief to 
 which I am doomed, that ought surely to be treated with the 
 highest degree of delicacy by my friends." 
 
 " I don't know on what point you fix real delicacy ; but if 
 it consists in sorrow, the young man gives a proof he pos- 
 sesses it, for he shed tears when I last heard him mention 
 your name." 
 
 " I have more cause to weep at the mention of his." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but let me tell you, Lady Matilda, that 
 your father might have preferred a more unworthy object." 
 
 " Still had he been to me," she cried, "an object of envy. 
 And, as I frankly confess my envy of Mr. Rushbrook, I hope 
 you will pardon my malice, which is, you know, but a conse- 
 quent crime." 
 
 The subject now turned again upon Lord Margrave ; 
 and all of them being firmly persuaded this last reception 
 would put an end to every further intrusion from him, they 
 treated his pretensions, and himself, with the contempt they 
 inspired, but not with the caution that was requisite. 
 
334 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 The next morning, early, Mr. Sandford returned to Elm- 
 wood House, but with his spirits depressed, and his heart 
 overcharged with sorrow. He had seen Lady Matilda, the 
 object of his visit; but he had beheld her considerably 
 altered in her looks and in her health. She was become 
 very thin ; and instead of the vivid bloom that used to adorn 
 her cheeks, her whole complexion was of a deadly pallor ; 
 her countenance no longer expressed hope or fear, but a 
 fixed melancholy ; she shed no tears, but was all sadness. 
 He had beheld this, and he had heard her insulted by the 
 licentious proposals of a nobleman, from whom there was no 
 satisfaction to be demanded, because she had no friend to 
 vindicate her honour. 
 
 Rushbrook, who suspected where Sandford was gone, and 
 imagined he would return on the following day, took his 
 morning's ride so as to meet him on the road, at the distance 
 of a few miles from the castle ; for, since his perilous situa- 
 tion with Lord Elmwood, he was so fully convinced of the 
 general philanthropy of Sandford's character, that, in spite of 
 his churlish manners, he now addressed him, free from that 
 reserve to which his rough behaviour had formerly given 
 birth. And Sandford, on his part, believing he had formed 
 an illiberal opinion of Lord Elmwood's heir, though he took 
 no pains to let him know that his opinion was changed, yet 
 resolved to make him restitution upon every occasion that 
 offered. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 335 
 
 Their mutual greetings, when they met, were uncere- 
 monious, but cordial ; and Rushbrook turned his horse and 
 rode back with Sandford: yet, intimidated by his respect 
 and tenderness for Lady Matilda, rather than by fear of the 
 rebuffs of his companion, he had not the courage to name 
 her till the ride was just finished, and they came within a 
 few yards of the house. Incited then by the apprehension 
 he might not soon again enjoy so fit an opportunity, he 
 said — 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Sandford, if I guess where you have 
 been, and if my curiosity forces me to inquire after Miss 
 Woodley's and Lady Matilda's health." 
 
 He named Miss Woodley first, to prolong the time before 
 he mentioned Matilda ; for though to name her gave him 
 extreme pleasure, yet it was a pleasure accompanied by con- 
 fusion and pain. 
 
 " They are both very well," replied Sandford : " at least, 
 they did not complain they were sick." 
 
 "They are not in spirits, I suppose?" said Rushbrook. 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Sandford, shaking his head. 
 
 " No new misfortune has happened, I hope ?" cried Rush- 
 brook; for it was plain to see Sandford's spirits were un- 
 usually cast down. 
 
 " Nothing new," returned he, " except the insolence of a 
 young nobleman." 
 
 "What nobleman ?" cried Rushbrook. 
 
 "A lover of Lady Matilda's," replied Sandford. 
 
 Rushbrook was petrified. " Who ? what lover, Mr. Sand- 
 ford ? Explain." 
 
 They were now arrived at the house ; and Sandford, with- 
 out making any reply to this question, said to the servant 
 who took his horse — 
 
 " She has come a long way this morning : take care of 
 her." 
 
3 3 6 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 This interruption was torture to Rushbrook, who kept 
 close to his side, in order to obtain a further explanation ; but 
 Sandford, without attending to him, walked negligently into 
 the hall, and before they advanced many steps, they were 
 met by Lord Elmwood. 
 
 All further information was put an end to for the 
 present. 
 
 " How do you do, Sandford ?" said Lord Elmwood, with 
 extreme kindness, as if he thanked him for the journey 
 which, it was likely, he suspected he had been taking. 
 
 " I am indifferently well, my Lord," replied he, with a face 
 of deep concern, and a tear in his eye, partly in gratitude 
 for his patron's civility, and partly in reproach for his 
 cruelty. 
 
 It was not now till the evening that RusTibrook had an 
 opportunity of renewing the conversation which had been so 
 painfully interrupted. 
 
 In the evening, no longer able to support the suspense 
 into which he had been thrown, without fear or shame, he 
 followed Sandford into his chamber at the time of his 
 retiring, and entreated him, with all the anxiety he suffered, 
 to explain his allusion when he talked of a lover, and of 
 insolence to Lady Matilda. 
 
 Sandford, seeing his emotion, was angry with himself 
 that he had inadvertently mentioned the circumstance; 
 and, putting on an air of surly importance, desired, if he 
 had any business with him, that he would call in the 
 morning. 
 
 Exasperated at so unexpected a reception, and at the pain 
 of his disappointment, Rushbrook replied, " He treated him 
 cruelly ; nor would he stir out of the room till he had re- 
 ceived a satisfactory answer to his question." 
 
 " Then bring your bed," replied Sandford ; " for you must 
 pass your whole night here." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 337 
 
 He found it vain to think of obtaining any intelligence 
 by threats. He therefore said, in a timid and persuasive 
 manner — 
 
 " Did you, Mr. Sandford, hear Lady Matilda mention my 
 name ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Sandford, a little better reconciled to him. 
 
 " Did you tell her what I lately declared to you ? " he 
 asked, with still more diffidence. 
 
 " No," replied Sandford. 
 
 " It is very well, Sir," returned he, vexed to the heart, yet 
 again wishing to soothe him. 
 
 " You certainly, Mr. Sandford, know what is for the best ; 
 yet I entreat you will give me some further account of the 
 nobleman you named." 
 
 " I know what is for the best," replied Sandford ; " and I 
 won't." 
 
 Rushbrook bowed, and immediately left the room. He 
 went apparently submissive; but the moment he shewed 
 this submission, he took the resolution of paying a visit 
 himself to the farm at which Lady Matilda resided; and 
 of learning, either from Miss Woodley, the people of the 
 house, the neighbours, or perhaps from Lady Matilda's own 
 lips, the secret which the obstinacy of Sandford had with- 
 held. 
 
 He saw all the dangers of this undertaking; but none 
 appeared so great as the danger of losing her he loved by 
 the influence of a rival ; and though Sandford had named 
 "insolence," he was in doubt whether what had appeared 
 so to him was so in reality, or would be so considered by 
 her. 
 
 To prevent the cause of his absence being suspected by 
 Lord Elmwood, he immediately called his groom, ordered 
 his horse, and, giving those servants concerned a strict 
 charge of secrecy, with some frivolous pretence to apologize 
 
 z 
 
33% A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 for his not being present at breakfast (resolving to be back 
 by dinner), he set off that night, and arrived at an inn about 
 a mile from the farm at break of day. 
 
 The joy he felt when he found himself so near to the 
 beloved object of his journey made him thank Sandford in 
 his heart for the unkindness which had sent him thither. 
 But new difficulties arose how to accomplish the end for 
 which he came. He learned from the people of the inn 
 that a lord, with a fine equipage, had visited at the farm ; 
 but who he was, or for what purpose he went, no one could 
 inform him. 
 
 Dreading to return with his doubts unsatisfied, and yet 
 afraid of proceeding to extremities that might be construed 
 into presumption, he walked disconsolately (almost dis- 
 tractedly) across the fields, looking repeatedly at his watch, 
 and wishing the time would stand still till he was ready to 
 go back with his errand completed. 
 
 Every field he passed brought him nearer to the house on 
 which his imagination was fixed ; but how, without forfeiting 
 every appearance of that respect which he so powerfully 
 felt, could he attempt to enter it ? He saw the indecorum, 
 resolved not to be guilty of it, and yet walked on till he was 
 within but a small orchard of the door. Could he then re- 
 treat? He wished he could; but he found that he had 
 proceeded too far to be any longer master of himself. The 
 time was urgent. He must either behold her and venture 
 her displeasure, or, by diffidence during one moment, give 
 up all his hopes, perhaps for ever. 
 
 With that same disregard to consequences which actuated 
 him when he dared to supplicate Lord Elmwood on his 
 daughter's behalf, he at length went eagerly to the door and 
 rapped. 
 
 A servant came. He asked to " speak with Miss Woodley 
 if she was quite alone." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 339 
 
 He was shewn into an apartment, and Miss Woodley 
 entered to him. 
 
 She started when she beheld who it was ; but as he did 
 not see a frown upon her face, he caught hold of her hand, 
 and said persuasively — 
 
 " Do not be offended with me. If I mean to offend you, 
 may I forfeit my life in atonement." 
 
 Poor Miss Woodley, glad in her solitude to see any one 
 from Elmwood House, forgot his visit was an offence till 
 he put her in mind of it. She then said, with some re- 
 serve — 
 
 " Tell me the purport of your coming, Sir, and perhaps I 
 may have no reason to complain." 
 
 " It was to see Lady Matilda," he replied, " or to hear of 
 her health. It was to offer her my services — it was, Miss 
 Woodley, to convince her, if possible, of my esteem." 
 
 "Had you no other method, Sir?" said Miss Woodley, 
 with the same reserve. 
 
 " None," replied he, " or with joy I should have embraced 
 it ; and if you can inform me of any other, tell me, I be- 
 seech you, instantly, and I will immediately be gone and 
 pursue your directions." 
 
 Miss Woodley hesitated. 
 
 " You know of no other means, Miss Woodley ? " he cried. 
 
 " And yet I cannot commend this," said she. 
 
 " Nor do I. Do not imagine, because you see me here, 
 that I approve of my visit ; but, reduced to this necessity, 
 pity the motives that have urged it." 
 
 Miss Woodley did pity them ; but as she would not own 
 that she did, she could think of nothing else to say. 
 
 At this instant a bell rung from the chamber above. 
 
 "That is Lady Matilda's bell," said Miss Woodley. 
 " She is coming to take a short walk. Do you wish to see 
 her ? " 
 
 z 2 
 
340 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 Though it was the first wish of his heart, he paused, and 
 said, " Will you plead my excuse ? " 
 
 As the flight of stairs was but short which Matilda had to 
 come down, she was in the room with Miss Woodley and 
 Mr. Rushbrook just as that sentence ended. 
 
 She had stepped beyond the door of the apartment, when, 
 perceiving a visitor, she hastily withdrew. 
 
 Rushbrook, animated, though trembling at her presence, 
 cried, " Lady Matilda, do not avoid me till you know that I 
 deserve such a punishment." 
 
 She immediately saw who it was, and returned back with 
 a proper pride, and yet a proper politeness, in her manner. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," said she ; " I did not know 
 you. I was afraid I intruded upon Miss Woodley and a 
 stranger." 
 
 "You do not, then, consider me as a stranger, Lady 
 Matilda? And that you do not requires my warmest ac- 
 knowledgements." 
 
 She sat down, as if overcome by ill spirits and ill health. 
 
 Miss Woodley now asked Rushbrook to sit ; for till now 
 she had not. 
 
 "No, Madam," replied he, with confusion; "not unless 
 Lady Matilda gives me permission." 
 
 She smiled, and pointed to a chair; and all the kindness 
 which Rushbrook during his whole life had received from 
 Lord Elmwood never inspired half the gratitude which this 
 one instance of civility from his daughter excited. 
 
 He sat down with the confession of the obligation upon 
 every feature of his face. 
 
 " I am not well, Mr. Rushbrook," said Matilda, languidly ; 
 " and you must excuse any want of etiquette at this house." 
 
 "While you excuse me, Madam, what can I have to 
 complain of?" 
 
 She appeared absent while he was speaking, and, turning 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 34 1 
 
 to Miss Woodley, said, "Do you think I had better walk 
 to-day ? " 
 
 " No, my dear," answered Miss Woodley ; " the ground is 
 damp, and the air cold." 
 
 "You are not well, indeed, Lady Matilda," said Rush- 
 brook, gazing upon her with the most tender respect. 
 
 She shook her head; and the tears, without any effort 
 either to repel or to restrain them, ran down her face. 
 
 Rushbrook rose from his seat, and, with an accent and 
 manner the most expressive, said, "We are cousins, Lady 
 Matilda. In our infancy we were brought up together. We 
 were beloved by the same mother, fostered by the same 
 father " 
 
 " Oh, oh ! " cried she, interrupting him, with a tone which 
 indicated the bitterest anguish. 
 
 " Nay, do not let me add to your uneasiness," he resumed 
 " while I am attempting to alleviate it. Instruct me what I 
 can do to shew my esteem and respect, rather than permit 
 me, thus unguided, to rush upon what you may construe into 
 insult and arrogance." 
 
 Miss Woodley went to Matilda, took her hand, then 
 wiped the tears from her eyes, while Matilda reclined 
 against her, entirely regardless of Rushbrook's presence. 
 
 " If I have been in the least instrumental to this sorrow 
 
 " said Rushbrook, with a face as much agitated as his 
 
 mind. 
 
 " No," said Miss Woodley, in a low voice, " you have not 
 — she is often thus." 
 
 " Yes," said Matilda, raising her head ; "lam frequently 
 so weak that I cannot resist the smallest incitement to grief. 
 But do not make your visit long, Mr. Rushbrook," she con- 
 tinued; "for I was just then thinking, that should Lord 
 Elmwood hear of this attention you have paid me, it might 
 
34 2 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 be fatal to you." Here she wept again, as bitterly as 
 before. 
 
 " There is no probability of his hearing of it, Madam," 
 Rushbrook replied ; " or if there were, I am persuaded that 
 he would not resent it ; for yesterday, when I am confident 
 he knew that Mr. Sandford had been to see you, he received 
 him on his return with unusual marks of kindness." 
 
 " Did he ? " said she ; and again she lifted up her head, 
 her eyes for a moment beaming with hope and joy. 
 
 " There is something which we cannot yet define," said 
 Rushbrook, " that Lord Elmwood struggles with ; but when 
 
 time shall have eradicated " 
 
 Before he could proceed further, Matilda was once more 
 sunk into despondency, and scarcely attended to what he 
 was saying. 
 
 Miss Woodley, observing this, said, "Mr. Rushbrook, 
 let it be a token we shall be glad to see you hereafter, that 
 I now use the freedom to beg you will put an end to your 
 visit." 
 
 " I withdraw, Madam," returned he, " with the warmest 
 thanks for the reception you have given me ; and this last 
 assurance of your kindness is beyond any other favour you 
 could have bestowed. Lady Matilda," added he, " suffer me 
 to take your hand at parting, and let it be a testimony that 
 you acknowledge me for a relation." 
 
 She put out her hand, which he knelt to receive, but did 
 not raise it to his lips. He held the boon too sacred; and 
 looking earnestly upon it, as it lay pale and wan in his, he 
 breathed one sigh over it, and withdrew. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. . 343 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Sorrowful and affecting as this interview had been, 
 Rushbrook, as he rode home, reflected upon it with the 
 most inordinate delight; and had he not seen decline of 
 health in the looks and behaviour of Lady Matilda his 
 felicity had been unbounded. Entranced in the happiness 
 of her society, the thought of his rival never came once to 
 his mind while he was with her: a want of recollection, 
 however, he by no means regretted, as her whole ap- 
 pearance contradicted every suspicion he could possibly 
 entertain, that she favoured the addresses of any man 
 living ; and had he remembered, he would not have dared to 
 name the subject. 
 
 The time ran so swiftly while he was away, that it was 
 beyond the dinner hour at Elmwood House when he re- 
 turned. Heated, his dress and his hair disordered, he entered 
 the dining-room just as the desert was put upon the table. 
 He was confounded at his own appearance, and at the false- 
 hoods he should be obliged to fabricate in his excuse : there 
 was yet that which engaged his attention, beyond any cir- 
 cumstance relating to himself — the features of Lord Elm- 
 wood — of which his daughter's, whom he had just beheld, 
 had the most striking resemblance ; though hers were 
 softened by sorrow, while his were made austere by the self- 
 same cause. 
 
 " Where have you been ? " said his uncle, with a frown. 
 
344 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " A chase, my Lord — I beg your pardon — but a pack of 
 dogs I unexpectedly met." For in the hackneyed art of 
 lying without injury to any one, Rushbrook, to his shame, 
 was proficient. 
 
 His excuses were received, and the subject ceased. 
 
 During his absence that day Lord Elmwood had called 
 Sandford apart, and said to him, that as the malevolence 
 which he once observed between him and Rushbrook had, 
 he perceived, subsided, he advised him, if he was a well- 
 wisher to the young man, to sound his heart, and counsel 
 him not to act against the will of his nearest relation and 
 friend. " I myself am too hasty," continued Lord Elm- 
 wood ; " and, unhappily, too much determined upon what I 
 have once (though, perhaps, rashly) said, to speak upon a 
 topic where it is probable I shall meet with opposition. 
 You, Sandford, can reason with moderation. For after all 
 that I have done for my nephew, it would be a pity to 
 forsake him at last; and yet, that is but too likely, if he 
 should provoke me to it." 
 
 " Sir," replied Sandford, " I will speak to him." 
 
 " Yet," added Lord Elmwood sternly, " do not urge what 
 you say for my sake, but for his own : I can part from him 
 with ease, but he may then repent; and, you know, re- 
 pentance always comes too late with me." 
 
 " My Lord, I will exert all the efforts in my power for his 
 welfare. But what is the subject on which he has refused to 
 comply with your desires ? " 
 
 " Matrimony — have not I told you ? " 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " I wish him to marry, that I may then conclude the deeds 
 in respect to my estate ; and the only child of Sir William 
 Winterton (a rich heiress) was the wife I meant to propose ; 
 but from his indifference to all I have said on the occasion, 
 I have not yet mentioned her name to him — you may." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 345 
 
 " I will, my Lord, and use all my persuasion to engage his 
 obedience ; and you shall have, at least, a faithful account of 
 what he says." 
 
 Sandford the next morning sought an opportunity of being 
 alone with Rushbrook. He then plainly repeated to him 
 what Lord Elmwood had said, and saw him listen to it all, 
 and heard him answer it all with the most tranquil resolu- 
 tion, " That he would do anything to preserve the friendship 
 and patronage of his uncle — but marry." 
 
 " What can be your reason ? " asked Sandford, though he 
 guessed. 
 
 " A reason I cannot give to Lord Elmwood." 
 
 " Then do not give it to me, for I have promised to tell 
 him everything you shall say to me." 
 
 "And everything I have said?" asked Rushbrook, 
 hastily. 
 
 "As to what you have said, I don't know whether it has 
 made impression enough on my memory to enable me to re- 
 peat it. 
 
 " I am glad it has not." 
 
 "And my answer to your uncle is to be, simply, that 
 you will not obey him." 
 
 " I should hope, Mr. Sandford, that you would express it 
 in better terms." 
 
 " Tell me the terms, and I will be exact." 
 
 Rushbrook struck his forehead, and walked about the 
 room. , 
 
 "Am I to give him any reason for your disobeying 
 him?" 
 
 " I tell you again that I dare not name the cause." 
 
 " Then why do you submit to a power you are ashamed to 
 own ? " 
 
 " I am not ashamed — I glory in it. Are you ashamed of 
 your esteem for Lady Matilda ? " 
 
346 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Oh ! if she is the cause of your disobedience, be 
 assured I shall not mention it; for I am forbid to name 
 her." 
 
 "And surely, as that is the case, I need not fear to speak 
 plainly to you. I love Lady Matilda; or, perhaps, un- 
 acquainted with love, what I feel may be only pity ; and if 
 so, pity is the most pleasing passion that ever possessed a 
 human heart, and I would not change it for all her father's 
 estates." 
 
 " Pity, then, gives rise to very different sensations ; for I 
 pity you, and that sensation I would gladly exchange for ap- 
 probation." 
 
 " If you really feel compassion for me, and I believe you 
 do, contrive some means by your answers to Lord Elmwood 
 to pacify him, without involving me in ruin. Hint at my 
 affections being engaged, but not to whom ; and add, that I 
 have given my word, if he will allow me a short time, a year 
 or two only, I will, during that period, try to disengage 
 them, and use all my power to render myself worthy of the 
 union for which he designs me." 
 
 "And this is not only your solemn promise, but your 
 fixed determination." 
 
 " Nay, why will you search my heart to the bottom, when 
 the surface ought to content you ? " 
 
 " If you cannot resolve on what you have proposed, why 
 do you ask this time of your uncle ? For should he allow it 
 you, your disobedience at the expiration will be less pardon- 
 able than it is now ? " 
 
 " Within a year, Mr. Sandford, who can tell what strange 
 events may not occur to change all our prospects ? Even 
 my passion may decline." 
 
 " In that expectation, then, the failure of which yourself 
 must answer for, I will repeat as much of this discourse as 
 shall be proper." 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 347 
 
 Here Rushbrook communicated his having been to see 
 Lady Matilda ; for which Sandford reproved him, but in 
 less rigorous terms than he generally used in his reproofs ; 
 and Rushbrook, by his entreaties, now gained the intelli- 
 gence who the nobleman was who addressed Matilda, and 
 on what views ; but was restrained to patience by Sandford's 
 arguments and threats. 
 
 Upon the subject of this marriage Sandford met his 
 patron, without having determined exactly what to say, 
 but rested on the temper in which he should find him. 
 
 At the commencement of the conversation he told him, 
 " Rushbrook begged for time." 
 
 "I have given him time — have I not?" cried Lord 
 Elmwood : " what can be the meaning of his thus trifling 
 with me ! " 
 
 Sandford replied, "My Lord, young men are frequently 
 romantic in their notions of love, and think it impossible 
 to have a sincere affection where their own inclinations do 
 not first point out the choice." 
 
 " If he is in love," answered Lord Elmwood, " let him 
 take the object, and leave my house and me for ever. Nor 
 under this destiny can he have any claim to pity ; for 
 genuine love will make him happy in banishment, in 
 poverty, or in sickness : it makes the poor man happy as 
 the rich, the fool blest as the wise." The sincerity with 
 which Lord Elmwood had loved was expressed, as he said 
 this, more than in words. 
 
 " Your Lordship is talking," replied Sandford, " of the 
 passion in its most refined and predominant sense, while I 
 may possibly be speaking of a mere phantom that has led 
 this young man astray." 
 
 " Whatever it be," returned Lord Elmwood, " let him and 
 his friends weigh the case well, and act for the best — so 
 shall I." 
 
348 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " His friends, my Lord ! What friends, or what friend 
 has he upon earth but you ? " 
 
 " Then why will he not submit to my advice, or himself 
 give me a proper reason why he cannot ? " 
 • " Because there may be friendship without familiarity ; 
 and so it is between him and you." 
 
 " That cannot be ; for I have condescended to talk to 
 him in the most familiar terms." 
 
 " To condescend, my Lord, is not to be familiar." 
 
 " Then come, Sir, let us be on an equal footing through 
 you. And now speak out his thoughts freely, and hear mine 
 in return." 
 
 " Why, then, he begs a respite for a year or two." 
 
 " On what pretence ? " 
 
 " To me, it was preference of a single life : but I suspect 
 it is, what he imagines to be, love, and for some object 
 whom he thinks your Lordship would disapprove. 
 
 "He has not, then, actually confessed this to you ? " 
 
 " If he has, it was drawn from him by such means, that 
 I am not warranted to say it in direct words." 
 
 " I have entered into no contract, no agreement on his 
 account, with the friends of the lady I have pointed out," 
 said Lord Elmwood : " nothing beyond implications have 
 passed betwixt her family and myself at present ; and if 
 the person on whom he has fixed his affections should not 
 be in a situation absolutely contrary to my wishes, I may, 
 perhaps, confirm his choice." 
 
 That moment Sandford's courage prompted him to name 
 Lady Matilda, but his discretion opposed. However, in 
 the various changes of his countenance from the conflict, it 
 was plain to discern that he wished to say more than he 
 dared. 
 
 On which Lord Elmwood cried — 
 
 " Speak on, Sandford ; what are you afraid of?" 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 349 
 
 " Of you, my Lord." 
 
 He started. 
 
 Sandford went on : "I know no tie, no bond, no in- 
 nocence, that is a protection when you feel resentment." 
 
 " You are right," he replied, significantly. 
 
 " Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to speak 
 on, when that which I perhaps should say might offend you 
 to hear?" 
 
 " To what, and whither are you changing our subject?" 
 cried Lord Elmwood. " But, Sir, if you know my resent- 
 ful and relentless temper, you surely know how to shun it." 
 
 " Not, and speak plainly." 
 
 " Then dissemble." 
 
 " No, I'll not do that ; but I'll be silent." 
 
 " A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting 
 to me than any one I have about me ; constantly on the 
 verge of disobeying my orders, that you may recede, and 
 gain my good-will by your forbearance. But know, Mr. 
 Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you 
 choose in every conversation we have together (though the 
 most remote from such a topic) to think of my daughter, 
 you must either banish your thoughts, or conceal them ; nor 
 by one sign, one item, remind me of her." 
 
 " Your daughter did you call her ? Can you call yourself 
 her father ? " 
 
 " I do, Sir : but I was likewise the husband of her mother ; 
 and, as that husband, I solemnly swear " He was pro- 
 ceeding with violence. 
 
 " Oh, my Lord," cried Sandford, interrupting him, with 
 his hands clasped in the most fervent supplication — " oh, do 
 not let me draw upon her one oath more of your eternal 
 displeasure. I'll kneel to beg that you will drop the 
 subject." 
 
 The inclination he made, with his knees bent towards the 
 
350 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 ground, stopped Lord Elmwood instantly. But though it 
 broke in upon his words it did not alter one angry look : his 
 eyes darted, and his lips trembled with indignation. 
 
 Sandford, in order to appease him, bowed and offered to 
 withdraw, hoping to be recalled. He wished in vain : Lord 
 Elmwood's eyes followed him to the door, expressive of the 
 joy he should receive from his absence. 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 35 1 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 The companions and counsellors of Lord Margrave, who 
 had so prudently advised gentle methods in the pursuit of 
 his passion, while there was left any hope of their success, 
 now, convinced there was none, as strenuously recommended 
 open violence : — and sheltered under the consideration that 
 it was to be practised upon a defenceless woman, who had 
 not one protector, except an old priest, the subject of their 
 ridicule ; — assured, likewise, from the influence of Lord 
 Margrave's wealth, that all inferior consequences could be 
 overborne, they saw no room for fears on any side ; and 
 what they wished to execute, they with care and skill 
 premeditated. 
 
 When their scheme was mature for performance, three 
 of his chosen companions, and three servants, trained in 
 all the villanous exploits of their masters, set off for the 
 habitation of poor Matilda, and arrived there about the 
 twilight of the evening. 
 
 Near four hours after that time (just as the family were 
 going to bed), they came up to the doors of the house, and, 
 rapping violently, gave the alarm of fire, conjuring all the 
 inhabifants to make their way out immediately, as they 
 would save their lives. 
 
 The family consisted of few persons, all of whom ran 
 instantly to the doors, and opened them ; on which two men 
 rushed in, and, with the plea of saving Lady Matilda from 
 the pretended flames, caught her in their arms, and carried 
 
35 2 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 her off; while all the deceived people of the house, run- 
 ning eagerly to save themselves, paid no regard to her ; 
 till, looking for the cause for which they had been terrified, 
 they perceived the stratagem, and the fatal consequences. 
 
 Amidst the complaints, the sorrow, and the affright of 
 the people of the farm, Miss Woodley's sensations wanted 
 a name. Terror and anguish give but a faint description of 
 what she suffered : something like the approach of death 
 stole over her senses, and she sat like one petrified with 
 horror. She had no doubt who was the perpetrator of 
 this wickedness; but how was she to follow — how effect a 
 rescue ? 
 
 The circumstances of this event, as soon as the people 
 had time to call up their recollection, were sent to a 
 neighbouring magistrate; but little could be hoped from 
 that. Who was to swear to the robber? Who undertake 
 to find him out? Miss Woodley thought of Rushbrook — 
 of Sandford — of Lord Elmwood ; but what could she hope 
 from the want of power in the two former? — what from 
 the latter for the want of will? Now stupified, and now 
 distracted, she walked about the house incessantly, beg- 
 ging for instructions how to act, or how to forget her 
 misery. 
 
 A tenant of Lord Elmwood's, who occupied a little 
 farm near to that at which Lady Matilda lived, and who 
 was well acquainted with the whole history of her and 
 her mother's misfortunes, was returning from a neighbour- 
 ing fair just as this inhuman plan was put in execution. 
 He heard the cries of a woman in distress, and followed 
 the sound, till he arrived at a chaise in waiting, and saw 
 Matilda placed in it, by the side of two men, who pre- 
 sented pistols to him as he offered to approach and ex- 
 postulate. 
 
 The farmer, though uncertain who this female was, yet 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 353 
 
 went to the house she had been taken from (as the nearest) 
 with the tale of what he had seen ; and there being informed 
 it was Lady Matilda whom he had beheld, this intelligence, 
 joined to the powerful effect her screams had on him, made 
 him resolve to take horse immediately, and, with some 
 friends, follow the carriage till they should trace the place 
 to which she was conveyed. 
 
 The anxiety, the firmness discovered in determining upon 
 this undertaking, somewhat alleviated the agony Miss 
 Woodley endured ; and she began to hope timely assistance 
 might yet be given to her beloved charge. 
 
 The man set out, meaning at all events to attempt her 
 release; but before he had proceeded far, the few friends 
 that accompanied him began to reflect on the improbability 
 of their success against a nobleman, surrounded by 
 servants, with other attendants likewise, and, perhaps, even 
 countenanced by the father of the lady, whom they presumed 
 to take from him : or if not, while Lord Elm wood beheld the 
 offence with indifference, that indifference gave it a sanction 
 they might in vain oppose. These cool reflections tending 
 to their safety, had their weight with the companions of the 
 farmer: they all rode back, rejoicing at their second 
 thoughts, and left him to pursue his journey, and prove his 
 valour by himself. 
 
 A A 
 
354 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 It was not with Sandford as it had lately been with Rush- 
 brook, under the displeasure of Lord Elmwood : to the 
 latter he behaved, as soon as their dissension was past, as if 
 it had never happened. But to Sandford it was otherwise : 
 the resentment which he had repressed at the time of the 
 offence lurked in his heart, and dwelt upon his mind for 
 several days ; during which he carefully avoided exchanging 
 a word with him, and gave other demonstrations of being 
 still in enmity. 
 
 Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingrati- 
 tude of the world, yet could not, without difficulty, brook 
 this severity, this contumely, from a man for whose welfare, 
 ever since his infancy, he had laboured ; and whose happi- 
 ness was more dear to him, in spite of all his faults, than 
 that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was not so 
 dear to Sandford as her father; and he loved her more 
 that she was Lord Elmwood's child, than for any other 
 cause. 
 
 Sometimes the old priest, incensed beyond bearing, was 
 on the point of saying to his patron, " How, in his age, dare 
 you thus treat the man whom, in his youth, you respected 
 and revered ? " 
 
 Sometimes, instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was 
 ashamed to own, steal to his eye, and even fall down his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 355 
 
 cheek. Sometimes he left the room half determined to 
 leave the house; but these were all half determinations, 
 for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well not to 
 know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger; 
 and that should he once rashly quit his house, the doors, 
 most probably, would be shut against him for ever. 
 
 In this humiliating state, (for even the domestics could 
 not but observe their Lord's displeasure), Sandford passed 
 three days, and was beginning the fourth, when, sitting 
 with Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook just after breakfast, 
 a servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to some- 
 body who followed, " You must wait till you have my 
 Lord's permission." 
 
 This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly 
 dressed walked in, following close to the servant. 
 
 The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the person 
 to retire, but in vain ; he rushed forward, regardless of his 
 opposer, and in great agitation, said — 
 
 " My Lord, if you please, I have business with you, 
 provided you will choose to be alone." 
 
 Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder's earnestness, 
 bade the servant leave the room, and then said to the 
 stranger — 
 
 " You may speak before these gentlemen." 
 
 The man instantly turned pale, and trembled — then, to 
 prolong the time before he spoke, went to the door to see if 
 it was shut — returned — yet, still trembling, seemed unwilling 
 to say his errand. 
 
 " What have you done," cried Lord Elmwood, " that you 
 are in this terror ? What have you done, man ? " 
 
 " Nothing, my Lord," replied he ; " but I am afraid I am 
 going to offend you." 
 
 " Well, no matter," he answered carelessly ; " only go on, 
 and let me know your business." 
 A A 2 
 
356 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 The man's distress increased ; and he replied, in a voice 
 of grief and affright, "Your child, my Lord " 
 
 Rushbrook and Sandford started; and looking at Lord 
 Elmwood, saw him turn white as death. In a tremulous 
 voice he instantly cried — 
 
 "What of her ?" and rose from his seat. 
 
 Encouraged by the question, and the agitation of him who 
 asked it, the poor man gave way to his feelings, and 
 answered with every sign of sorrow — 
 
 " I saw her, my Lord, taken away by force : two ruffians 
 seized and carried her away, while she screamed in vain to 
 me for help, and looked like one in distraction." 
 
 " Man, what do you mean ? " cried the Earl. 
 
 " Lord Margrave," replied the stranger, " we have no 
 doubt, has formed this plot : he has for some time past beset 
 the house where she lived ; and, when his visits were re- 
 fused, he threatened this. Besides, one of his servants 
 attended the carriage : I saw and knew him." 
 
 Lord Elmwood listened to the last part of this account 
 with seeming composure : then, turning hastily to Rush- 
 brook, he said — 
 
 " Where are my pistols, Harry ? " 
 
 Sandford forgot, at this instant, all the anger that had 
 passed between him and the Earl : he rushed towards him, 
 and, grasping his hand, cried, " Will you then prove your- 
 self a father ? " 
 
 Lord Elmwood only answered, "Yes," and left the 
 room. 
 
 Rushbrook followed, and begged with all the earnestness 
 he felt, to be permitted to accompany his uncle : — While 
 Sandford shook hands with the farmer a thousand times ; 
 and he, in his turn, rejoiced, as if he had already seen Lady 
 Matilda restored to liberty. 
 
 Rushbrook in vain entreated Lord Elmwood : he laid his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 357 
 
 commands upon him not to go a step from the castle ; while 
 the agitation of his own mind was too great to observe the 
 rigour of this sentence on his nephew. 
 
 During hasty preparations for the Earl's departure, Sand- 
 ford received from Miss Woodley the sad intelligence of 
 what had occurred; but he returned an answer to recom- 
 pense her for all she had suffered on the sad occasion. 
 
 Within a short hour Lord Elmwood set off, accompanied 
 by his guide, the farmer, and other attendants, furnished 
 with every requisite to ensure the success of their enter- 
 prise ; while poor Matilda little thought of a deliverer nigh, 
 much less that her deliverer should prove her father. 
 
35 8 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 Lord Margrave, black as this incident of his life must 
 make him appear to the reader, still nursed in his conscience 
 a reserve of specious virtue, to keep him in peace with him- 
 self. It was his design to plead, to argue, to implore, nay, 
 even to threaten, long before he put his threats in force ; and 
 with this and the following reflection he reconciled — as most 
 bad men can — what he had done, not only to the laws of 
 humanity, but to the laws of honour : — ■ 
 
 " I have stolen a woman, certainly," said he to himself, 
 " but I will make her happier than she was in that humble 
 state from which I have taken her. I will even," said he, 
 " now that she is in my power, win her affections ; and 
 when, in fondness hereafter she hangs upon me, how will 
 she thank me for this little trial, through which I shall have 
 conducted her to happiness ! " 
 
 Thus did he hush his remorse, while he waited impatiently 
 at home in expectation of his prize. 
 
 Half expiring with her sufferings, of body as well as of 
 mind, about twelve o'clock the next night after she was 
 borne away, Matilda arrived, — and felt her spirits revive by 
 the superior sufferings that awaited her ; for her increasing 
 terrors roused her from the deathlike weakness brought on 
 by extreme fatigue. 
 
 Lord Margrave's house, to which he had gone previous to 
 this occasion, was situated in the lonely part of a well-known 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 359 
 
 forest, not more than twenty miles distant from London. 
 This was an estate he rarely visited ; and as he had but 
 few servants here, it was a spot which he supposed would be 
 less the object of suspicion in the present case than any 
 other of his seats. To this, then, Lady Matilda was con- 
 veyed, a superb apartment allotted her, and one of his 
 confidential females placed to attend upon her person, with 
 all respect and assurances of safety. 
 
 Matilda looked in this woman's face, and, seeing she bore 
 the features of her sex, while her own knowledge reached 
 none of those worthless characters of which this creature 
 was a specimen, she imagined that none of those could look 
 as she did, and therefore found consolation in her seeming 
 tenderness. She was even prevailed upon (by her promises 
 to sit by her side and watch) to throw herself on a bed, and 
 suffer sleep for a few minutes — for sleep to her was suffer- 
 ing ; her fears giving birth to dreams terrifying as her waking 
 thoughts. 
 
 More wearied than refreshed with her sleep, she rose at 
 break of day; and, refusing to admit of the change of an 
 article in her dress, she persisted to wear the torn, dis- 
 ordered habiliment in which she had been dragged away ; 
 nor would she taste a morsel of all the delicacies that were 
 prepared for her. 
 
 Her attendant for some time observed the most reverential 
 awe ; but finding this humility had not the effect of gaining 
 compliance with her advice, she varied her manners, and 
 began by less submissive means to attempt an influence. 
 She said her orders were to be obedient, while she herself 
 was obeyed — at least in circumstances so material as the 
 lady's health, of which she had the charge as a physician, 
 and expected equal compliance from her patient. Food and 
 fresh apparel she prescribed as the only means to prevent 
 death; and even threatened her invalid with something 
 
360 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 worse — a visit from Lord Margrave — if she continued 
 obstinate. 
 
 Now loathing her for the deception she had practised 
 more than had she received her thus at first, Matilda hid 
 her eyes from the sight of her ; and, when she was obliged 
 to look, she shuddered. 
 
 This female at length thought it her duty to wait upon 
 her worthy employer, and inform him the young lady in her 
 trust would certainly die, unless there were some means em- 
 ployed to oblige her to take some nourishment. 
 
 Lord Margrave, glad of an opportunity that might apolo- 
 gize for his intrusion upon Lady Matilda, went with eager- 
 ness to her apartment, and, throwing himself at her feet, 
 conjured her, if she would save his life, as well as her own, 
 to submit to be consoled. 
 
 The extreme aversion, the horror which his presence 
 inspired, caused Matilda for a moment to forget all her 
 want of power, her want of health, her weakness; and, 
 rising from the place where she sat, she cried, with her 
 voice elevated — 
 
 " Leave me, my Lord, or I'll die in spite of all your care. 
 I'll instantly expire with grief if you do not leave me." 
 
 Accustomed to the tears and reproaches of the sex, 
 though not of those like her, he treated with indifference 
 these menaces of anger, and, seizing her hand, carried it to 
 his lips. 
 
 Enraged, and overwhelmed with terror at the affront, she 
 exclaimed, forgetting every other friend she had, " Oh, my 
 dear Miss Woodley, why are you not here to protect me ? " 
 
 " Nay," returned Lord Margrave, stifling a propensity to 
 laugh, " I should think the old priest would be as good a 
 champion as the lady." 
 
 The remembrance of Sandford, with all his kindness, now 
 rushed so forcibly on Matilda's mind, that she shed tears, 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 36 1 
 
 from the certainty how much he felt, and would continue to 
 feel, for her situation. Once she thought on Rushbrook, 
 and thought even he would be sorry for her. Of her father 
 she did not think — she dared not : one single moment, in- 
 deed, that thought had intruded ; but she hurried it away — it 
 was too bitter. 
 
 It was now again quite night, and near to that hour 
 when she came first to the house. Lord Margrave, though 
 at some distance from her, remained still in her apartment, 
 while her female companion had stolen away. His insensi- 
 bility to her lamentations, the agitated looks he sometimes 
 cast upon her, her weak and defenceless state, all conspired 
 to fill her mind with increasing horror. 
 
 He saw her apprehensions in her distracted face, dis- 
 hevelled hair, and the whole of her forlorn appearance; yet, 
 in spite of his former resolutions, he did not resist the wish 
 of fulfilling all her dreadful expectations. 
 
 He once again approached her, and again was going to 
 seize her hand, when the report of a pistol, and a confused 
 noise of persons assembling towards the door of the apart- 
 ment, caused him to desist. 
 
 He started, but looked more surprised than alarmed. 
 Her alarm was augmented; for she supposed this tumult 
 was some experiment to intimidate her into submission. 
 She wrung her hands and lifted up her eyes to Heaven in 
 the last agony of despair, when one of Lord Margrave's 
 servants entered hastily and announced — 
 
 "LordElmwood!" 
 
 That moment her father entered, and, with all the unre- 
 strained fondness of a parent, folded her in his arms. 
 
 Her extreme, her excess of joy on such a meeting, and 
 from such anguish rescued, was, in part, repressed by his 
 awful presence. The apprehensions to which she had been 
 accustomed kept her timid and doubtful. She feared to 
 
362 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 speak, or clasp him in return for his embrace, but, falling on 
 her knees, clung round his legs, and bathed his feet with her 
 tears. These were the happiest moments that she had ever 
 known — perhaps the happiest he had ever known. 
 
 Lord Margrave, on whom Lord Elmwood had not even 
 cast a look, now left the room ; but, as he quitted it, called 
 out — 
 
 "My Lord Elmwood, if you have any demands on 
 me " 
 
 The Earl interrupted him : " Would you make me an 
 executioner ? The law shall be your only antagonist." 
 
 Matilda, quite exhausted, yet upheld by the sudden 
 transport she had felt, was led by her father out of this 
 wretched dwelling — more despicable than the hovel of the 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. $6$ 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Overcome with the want of rest for two nights, through 
 her distracting fears, and all those fears now hushed, Matilda, 
 soon after she was placed in the carriage with Lord Elm- 
 wood, dropped fast asleep ; and thus, insensibly surprised, 
 she leaned her head against her father in the sweetest 
 slumber the imagination can conceive. 
 
 When she awoke, instead of the usual melancholy scene 
 before her view, she beheld her father ; and heard the voice 
 of the once dreaded Lord Elmwood, tenderly saying — 
 
 " We will go no further to-night : the fatigue is too much 
 for her. Order beds here directly, and some proper person 
 to sit up and attend her." 
 
 She could only turn to him with a look of love and duty : 
 her lips could not utter a sentence. 
 
 In the morning she found her father by the side of her 
 bed. He inquired "if she was in health sufficient to pursue 
 her journey, or if she would remain at the inn where she 
 was." 
 
 " I am able to go with you," she answered instantly. 
 
 "Nay," replied he, "perhaps you ought to stay here till 
 you are perfectly recovered." 
 
 " I am recovered," said she, " and ready to go with you," 
 fearful that he meant to separate from her, as he had ever 
 done. 
 
 He perceived her fears and replied — 
 
364 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " Nay, if you stay, I shall do the same — and, when I go, 
 shall take you with me to my house." 
 
 "To Elmwood House?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " No, to my house in town, where I intend to be all the 
 winter, and where you shall still continue under my care." 
 
 She turned her face on the pillow to conceal tears of joy, 
 but her sobs revealed them. 
 
 " Come," said he, " this kiss is a token you have nothing 
 to dread. I shall send for Miss Woodley, too, immediately," 
 continued he. 
 
 " Oh, I shall be overjoyed to see her, my Lord — and to 
 see Mr. Sandford — and even Mr. Rushbrook." 
 
 "Do you know him f n said Lord Elmwood. 
 
 " I have seen him two or three times." 
 
 The Earl, hoping the air might be a means of re-establish- 
 ing her health and spirits, now left the room, and ordered 
 his carriage to be prepared, while she arose, attended by one 
 of his female servants, for whom he had sent to town, to 
 bring such changes of apparel as were requisite. 
 
 When Matilda was ready to join her father in the next 
 room, she felt a tremour seize her, that made it almost im- 
 possible to appear before him. No other circumstance now 
 impending to agitate her heart, she felt more forcibly its em- 
 barrassment at meeting, on terms of easy intercourse, him 
 of whom she had never been used to think but with that 
 distant reverence and fear which his severity had excited ; 
 and she knew not how she should dare to speak to or 
 look on him with that freedom which her affection war- 
 ranted. 
 
 After many efforts to conquer these nice and refined 
 sensations, but to no purpose, she at last went to his apart- 
 ment. He was reading; but, as she entered, he put out 
 his hand and drew her to him. Her tears wholly over- 
 came her. He could have intermingled his : but assuming 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 365 
 
 a grave countenance, he entreated her to desist from ex- 
 hausting her spirits ; and, after a few powerful struggles, 
 she obeyed. 
 
 Before the morning was over, she experienced the ex- 
 treme joy of sitting by her father's side as they drove to 
 town, and of receiving, during his conversation, a thou- 
 sand intimations of his love, and tokens of her lasting 
 happiness. 
 
 It was now the middle of November ; and yet, as Matilda 
 passed along, never to her did the sun shine so brightly as 
 upon this morning — never did her imagination comprehend 
 that the human heart could feel happiness true and genuine 
 as hers. 
 
 On arriving at the house, there was no abatement of her 
 felicity : all was respect and duty on the part of the domes- 
 tics — all paternal care on the part of Lord Elmwood ; and 
 she would have been at that summit of her wishes which 
 annihilates hope, but that the prospect of seeing Miss 
 Woodley and Mr. Sandford still kept this passion in exist- 
 ence. 
 
366 A SIMPLE STORY, 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 Rushbrook was detained at Elmwood House during all 
 this time, more by the persuasions, nay, prayers of Sandford, 
 than the commands of Lord Elmwood. He had, but for 
 Sandford, followed his uncle, and exposed himself to his 
 anger, sooner than have endured the most piercing in- 
 quietude which he was doomed to suffer till the news arrived 
 of Lady Matilda's safety. He, indeed, had little else to fear, 
 from the known firm, courageous character of her father, 
 and the expedition with which he undertook his journey; 
 but lovers' fears are like those of women, obstinate : and no 
 argument could persuade either him or Miss Woodley (who 
 had now ventured to come to Elmwood House), but that 
 Matilda's peace of mind might be for ever destroyed before 
 she was rescued from her danger. 
 
 The summons from Lord Elmwood for their coming to 
 town, was received by each of this party with delight ; but 
 the impatience to obey it was, in Rushbrook, so violent, it 
 was painful to himself, and extremely troublesome to Sand- 
 ford, who wished, from his regard to Lady Matilda, rather to 
 delay than hurry their journey. 
 
 " You are to blame," said he to him and Miss Woodley, 
 "to wish, by your arrival, to divide with Lord Elmwood 
 that tender bond which ties the good, who confer obligations, 
 to the object of their benevolence. At present there is no 
 one with him to share in the care and protection of his 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 367 
 
 daughter, and he is under the necessity of discharging that 
 duty himself: this habit may become so powerful, that he 
 cannot throw it off, even if his former resolutions should urge 
 him to it. While we remain here, therefore, Lady Matilda 
 is safe with her father ; but it would not surprise me, if, on 
 our arrival (especially if we are precipitate) he should place 
 her again with Miss Woodley at a distance." 
 
 To this forcible conjecture they submitted for a few days, 
 and then most gladly set out for town. 
 
 On their arrival, they were met, even at the street door, by 
 Lady Matilda; and, with an expression of joy they did not 
 suppose her features could have worn, she embraced Miss 
 Woodley ! hung upon Sandford !— and to Mr. Rushbrook, 
 who, from his conscious love, only bowed at a humble 
 distance, she held out her hand, with every look and gesture 
 of the tenderest esteem. 
 
 When Lord Elmwood joined them he welcomed them all 
 sincerely ; but Sandford more than the rest, with whom he 
 had not spoken for many days before he left the country, for 
 his allusion to the wretched situation of his daughter — and 
 Sandford (with his fellow-travellers) now saw him treat that 
 daughter with an easy, a natural fondness, as if she had lived 
 with him from her infancy. He appeared, however, at 
 times, under the apprehension that the propensity of man to 
 jealousy, might give Rushbrook a pang at this dangerous 
 rival in his love and fortune. For though Lord Elmwood 
 remembered well the hazard on which he had once ventured 
 to befriend Matilda, yet the present unlimited reconciliation 
 was something so unlooked for, it might be a trial too much 
 for his generosity. Slight as was this suspicion, it did Rush- 
 brook injustice. He loved Lady Matilda too sincerely, he 
 loved her father's happiness and her mother's memory too 
 faithfully, not to be rejoiced at all he witnessed ; nor could 
 the secret hope that whispered him, "their blessings might 
 
368 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 one day be mutual," increase the pleasure he found in be- 
 holding Matilda happy. 
 
 Unexpected affairs, in which Lord Elmwood had been for 
 some time engaged, had diverted his attention for a while 
 from the marriage of his nephew ; nor did he at this time 
 find his disposition sufficiently severe to exact from the 
 young man a compliance with his wishes at so cruel an 
 alternative as that of being for ever discarded. He felt his 
 mind, by the late incident, too much softened for such 
 harshness ; he yet wished for the alliance he had proposed ; 
 for he was more consistent in his character than to suffer the 
 tenderness his daughter's peril had awakened to derange 
 those plans which he had long projected. Never, even 
 now, for a moment, did he indulge — for, perhaps, it would 
 have been an indulgence — the design of replacing her 
 exactly in the rights of her birth, to the disappointment of 
 all his nephew's expectations. 
 
 Yet, milder at this crisis in his temper than he had been 
 for years before, and knowing he could be no longer irri- 
 tated upon the subject of neglect to his child, he at length 
 once more resolved to trust himself in a conference with 
 Rushbrook on the plan of his marriage ; meaning at the 
 same time to mention Matilda as an opponent from whom 
 he had nothing to fear. But, for some time before Rush- 
 brook was called to this private audience, he had, by his 
 unwearied attention, endeavoured to impress upon Matilda's 
 mind the softest sentiments in his favour. He succeeded 
 — but not so fully as he wished. She loved him as her 
 friend, her cousin, her foster-brother, but not as a lover. 
 The idea of love never once came to her thoughts ; and 
 she would sport with Rushbrook like the most harmless in- 
 fant, while he, all impassioned, could with difficulty resist 
 disclosing to her what she made him suffer. 
 
 At the meeting between him and Lord Elmwood, to which 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 369 
 
 he was called for his final answer on that subject, which 
 had once nearly proved so fatal to him ; after a thousand 
 fears, much confusion and embarrassment, he at length 
 frankly confessed his "heart was engaged, and had been so 
 long before his uncle offered to direct his choice." 
 
 Lord Elmwood, as he had done formerly, desired to know 
 "on whom he had placed his affections." 
 
 " I dare not tell you, my Lord," returned he ; " but 
 Mr. Sandford can witness their sincerity, and how long 
 they have been fixed." 
 
 " Fixed ! " cried the Earl. 
 
 " Immovably fixed, my Lord ; and yet the object is as 
 unconscious of my love to this moment as you yourself have 
 been ; and I swear ever shall be so, without your per- 
 mission." 
 
 " Name the object," said Lord Elmwood, anxiously. 
 
 " My Lord, I dare not. The last time I named her to you, 
 you threatened to abandon me for my arrogance." 
 
 Lord Elmwood started — "My daughter! — Would you 
 marry her ? " 
 
 " But with your approbation, my Lord ; and that " 
 
 Before he could proceed a word further, his uncle left the 
 room hastily ; and left Rushbrook all terror for his approach- 
 ing fate. 
 
 Lord Elmwood went immediately into the apartment 
 where Sandford, Miss Woodley, and Matilda were sitting, 
 and cried with an angry voice, and with his countenance 
 disordered — 
 
 " Rushbrook has offended me beyond all forgiveness. Go, 
 Sandford, to the library, where he is, and tell him this 
 instant to quit my house, and never dare to return." 
 
 Miss Woodley lifted up her hands and sighed. 
 
 Sandford rose slowly from his seat to execute the office; — 
 
 While Lady Matilda, who was arranging her music books 
 
 B B 
 
370 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 upon the instrument, stopped from her employment sud- 
 denly, and held her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 A general silence ensued, till Lord Elmwood, resuming 
 his angry tone, cried, "Did you hear me, Mr. Sand- 
 ford?" 
 
 Sandford now, without a word in reply, made for the 
 door ; but there Matilda impeded him, and, throwing her 
 arms about his neck, cried — 
 
 "Dear Mr. Sandford, do not." 
 
 " How ! " exclaimed her father. 
 
 She saw the impending frown, and, rushing towards him, 
 took his hand fearfully, and knelt at his feet. " Mr. Rush- 
 brook is my relation," she cried in a pathetic voice, "my 
 companion, my friend : before you loved me he was anxious 
 for my happiness, and often visited me to lament with and 
 console me. I cannot see him turned out of your house 
 without feeling for him what he once felt for me" 
 
 Lord Elmwood turned aside to conceal his sensations ; 
 then, raising her from the floor, he said, "Do you know 
 what he has asked of me ? " 
 
 " No," answered she in the utmost ignorance, and with 
 the utmost innocence painted on her face; "but whatever 
 it is, my Lord, though you do not grant it, yet pardon him 
 for asking." 
 
 " Perhaps you would grant him what he has requested ? " 
 said her father. 
 
 " Most willingly — were it in my gift." 
 
 " It is," replied he. " Go to him in the library, and 
 hear what he has to say; for on your will his fate shall 
 depend." 
 
 Like lightning she flew out of the room ; while even the 
 grave Sandford smiled at the idea of their meeting. 
 
 Rushbrook, with his fears all verified by the manner in 
 which his uncle had left him, sat with his head reclined 
 
A SIMPLE STORY. 37 1 
 
 against a bookcase, and every limb extended with the 
 despair that had seized him. 
 
 Matilda nimbly opened the door and cried, "Mr. Rush 
 brook, I am come to comfort you." 
 
 " That you have always done," said he, rising in rapture 
 to receive her, even in the midst of all his sadness. 
 
 " What is it you want ? " said she. " What have you 
 asked of my father, that he has denied you ? " 
 
 " I have asked for that," replied he, " which is dearer to 
 me than my life." 
 
 " Be satisfied, then," returned she ; " for you shall have it." 
 
 " Dear Matilda ! it is not in your power to bestow." 
 
 " But he has told me it shall be in my power ; and has 
 desired me to give or to refuse it you, at my own pleasure." 
 
 "O Heavens ?" cried Rushbrook in transport, "has he?" 
 
 " He has, indeed — before Mr. Sandford and Miss Wood- 
 ley. Now tell me what you petitioned for." 
 
 " I asked him," cried Rushbrook, trembling, " for a 
 wife." 
 
 Her hand, which had just then taken hold of his, in the 
 warmth of her wish to serve him, now dropped down as 
 with the stroke of death— her face lost its colour — and she 
 leaned against the desk by which they were standing with- 
 out uttering a word. 
 
 "What means this change ?" said he. " Do you not wish 
 me happy ? " 
 
 " Yes," she exclaimed, " Heaven is my witness ; but it 
 gives me concern to think we must part." 
 
 "Then let us be joined," cried he, falling at her feet, "till 
 death alone can part us." 
 
 All the sensibility — the reserve — the pride, with which she 
 was so amply possessed, returned to her that moment. She 
 started back, and cried, " Could Lord Elmwood know for 
 what he sent me ? " 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 A SIMPLE STORY. 
 
 " He did," replied Rushbrook : " I boldly told him of my 
 presumptuous love; and he has given to you alone the 
 power over my happiness or misery. Oh, do not doom me 
 to the latter." 
 
 Whether the heart of Matilda, such as it has been de- 
 scribed, could sentence him to misery, the reader is left to 
 surmise ; and if he supposes that it could not, he has every 
 reason to suppose that their wedded life was — a life of 
 happiness. 
 
 He has beheld the pernicious effects of an improper edu- 
 cation in the destiny which attended the unthinking Miss 
 Milner. On the opposite side, what may not be hoped 
 from that school of prudence, though of adversity, in which 
 Matilda was bred. 
 
 And Mr. Milner, Matilda's grandfather, had better have 
 given his fortune to a distant branch of his family, as 
 Matilda's father once meant to do, so that he had given to 
 his daughter 
 
 A PROPER EDUCATION. 
 
 THE END. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 
 
 (First Published 1796.) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 At a time when the nobility of Britain were said by the 
 poet laureate, to be the admirers and protectors of the arts, 
 and were acknowledged by the whole nation to be the 
 patrons of music, William and Henry, youths under twenty 
 years of age, brothers, and the sons of a country shop- 
 keeper who had lately died insolvent, set out on foot for 
 London, in the hope of procuring by their industry a scanty 
 subsistence. 
 
 As they walked out of their native town, each with a 
 small bundle at his back, each observed the other drop 
 several tears ; but, upon the sudden meeting of their eyes, 
 they both smiled with a degree of disdain at the weakness 
 in which they had been caught. 
 
 " I am sure," said William (the elder), " I don't know 
 what makes me cry." 
 
 "Nor I neither," said Henry; "for though we may never 
 see this town again, yet we leave nothing behind us to give 
 us reason to lament." 
 
 "No," replied William, "nor anybody who cares what 
 becomes of us." 
 
 " But I was thinking," said Henry, now weeping bitterly^ 
 
374 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " that if my poor father were alive, he would care what 
 was to become of us : he would not have suffered us to 
 begin this long journey without a few more shillings in our 
 pockets." 
 
 At the end of this sentence, William, who had with some 
 effort suppressed his tears while his brother spoke, now 
 uttered, with a voice almost inarticulate, — " Don't say any 
 more ; don't talk any more about it. My father used to tell 
 us, that when he was gone we must take care of ourselves ; 
 and so we must. I only wish," continued he, giving way to 
 his grief, "that I had never done anything to offend him 
 while he was living." 
 
 " That is what I wish too," cried Henry. " If I had 
 always been dutiful to him while he was alive, I would not 
 shed one tear for him now that he is gone : but I would 
 thank Heaven that he had escaped from his creditors." 
 
 In conversation such as this, wherein their sorrow for 
 their deceased parent seemed less for his death than be- 
 cause he had not been so happy when living, as they ought 
 to have made him ; and wherein their own outcast fortune 
 was less the subject of their grief than the reflection, what 
 their father wciuld have endured, could he have beheld them 
 in their present situation: — in conversation such as this, 
 they pursued their journey till they arrived at that metro- 
 polis which has received for centuries past, from the pro- 
 vincial towns, the bold adventurer of every denomination; 
 has stamped his character with experience and example; 
 and while it has bestowed on some, coronets and mitres — on 
 some, the lasting fame of genius — to others, has dealt beg- 
 gary, infamy, and untimely death. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 375 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 After three weeks passed in London, a year followed, 
 during which William and Henry never sat down to a 
 dinner, or went into a bed, without hearts glowing with 
 thankfulness to that Providence who had bestowed on 
 them such unexpected blessings; for they no longer pre- 
 sumed to expect (what still they hoped they deserved) a 
 secure pittance in this world of plenty. Their experience, 
 since they came to town, had informed them, that to obtain 
 a permanent livelihood is the good fortune but of a part of 
 those who are in want of it ; and the precarious earning of 
 half-a-crown, or a shilling, in the neighbourhood where they 
 lodged, by an errand, or some such accidental means, was 
 the sole support which they at present enjoyed. 
 
 They had sought for constant employment of various 
 kinds, and even for servants' places ; but obstacles had 
 always occurred to prevent their success. If they applied 
 for the situation of a clerk to a man of extensive concerns, 
 their qualifications were admitted; but there must be se- 
 curity given for their fidelity ; they had friends who would 
 give them a character, but who would give them nothing 
 else. 
 
 If they applied for the place even of a menial servant, 
 they were too clownish and awkward for the presence of 
 the lady of the house; — and once, when William (who 
 had been educated at the free grammar-school of the 
 town in which he was born, and was an excellent scholar), 
 
376 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 hoping to obtain the good opinion of a young clergyman 
 whom he solicited for the favour of waiting upon him, 
 said submissively, "that he understood Greek and Latin," 
 he was rejected by the divine "because he could not dress 
 hair." 
 
 Weaiy of repeating their mean accomplishments of 
 "honesty, sobriety, humility," and on the precipice of re- 
 probating such qualities, — which, however beneficial to the 
 soul, gave no hope of preservation to the body, — they 
 were prevented from this profanation by the fortunate re- 
 membrance of one qualification, which Henry, the pos- 
 sessor, in all his distress had never till then called to his 
 recollection ; but which, as soon as remembered and made 
 known, changed the whole prospect of wretchedness 
 placed before the two brothers; and they never knew 
 want more. 
 
 Reader — Henry could play upon the fiddle. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 377 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play 
 most enchantingly upon the violin, than he was invited into 
 many companies where no other accomplishment could have 
 introduced him. His performance was so much admired, 
 that he had the honour of being admitted to several tavern 
 feasts, of which he had also the satisfaction to partake with- 
 out partaking of the expense. He was soon addressed by 
 persons of the very first rank and fashion, and was once 
 seen walking side by side with a peer. 
 
 But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for re- 
 joicing, Henry, whose heart was particularly affectionate, 
 had one grief which eclipsed all the happiness of his new 
 life, — his brother William could not play on the fiddle ! con- 
 sequently, his brother William, with whom he had shared so 
 much ill, could not share in his good fortune. 
 
 One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and 
 concert at the Crown and Anchor, found William in a very 
 gloomy and peevish humour, poring over the orations of 
 Cicero. Henry asked him several times "how he did," and 
 similar questions, marks of his kind disposition towards his 
 beloved brother ; but all his endeavours, he perceived, could 
 not soothe or soften the sullen mind of William. At length, 
 taking from his pocket a handful of almonds, and some de- 
 licious fruit, (which he had purloined from the plenteous 
 table, where his brother's wants had never been absent from 
 his thoughts, , and laying them down before him, he ex- 
 
37$ NATURE AND ART. 
 
 claimed with a benevolent smile, "Do, William, let me 
 teach you to play upon the violin." 
 
 William, full of the great orator whom he was then study- 
 ing, and still more alive to the impossibility that his ear, at- 
 tuned only to sense, could ever descend from that elevation, 
 to learn mere sounds — William caught up the tempting 
 presents which Henry had ventured his reputation to obtain 
 for him, and threw them all indignantly at the donor's 
 head. 
 
 Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of fortune 
 to resent this ingratitude. He patiently picked up the 
 repast, and, laying it again upon the table, placed by its 
 side a bottle of claret, which he held fast by the neck, 
 while he assured his brother that, " although he had taken 
 it while the waiter's back was turned, yet it might be drank 
 with a safe conscience by them ; for he had not himself 
 tasted one drop at the feast, on purpose that he might enjoy 
 a glass with his brother at home, and without wronging the 
 company who had invited him." 
 
 The affection Henry expressed as he said this, or the 
 force of a bumper of wine, which William had not seen 
 since he left his father's house, had such an effect in calming 
 the displeasure he was cherishing, that, on his brother's 
 offering him the glass, he took it ; and he deigned even to 
 eat of his present. 
 
 Henry, to convince him that he had stinted himself to 
 obtain for him this collation, sat down and partook of it. 
 
 After a few glasses, he again ventured to say, "Do, 
 brother William, let me teach you to play on the violin." 
 
 Again his offer was refused, though with less vehemence. 
 At length they both agreed that the attempt could not 
 prosper. 
 
 "Then," said Henry, "William, go down to Oxford or to 
 Cambridge. There, no doubt, they are as fond of learning 
 
NATURE AND ART. 379 
 
 as in this gay town they are of music. You know you have 
 as much talent for the one as I for the other. Do go to one 
 of our universities, and see what dinners, what suppers, and 
 what friends you will find there." 
 
380 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 William did go to one of those seats of learning, and 
 would have starved there, but for the affectionate remit- 
 tances of Henry, who shortly became so great a proficient 
 in the art of music, as to have it in his power not only to 
 live in a very reputable manner himself, but to send such 
 supplies to his brother as enabled him to pursue his studies. 
 
 With some the progress of fortune is rapid. Such is the 
 case when, either on merit or demerit, great patronage is 
 bestowed. Henry's violin had often charmed, to a welcome 
 forgetfulness of his insignificance, an effeminate lord; or 
 warmed with ideas of honour the head of a duke, whose 
 heart could never be taught to feel its manly glow. Princes 
 had flown to the arms of their favourite fair ones with more 
 rapturous delight, softened by the masterly touches of his 
 art ; and these elevated personages, ever grateful to those 
 from whom they receive benefits, were competitors in the 
 desire of heaping favours upon him. But he, in all his 
 advantages, never once lost for a moment the hope of some 
 advantage for his brother William ; and when at any time he 
 was pressed by a patron to demand a " token of his regard," 
 he would constantly reply — ~1 
 
 " I have a brother, a veryTearned man, if your Lordship 
 (your Grace, or your Royal Highness) would confer some 
 small favour on him " 
 
 His Lordship would reply, "he was so teased and harassed 
 
NATURE AND ART. 38 1 
 
 in his youth by learned men, that he had ever since detested 
 the whole fraternity." 
 
 His Grace would inquire " if the learned man could play 
 upon any instrument." 
 
 And his Highness would ask " if he could sing." 
 ^Rebuffs such as these poor Henry met with in all his 
 applications for William, till one fortunate evening, at the 
 conclusion of a concert, a great man shook him by the 
 hand, and promised a living of five hundred a-year (the 
 incumbent of which was upon his death-bed) to his brother, 
 in return for the entertainment that Henry had just afforded 
 him. 
 
 Henry wrote in haste to William, and began his letter 
 thus : — " My dear brother, I am not sorry you did not 
 learn to play upon the fiddle." 
 
382 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 / 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The incumbent of this living died. William underwent 
 the customary examinations, obtained successively the orders 
 of deacon and priest, then, as early as possible, came to 
 town to take possession of the gift which his brother's skill 
 had acquired for him. 
 
 William had a steady countenance, a stern brow, and a 
 majestic walk; all of which this new accession, this holy 
 calling to religious vows, rather increased than diminished. 
 In the early part of his life the violin of his brother had 
 rather irritated than soothed the morose disposition of his 
 nature ; and though, since their departure from their native 
 habitation, it had frequently calmed the violent ragings of 
 his hunger, it had never been successful in appeasing the 
 disturbed passions of a proud and disdainful mind. 
 
 As the painter views with delight and wonder the finished 
 picture, expressive testimony of his taste and genius ; as the 
 physician beholds with pride and gladness the recovering 
 invalid, whom his art has snatched from the jaws of death ; 
 as the father gazes with rapture on his first child, the crea- 
 ture to whom he has given life ; so did Henry survey, with I 
 transporting glory, his brother, dressed for the first time in^f 
 canonicals, to preach at his parish church. He viewed him 
 from head to foot — smiled — viewed again — pulled one side 
 of his gown a little this way, one end of his band a little that 
 way — then stole behind him, pretending to place the curls of 
 
NATURE AND ART. 383 
 
 his hair, but in reality to indulge, and to conceal, tears of 
 fraternal pride and joy. 
 
 William was not without joy, neither was he wanting in 
 love or gratitude to his brother ; but his pride was not com- 
 pletely satisfied. 
 
 ' I am the elder," thought he to himself, " and a man of 
 literature ; and yet I am obliged to my younger brother, an 
 illiterate man." Here he suppressed every thought which 
 could be a reproach to that brother. But there remained an 
 object of his former contempt, now become even detestable 
 to him — ungrateful man. The very agent of his elevation 
 was now so odious" To him, that he could not cast his eyes 
 upon the friendly violin without instant emotions of disgust. 
 
 In vain would Henry at times endeavour to subdue his 
 haughtiness by a tune on this wonderful machine. " You 
 know I have no ear," William would sternly say, in recom- 
 pense for one of Henry's best solos. Yet was William 
 enraged at Henry's answer, when, after taking him to hear 
 him preach, he asked him "how he liked his sermon?" 
 and Henry modestly replied (in the technical phrase of his 
 profession), " You know, brother, I have no ear." 
 
 Henry's renown in his professiorT^daily increased ; and 
 with his fame, his friends. Possessing the virtues of hu- 
 mility and charity far above William, who was the professed 
 teacher of those virtues, his reverend brother's disrespect 
 for his vocation never once made him relax for a moment in 
 his anxiety to gain him advancement in the church. In the 
 course of a few years, and in consequence of many fortui- 
 tous circumstances, he had the gratification of procuring for 
 him the appointment to a deanery ; and thus at once placed 
 between them an insurmountable barrier to all friendship, 
 that was not the effect of condescension on the part of the 
 dean. 
 
 William would now begin seriously to remonstrate with 
 
384 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 his brother " upon his useless occupation," and would inti- 
 .mate "the degradation it was to him to hear his frivolous 
 J talent spoken of in all companies." Henry believed his 
 I brother to be much wiser than himself, and suffered shame 
 j that he was not more worthy of such a relation. To con- 
 | sole himself for the familiar friend whom he now perceived 
 
 he had entirely lost, he searched for one of a softer nature — 
 1 he married. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 385 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 As Henry despaired of receiving his brother's approbation 
 
 " his choice, he never mentioned the event to him. But 
 William, being told of it by a third person, inquired of 
 Henry, who confirmed the truth of the intelligence ; and 
 acknowledged that, in taking a wife, his sole view had been 
 to obtain a kind companion and friend, who would bear with 
 his failings and know how to esteem his few qualifications ; 
 therefore he had chosen one of his own rank in life, 
 who, having a taste for music, and, as well as himself, an 
 obligation to the art 
 
 " And is it possible," cried the Dean, " that what has been 
 hinted to me is true ? Is it possible that you have married 
 a public singer?" 
 
 " She is as good as myself," returned Henry. " I did not 
 wish her to be better, for fear she should despise me." 
 
 " As to despise," answered the Dean, " Heaven forbid 
 that we should despise any one — that would be acting 
 unlike a Christian ; but do you imagine I can_ ever in- 
 troduce her to my intended wife, who is a woman of 
 family?" 
 
 Henry had received in his life many insults from his 
 brother ; but, as he was not a vain man, he generally 
 thought his brother in the right, and consequently submitted 
 with patience ; but, though he had little self-love, he had for 
 his wife an unbounded" affection : on the present occasion, 
 therefore, he began to raise his voice, and even (in the 
 
 c c 
 
386 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 coarse expression of clownish anger) to lift his hand : but 
 the sudden and affecting recollection of what he had done 
 for the Dean — of the pains, the toils, the hopes and the fears, 
 he had experienced when soliciting his preferment — this 
 recollection overpowered his speech, weakened his arm, and 
 deprived him of every active force, but that of flying out of 
 his brother's house (in which they then were) as swift as 
 lightning, while the Dean sat proudly contemplating — " that 
 he had done his duty." 
 
 For several days Henry did not call, as was his custom, to 
 see his brother : William's marriage drew near, and he sent 
 a formal card to invite him on that day ; but, not having 
 had the condescension to name his sister-in-law in the invi- 
 tation, Henry thought proper not to accept it ; and the joyful 
 event was celebrated without his presence. But the ardour 
 of the bridegroom was not so vehement as to overcome 
 every other sensation — he missed his brother: that heart- 
 felt cheerfulness with which Henry had ever given him joy 
 upon every happy occasion — even amidst all the politer 
 congratulations of his other friends — seemed to the Dean 
 mournfully wanting. This derogation from his felicity he 
 was resolved to resent; and, for a whole year, these 
 brothers, whom adversity had entwined closely together, 
 prosperity separated. 
 
 Though Henry, on his marriage, paid so much attention 
 to his brother's prejudices, as to take his wife from her 
 public employment, this had not so entirely removed the 
 scruples of William, as to permit him to think her a worthy 
 companion for Lady Clementina, the daughter of a poor 
 Scotch earl, whom he had chosen, merely that he might be 
 proud of her family ; and, in return, suffer that family to be 
 ashamed of his. 
 
 If Henry's wife were not fit company for Lady Clemen- 
 tina, it is to be hoped that she was company for angels ; she 
 
NATURE AND ART. 387 
 
 died within the first year of her marriage, a faithful and 
 affectionate wife, and a mother. 
 
 When William heard of her- death, he felt a sudden shock; 
 and a kind of fleeting thought glanced across his mind, 
 that— 
 
 " Had he known she had been so near her dissolution] 
 she might have been introduced to Lady Clementina ; and 
 he himself would have called her sister." 
 
 That is (if he had defined his fleeting idea), — " They 
 would have had no objection to have met this poor woman 
 for the last twiej and would have descended to the famili- 
 arity of kindred, in order to have wished her a good journey 
 to the other world." 
 
 Or, is there in death, something which so raises the abject- 
 ness of the poor, that, on their approach to its sheltering 
 abode, the arrogant believer feels the equality he had before 
 denied, and trembles ? 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The wife of Heniy had been dead near six weeks before 
 the Dean heard the news : a month then elapsed in thoughts 
 by himself, and consultations with Lady Clementina, how 
 he should conduct himself on this occurrence. Her advice 
 was — 
 
 " That, as Henry was the younger, and, by their stations, 
 in every sense the Dean's inferior, Henry ought first to make 
 overtures of reconciliation." 
 
 The Dean answered, " He had no doubt of his brother's 
 good-will to him ; but that he had reason to think, from the 
 knowledge of his temper, he would be more likely to come 
 to him upon an occasion to bestow comfort than to receive 
 it : for instance, if I had suffered the misfortune of losing 
 your Ladyship, my brother, I have no doubt, would have 
 forgotten his resentment, and " 
 
 She was offended that the loss of the vulgar wife of 
 Henry should be compared to the loss of her — she lamented 
 her indiscretion in forming an alliance with a family of no 
 rank, and implored the Dean to wait till his brother should 
 make some concession to him, before he renewed the 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Though Lady Clementina had mentioned on this occasion 
 her indiscretion, she was of a prudent age — she was near 
 forty — yet, possessing rather a handsome face and person, 
 she would not have impressed the spectator with a suppo- 
 sition that she was near so old, had she not constantly 
 
NATURE AND ART. 389 
 
 attempted to appear much younger. Her dress was fantas- 
 tically fashionable, her manners affected all the various 
 passions of youth, and her conversation was perpetually 
 embellished with accusations against her own "heedlessness, 
 thoughtlessness, carelessness, and childishness." 
 
 There is, perhaps, in each individual, one parent motive 
 to every action, good or bad. Be that as it may, it was 
 evident that with Lady Clementina, all she said or did, all 
 she thought or looked, had but one foundation — vanity. If 
 she were nice, or if she were negligent, vanity was the cause 
 of both ; for she would contemplate with the highest degree 
 of self-complacency, " what such-a-one would say of her 
 elegant preciseness, or what such-a-one would think of her 
 interesting neglect." 
 
 If she complained she was ill, it was with the certainty" 
 that her langour would be admired ; if she boasted she was 
 well, it was that the spectator might notice her glowing 
 health ; if she laughed, it was because she thought it made 
 her look pretty ; if she cried, it was because she thought it 
 made her look prettier still. If she scolded her servants, 
 it was from vanity, to shew her knowledge superior to 
 theirs; and she was kind to them from the same motive, 
 that her benevolence might excite their admiration. For- 
 ward and impertinent in the company of her equals, from 
 the vanity of supposing herself above them, she was bash- 
 ful, even to shamefacedness in the presence of her superiors, 
 because her vanity told her she engrossed all their obser- 
 vation. Through vanity she had no memory ; for she 
 constantly forgot everything she heard others say^fforri 
 the minute attention which she paid to everything she said 
 herself. 
 
 She had become an old maid from vanity, believing no- 
 offer she received worthy of her deserts ; and when her 
 power of further conquest began to be doubted, she married 
 
39° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 from vanity, to repair the character of her fading charms. 
 In a word, her vanity was of that magnitude, that she had 
 no conjecture but that she was humble in her own opinion ; 
 and it would have been impossible to have convinced her 
 that she thought well of herself, because she thought so 
 well as to be assured that her own thoughts undervalued 
 her. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 39 1 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 That which, in a weak woman, is called vanity, in a man 
 of sense is termed pride. Make one a degree stronger, or 
 the other a degree weaker, and the Dean and his wife were 
 infected with the self-same folly. Yet, let not the reader 
 suppose that their failings (however despicable) had erased 
 from the bosom of either all traces of humanity. They are 
 human creatures who are meant to be portrayed in this little 
 book ; and where is the human creature who has not some 
 good qualities to soften, if not to counterbalance, his bad 
 ones? 
 
 The Dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget 
 his brother, nor eradicate from his remembrance the 
 friend that he had been to him : he resolved, therefore, in 
 spite of his wife's advice, to make him some overture, 
 which he had no doubt Henry's good nature would in- 
 stantly accept. The more he became acquainted with all 
 the vain and selfish propensities of Lady Clementina, the 
 more he felt a returning affection for his brother: but 
 little did he suspect how much he loved him, till (after 
 sending to various places to inquire for him, he learned, 
 that on his wife's decease, unable to support her loss in 
 the surrounding scene, Heniy had taken the child she 
 brought him in his arms, shaken hands with all his 
 former friends, passing over his brother in the number, 
 and set sail in a vessel bound for Africa, with a party of 
 
392 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Portuguese and some few English adventurers, to people 
 there the uninhabited part of an extensive island. 
 
 This was a resolution, in Henry's circumstances, worthy 
 a mind of singular sensibility: but William had not dis- 
 cerned, till then, that every act of Henry's was of the 
 same description; and more than all, his every act to- 
 wards him. He staggered when he heard the tidings; at 
 first thought them untrue ; but quickly recollected, that 
 Henry was capable of surprising deeds. He recollected, 
 with a force which gave him torture, the benevolence his 
 brother had ever shown to him, the favours he had heaped 
 upon him, the insults he had patiently endured in re- 
 quital. 
 
 In the first emotion, which this intelligence gave the 
 Dean, he forgot the dignity of his walk and gesture: he 
 ran with frantic enthusiasm to every corner of his deanery 
 where the least vestige of what belonged to Henry re- 
 mained ; he pressed close to his breast, with tender agony, 
 a coat of his, which by accident had been left there ; he 
 kissed and wept over a walking-stick which Henry once 
 had given him; he even took up with delight a music- 
 book of his brother's, nor would his poor violin have then 
 excited anger. 
 
 When his grief became more calm, he sat in deep and 
 melancholy meditation, calling to mind when and where he 
 saw his brother last. The recollection gave him fresh cause 
 of regret. He remembered they had parted on his refusing 
 to suffer Lady Clementina to admit the acquaintance of 
 Henry's wife. Both Henry and his wife he now contem- 
 plated beyond the reach of his pride ; and he felt the mean- 
 ness and the imbecility of his haughtiness towards them. 
 
 To add to his self-reproaches, his tormented memory pre- 
 sented to him the exact countenance of his brother at their 
 last interview, as it changed, while he censured his marriage. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 393 
 
 and treated with disrespect the object of his conjugal affec- 
 tion. He remembered the anger repressed, the tear bursting 
 forth, and the last glimpse he had of him, as he left his pre- 
 sence, most likely for ever. 
 
 In vain he now wished that he had followed him to the door ; 
 that he had once shaken hands and owned his obligations to 
 him before they had parted. In vain he wished too, that, in 
 this extreme agony of his mind, he had such a friend to 
 comfort him, as Henry had ever proved. 
 
394 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The avocations of an elevated life erase the deepest im- 
 I pressions. The Dean, in a few months, recovered from those 
 which his brother's departure first made upon him ; and he 
 would now at times even condemn, in anger, Henry's having 
 so hastily abandoned him and his native country, in resent- 
 ment, as he conceived, of a few misfortunes which his usual 
 fortitude should have taught him to have borne. Yet was 
 he still desirous of his return, and wrote two or three letters 
 expressive of his wish, which he anxiously endeavoured 
 
 r Should reach him. But many years having elapsed without 
 any intelligence from him, and a report having arrived, that 
 he, and all the party with whom he went, had been slain by 
 i the savage inhabitants of the island, William's despair of 
 I seeing his brother again caused the desire to diminish; 
 while attention and affection to a still nearer and dearer 
 relation than Henry had ever been to him, now chiefly en- 
 i gaged his mind. 
 
 Lady Clementina had brought him a son, on whom, from 
 his infancy, he doted ; and the boy, in riper years, possess- 
 ing a handsome person, and evincing a quickness of parts, 
 gratified the father's darling passion, pride, as well as the 
 mother's, vanity. 
 
 The Dean had, besides this child, a domestic comfort 
 highly gratifying to his ambition : the Bishop of * * * * 
 became intimately acquainted with him soon after his 
 marriage, and from his daily visits had become, as it were, 
 
NATURE AND ART. 395 
 
 a part of the family. This was much honour to the Dean, 
 not only as the Bishop was his superior in the church, but 
 was of that part of the bench whose blood is ennobled by a 
 race of ancestors, and to which all wisdom on the plebeian 
 side crouches in humble respect. 
 
 Year after year rolled on in pride and grandeur: the 
 Bishop and the Dean passing their time in attending levees 
 and in talking politics; Lady Clementina passing hers in 
 attending routs and in talking of herself \ till the son arrived 
 at the age of thirteen. 
 
 Young William passed his time, from morning till night, 
 with persons who taught him to walk, to ride, to talk, to 
 I think like a man — a foolish man, instead of a wise child, as 
 nature designed him to be. 
 
 This unfortunate youth was never permitted to have one 
 conception of his own — all were taught him : he was never 
 once asked, " what he thought ; " but men were paid to tell 
 him "how to think." He was taught to revere such and 
 such persons, however unworthy of his reverence ; to believe 
 such and such things, however unworthy of his credit ; and 
 to act so and so, on such and such occasions, however un- 
 worthy of his feelings. 
 
 Such were the lessons of the tutors assigned him by his 
 father : those masters whom his mother gave him did him 
 less mischief; for though they distorted his limbs, and 
 made his manners effeminate, they did not interfere beyond 
 the body. 
 
 Mr. Norwynne (the family name of his father, and though 
 but a school-boy he was called Mister) could talk on 
 history, on politics, and on religion, surprisingly to all who 
 never listened to a parrot or magpie : for he merely repeated 
 what had been told to him, without one reflection upon the 
 sense or probability of his report. He had been praised for 
 his memory; and to ensure continuance of that praise, 
 
396 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 he was so anxious to retain every sentence he had heard, or 
 read, that the poor creature had no time for one native 
 idea, but could only re-deliver his tutors' lessons to his 
 father, and his father's to his tutors. But, whatever he said 
 or did, was the admiration of all who came to the house of 
 the Dean, and who knew he was an only child. Indeed, 
 considering the labour that was taken to spoil him, he was 
 rather a commendable youth ; for, with the pedantic folly 
 of his teachers, the blind affection of his father and 
 mother, the obsequiousness of the servants, and the flattery 
 of the visitors, it was some credit to him that he was not 
 an idiot Or a brute ; though, when he imitated the manners 
 of a man, he had something of the latter in his appearance ; 
 for he would grin and bow to a lady, catch her fan in haste 
 when it fell, and hand her to her coach, as thoroughly void 
 of all the sentiment which gives grace to such tricks, as a 
 monkey. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 397 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 One morning in winter, just as the Dean, his wife, and 
 darling child, had finished their breakfast at their house in 
 London, a servant brought in a letter to his master, and said 
 " the man waited for an answer." 
 
 "Who is the man?" cried the Dean, with all that terrify- 
 ing dignity with which he never failed to address his inferiors, 
 especially such as waited on his person. 
 
 The servant replied with a servility of tone equal to the 
 haughty one of his master, " He did not know ; but that the 
 man looked like a sailor, and had a boy with him." 
 
 " A begging letter, no doubt," cried Lady Clementina. 
 
 " Take it back," said the Dean, " and bid him send up 
 word who he is, and what is his errand." 
 
 The servant went ; and returning said, " He comes from 
 on board a ship ; his captain sent him, and his errand is, he 
 believes, to leave a boy he has brought with him." 
 
 " A boy ! " cried the Dean : " what have I to do with a 
 boy ? I expect no boy ? What boy ? What age ? " 
 
 " He looks about twelve or thirteen," replied the servant. 
 
 " He is mistaken in the house," said the Dean. " Let me 
 look at the letter again." 
 
 He did look at it, and saw plainly it was directed to 
 himself. Upon a second glance, he had so perfect a recol- 
 lection of the hand, as to open it instantaneously ; and, 
 
39& NATURE AND ART. 
 
 after ordering the servant to withdraw, he read the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 "Zocotora Island, April 6. 
 
 " My dear brother William, — It is a long time since 
 we have seen one another ; but I hope not so long, that you 
 have quite forgotten the many happy days we once passed 
 together. 
 
 " I did not take my leave of you when I left England, 
 because it would have been too much for me. I had met 
 with a great many sorrows just at that time : one of which 
 was, the misfortune of losing the use of my right hand by 
 a fall from my horse, which accident robbed me of most 
 of my friends ; for I could no longer entertain them with 
 my performance as I used to do ; and so I was ashamed to 
 see them or you ; and that was the reason I came hither to 
 try my fortune with some other adventurers. 
 
 "You have, I suppose, heard that the savages of the 
 island put our whole party to death. But it was my chance 
 to escape their cruelty. I was heart-broken for my com- 
 rades ; yet, upon the whole, I do not know that the savages 
 were much to blame ; we had no business to invade their 
 territories ; and if they had invaded England, we should 
 have done the same by them. My life was spared, because, 
 having gained some little strength in my hand, during the 
 voyage, I pleased their king when I arrived there, with 
 playing on my violin. 
 
 " They spared my child, too, in pity to my lamentations, 
 when they were going to put him to death. Now, dear 
 brother, before I say any more to you concerning my child, 
 I will first ask your pardon for any offence I may have 
 ever given you, in all the time we lived so long together. 
 I know you have often found fault with me, and I dare 
 say I have been very often to blame ; but I here solemnly 
 
NATURE AND ART. 399 
 
 declare, that I never did anything purposely to offend 
 you, but mostly, all I could, to oblige you ; and I can 
 safely declare, that I never bore you above a quarter of an 
 hour's resentment for anything you might have said to me 
 which I thought harsh. 
 
 "Now, dear William, after being in this island eleven 
 years, the weakness in my hand has unfortunately returned ; 
 and yet there being no appearance of complaint, the un- 
 informed islanders think it is all my obstinacy, and that 
 I will not entertain them with my music, which makes me 
 say that I cannot j and they have imprisoned me, and 
 threaten to put my son to death, if I persist in my stub- 
 bornness any longer. 
 
 " The anguish I feel in my mind takes away all hope of 
 the recovery of strength in my hand ; and I have no doubt 
 but that they intend, in a few days, to put their horrid threat 
 into execution. 
 
 " Therefore, dear brother William, hearing, in my prison, 
 of a most uncommon circumstance, which is, that an 
 English vessel is lying at a small distance from the island, 
 I have intrusted a faithful negro to take my child to the 
 ship, and deliver him to the captain, with a request that 
 he may be sent (with this letter) to you, on the ship's arrival 
 in England. 
 
 " Now, my dear, dear brother William, in case the poor 
 boy should live to come to you, I have no doubt but you 
 will receive him ; yet, excuse a poor fond father, if I say 
 a word or two which I hope may prove in his favour. 
 
 " Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the child's 
 fault, but mine, that you will find him so ignorant — he 
 has always shown a quickness and a willingness to 
 learn, and would, I dare say, if he had been brought up 
 under your care, have been by this time a good scholar — 
 but you know I am no scholar myself. Besides, not having 
 
400 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 any books here, I have only been able to teach my child 
 by talking to him ; and in all my conversations with him 
 I have never taken much pains to instruct him in the 
 manners of my own country ; thinking, that if ever he 
 went over, he would learn them soon enough ; and if he 
 never did go over, that it would be as well he knew nothing 
 about them. 
 
 " I have kept him also from the knowledge of every- 
 thing which I have thought pernicious in the conduct of 
 the savages, except that I have now and then pointed out 
 a few of their faults, in order to give him a true concep- 
 tion and a proper horror of them. At the same time I 
 have taught him to love, and to do good to his neighbour, 
 whoever that neighbour may be, and whatever may be his 
 failings. Falsehood of every kind I included in this pre- 
 cept as forbidden, for no one can love his neighbour and 
 deceive him. 
 
 " I have instructed him, too, to hold in contempt all 
 frivolous vanity, and all those indulgences which he was 
 never likely to obtain. He has learned all that I have 
 undertaken to teach him ; but I am afraid you will yet 
 think he has learned too little. 
 
 " Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of polite- 
 ness, and perhaps proper respect for a person of her rank ; 
 but indeed he is very tractable, and can, without severity, 
 be amended of all his faults ; and though you will find 
 he has many, yet, pray, my dear brother, — pray, my dear 
 brother William, call to mind he has been a dutiful and 
 an affectionate child to me ; and that, had it pleased 
 Heaven we had lived together for many years to come, I 
 verily believe I should never have experienced one mark of 
 his disobedience. 
 
 " Farewell for ever, my dear, dear brother William : 
 and if my poor, kind, affectionate child should live to 
 
NATURE AND ART. 40 1 
 
 bring you this letter, sometimes speak to him of me ; and 
 let him know that for twelve years he was my sole comfort ; 
 and that, when I sent him from me, in order to save his life, 
 I laid down my head upon the floor of the cell in which I 
 was confined, and prayed that heaven might end my days 
 before the morning." 
 
 This was the conclusion of the letter, except four or five 
 lines which (with his name) were so much blotted, apparently . 
 with tears, that they were illegible. 
 
 D D 
 
402 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 While the Dean was reading to himself this letter, his 
 countenance frequently changed, and once or twice the 
 tears streamed from his eyes. When it was finished, he 
 exclaimed : — 
 
 "My brother has sent his child to me, and I will be a 
 parent to him." He was rushing towards the door, when 
 Lady Clementina stopped him. 
 
 "Is it proper, do you think, Mr. Dean, that all the 
 servants in the house should be witnesses to your meeting 
 with your brother and your nephew in the state in which 
 they must be at present? Send for them into a private 
 apartment." 
 
 "My brother!" cried the Dean, "Oh, that it were my 
 brother ! The man is merely a person from the ship, who 
 has conducted his child hither." 
 
 The bell was rung, money was sent to the man, and 
 orders given that the boy should be shown up immediately. 
 
 While young Henry was walking up the stairs, the Dean's 
 wife was weighing in her mind in what manner it would 
 most redound to her honour to receive him ; for her vanity 
 laught her to believe that the whole inquisitive world pried 
 jinto her conduct, even upon every family occurrence. 
 
 Young William was wondering to himself what kind of an 
 unpolished monster his beggarly cousin would appear; and 
 
r 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 403 
 
 was contemplating how much the poor youth would be sur- 
 prised and awed by his superiority. 
 
 - The Dean felt no other sensation than an impatient desire 
 of beholding the child. 
 
 The door opened — and the son of his brother Henry, — of 
 his benefactor, entered. 
 
 The habit he had on when he left his father, having been 
 of slight texture, was worn out by the length of the voyage, 
 and he was in the dress of a sailor-boy. Though about the 
 same age with his cousin, he was something taller; and 
 though a strong family resemblance appeared between the 
 two youths, he was handsomer than William ; and, from a 
 simplicity spread over his countenance, a quick impatience in 
 his eye, which denoted anxious curiosity and childish sur- 
 prise at every new object which presented itself, he appeared 
 younger than his informed and well-bred cousin. 
 
 He walked into the room, not with a dictated obeisance, 
 but with a hurrying step, a half-pleased, yet a half-frightened 
 look, an instantaneous survey of every person present ; not 
 as demanding " what they thought of him," but expressing 
 almost as plainly as in direct words " what he thought of 
 them." For all alarm in respect to his safety and reception 
 seemed now wholly forgotten in the curiosity which the 
 sudden sight of strangers, such as he had never seen in his 
 life before, excited ; and as to himself, he did not appear to 
 know there was such a person existing. His whole faculties 
 were absorbed in others. 
 
 The Dean's reception of him did honour to his sensibility 
 and his gratitude to his brother. After the first affectionate 
 gaze, he ran to him, took him in his arms, sat down, drew 
 him to him, held him between his knees, and repeatedly ex- 
 claimed, " I will repay to you all I owe to your father." 
 
 The boy, in return, hugged the Dean round the neck, 
 kissed him, and exclaimed — 
 
 D D 2 
 
 /' 
 
404 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Oh, you are my father. You have just such eyes, and 
 such a forehead. Indeed, you would be almost the same as 
 he if it were not for that great white thing which grows upon 
 your head ! " 
 
 Let the reader understand that the Dean, fondly attached 
 to every ornament of his dignified function, was never seen 
 (unless caught in bed) without an enormous wig. With this, 
 young Henry was enormously struck, having never seen so 
 unbecoming a decoration, either in the savage island from 
 whence he came, or on board the vessel in which he sailed. 
 
 "Do you imagine," cried his uncle, laying his hand gently 
 on the reverend habiliment, " that this grows ? " 
 
 " What is on my head grows," said young Henry, " and so 
 does that which is upon my father's." 
 
 " But now you are come to Europe, Henry, you will see 
 many persons with such things as these, which they put on 
 and take off." 
 ^-flWhy do you wear such things ? " 
 
 " As a distinction between us and inferior people. They 
 are worn to give an importance to the wearer." 
 
 "That is just as the savages do. They hang brass nails, 
 wire, buttons, and entrails of beasts all over them, to give 
 them importance." 
 
 The Dean now led his nephew to Lady Clementina, and 
 told him " she was his aunt, to whom he must behave with 
 the utmost respect." 
 
 " I will, I will," he replied ; " for she, I see, is a person of 
 importance too. She has, very nearly, such a white thing 
 upon her head as you have ! " 
 
 His aunt had not yet fixed in what manner it would be 
 advisable to behave ; whether with intimidating grandeur, or 
 with amiable tenderness. Wliile she was hesitating between 
 both, she felt a kind of jealous apprehension that her son 
 
NATURE AND ART. 
 
 405 
 
 was not so engaging either in his person or address as his 
 cousin, and therefore she said — 
 
 " I hope, Dean, the arrival of this child will give you a 
 still higher sense of the happiness we enjoy in our own. 
 What an instructive contrast between the manners of the 
 one and of the other ! " 
 
 "It is not the child's fault," returned the Dean, "that he 
 is not so elegant in his manners as his cousin. Had Wil- 
 liam been bred in the same place, he would have been as 
 unpolished as this boy." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Sir," said young William, with a 
 formal bow and a sarcastic smile ; " I assure you several of 
 my tutors have told me that I appear to know many things 
 as it were by instinct." 
 
 Young Henry fixed his eyes upon his cousin while, with 
 steady self-complacency, he delivered this speech ; and no 
 sooner was it concluded than Henry cried out, in a kind of 
 wonder — 
 
 " A little man ! as I am alive, a little man ! I did not 
 know there were such little men in this country ! I never 
 saw one in my life before ! " 
 
 "This is a boy," said the Dean, "a boy not older than 
 yourself." 
 
 He put their hands together, and William gravely shook 
 hands with his cousin. 
 
 " It is a man." continued young Henry, then stroked his 
 cousin's chin. "No, no; I do not know whether it is or 
 not." 
 
 "I tell you again," said the Dean, "he is a boy of your 
 own age. You and he are cousins ; for I am his father." 
 
 " How can that be ?" said young Henry; "he called you 
 Sir." 
 
 " In this country," said the Dean, "polite children do not 
 call their parents_/M<?r and mother P 
 
4o6 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Then don't they sometimes forget to love them as 
 such ? " asked Henry. 
 
 His uncle became now impatient to interrogate him in 
 every particular concerning his father's state. Lady Cle- 
 mentina felt equal impatience to know where the father 
 was : whether he was coming to live with them, wanted 
 anything of them, and every circumstance in which her 
 vanity was interested. Explanations followed all these 
 questions ; but which, exactly agreeing with what the elder 
 Henry's letter has related, require no recital here. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 407 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 That vanity, which presided over every thought and deed 
 of Lady Clementina, was the protector of young Henry 
 within her house. It represented to her how amiable her 
 conduct would appear in the eye of the world, should she 
 condescend to treat this destitute nephew as her own son; 
 what envy such heroic virtue would excite in the hearts of 
 her particular friends, and what grief in the bosoms of all 
 those who did not like her. 
 
 The Dean was a man of no inconsiderable penetration. 
 He understood the thoughts which, upon this occasion, 
 passed in the mind of his wife; and, in order to insure 
 her kind treatment of the boy, instead of reproaching her 
 for the cold manner in which she had at first received him, 
 he praised her tender and sympathetic heart for having 
 shewn him so much kindness, and thus stimulated her 
 vanity to be praised still more. 
 
 William, the mother's own son, far from apprehending a 
 rival in this savage boy, was convinced of his own pre- 
 eminence, and felt an affection for him — though rather as a 
 foil than as a cousin. He sported with his ignorance upon 
 all occasions, and even lay in wait for circumstances that 
 might expose it. While young Henry, strongly impressed 
 with everything which appeared new to him, expressed, 
 without reserve, the sensations which those novelties 
 excited, wholly careless of the construction put on his ~, 
 observations. 
 
408 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 He never appeared either offended or abashed when 
 laughed at; but still pursued his questions, and still dis 
 covered his wonder at many replies made to him, though 
 " simpleton," " poor silly boy," and " idiot," were vociferated 
 around him, from his cousin, his aunt, and their constant 
 visitor, the Bishop. 
 
 His uncle would frequently undertake to instruct him; so 
 indeed would the Bishop; but Lady Clementina, her son, 
 and the greatest part of her companions, found something 
 so irresistibly ridiculous in his remarks, that nothing but im- 
 moderate laughter followed: they thought such folly had 
 even merit in the way of entertainment, and they wished 
 him no wiser. 
 
 Having been told that every morning, on first seeing his 
 uncle, he was to make a respectful bow, and coming into the 
 Dean's dressing-room just as he was out of bed, his wig 
 lying on the table, Henry appeared at a loss which of the 
 two he should bow to — at last he gave the preference to his 
 uncle ; but, afterwards, bowed reverently to the wig. In 
 this, he did what he conceived was proper, from the intro- 
 duction which the Dean, on his first arrival, had given him 
 to this venerable stranger; for, in reality, Henry had a con- 
 tempt for all finery ; and had called even his aunt's jewels 
 when they were first shown to him, " trumpery," asking 
 " what they were good for ? " But being corrected in this 
 disrespect, and informed of their high value, he, like a good 
 convert, gave up his reason to his faith ; and becoming, like 
 all converts, over-zealous, he now believed there was great 
 worth in all gaudy appearances, and even respected the 
 earrings of Lady Clementina almost as much as he respected 
 herself. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 409 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 It was to be lamented, that when young Henry had been 
 several months in England, had been taught to read, and 
 had, of course, in the society in which he lived, seen much 
 of the enlightened world, yet the natural expectation of his 
 improvement was by no means answered. 
 
 Notwithstanding the sensibility, which upon various occa- 
 sions he manifested in the most captivating degree, notwith- 
 standing the seeming gentleness of his nature upon all 
 occasions, there now appeared, in most of his inquiries and 
 remarks, a something which demonstrated either a stupid or 
 troublesome disposition : either dullness of conception, or an 
 obstinacy of perseverance in comments, and in arguments, 
 which were glaringly false. 
 
 Observing his uncle one day offended with his coachman, 
 and hearing him say to him, in a very angry tone, " You 
 shall never drive me again " — 
 
 The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with his 
 eyes fixed in the deepest contemplation) repeated five or six 
 times in a half whisper to himself — 
 
 " You shall never drive me again" 
 
 " You shall never drive me again." 
 
 The Dean at last called to him, " What do you mean by 
 thus repeating my words ? " 
 
 "I am trying to find out what you meant," said Henry. 
 
41 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " What ! don't you know ? " cried his enlightened cousin : 
 " Richard is turned away : he is never to get upon our 
 coach-box again, never to drive any of us more." 
 
 " And was it pleasure to drive us, cousin ? I am sure I 
 have often pitied him : it rained sometimes very hard when 
 he was on the box; and sometimes Lady Clementina has 
 kept him a whole hour at the door all in the cold and snow : 
 was that pleasure ! " 
 
 " No," replied young William. 
 
 " Was it honour, cousin ? " 
 
 " No," exclaimed his cousin, with a contemptuous smile. 
 
 " Then why did my uncle say to him, as a punishment, he 
 should never " 
 
 "Come hither, child," said the Dean, "and let me in- 
 struct you : your father's negligence has been inexcusable. 
 There are in society," continued the Dean, "rich and poor; 
 the poor are born to serve the rich." 
 
 " And what are the rich born for ? " 
 
 " To be served by the poor." 
 
 " But suppose the poor would not serve them ? " 
 
 " Then they must starve." 
 
 "And so poor people are permitted to live, only upon 
 condition that they wait upon the rich ? " 
 
 " Is that a hard condition? or if it were, they will be re- 
 warded in a better world than this." 
 
 " Is there a better world than this ? " 
 
 "Is it possible you do not know there is ? " 
 
 " I heard my father once say something about a world to 
 come ; but he stopped short, and said I was too young to 
 understand what he meant." 
 
 " The world to come," returned the Dean, " is where 
 we shall go after death; and there, no distinction will be 
 made between rich and poor — all persons there will be 
 equal." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 411 
 
 " Ay, now I see what makes it a better world than this. 
 But cannot this world try to be as good as that ? " 
 
 " In respect to placing all persons on a level, it is utterly 
 impossible : God has ordained it otherwise." 
 
 " How ! has God ordained a distinction to be made, and 
 will not make any himself?" 
 
 The Dean did not proceed in his instructions : he now 
 began to think his brother in the right, and that the boy was 
 too young, or too weak, to comprehend the subject. 
 
 
412 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 In addition to his ignorant conversation upon many- 
 topics, young Henry had an incorrigible misconception 
 and misapplication of many words. His father having had 
 but few opportunities of discoursing with him, upon account 
 of his attendance at the court of the savages, and not having 
 books in the island, he had consequently many words to 
 learn of this country's language, when he arrived in Eng- 
 land : this task his retentive memory made easy to him ; 
 but his childish inattention to their proper signification, still 
 made his want of education conspicuous. 
 
 He would call compliments, lies — reserve he would call 
 pride — stateliness, affectation — and for the words war and 
 battle, he constantly substituted the word ?nassacre. 
 
 "Sir," said William to his father, one morning as he 
 entered the room, " do you hear how the cannons are firing, 
 and the bells ringing ? " 
 
 " Then I dare say," cried Henry, " there has been another 
 massacre." 
 
 The Dean called to him in anger, "Will you never learn 
 the right use of words ? You mean to say a battle." 
 
 " Then what is a massacre ? " cried the frightened but 
 still curious Henry. 
 
 " A massacre," replied his uncle, " is when a number of 
 people are slain " 
 
 " I thought," returned Henry, " soldiers had been 
 people ! " 
 
NATURE AND ART. 413 
 
 "You interrupted me," said the Dean, "before I finished 
 my sentence. Certainly, both soldiers and sailors are 
 people, but they engage to die by their own free will and 
 consent." 
 
 "What! all of them?" 
 
 " Most of them." 
 
 " But the rest are massacred ? " 
 
 The Dean answered, "The number who go to battle un- 
 willingly, and by force, are few; and for the others, they 
 have previously sold their lives to the state." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " For soldiers' and sailors' pay." 
 
 " My father used to tell me, we must not take away our 
 own lives ; but he forgot to tell me we might sell them for 
 others to take away. 
 
 " William," said the Dean to his son, his patience tired 
 with his nephew's persevering nonsense, "explain to your 
 cousin the difference between a battle and a massacre." 
 
 "A massacre," said William, rising from his seat, and 
 fixing his eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and 
 the bishop (all of whom were present) for their approbation, 
 rather than the person's to whom his instructions were to be 
 addressed — " a massacre," said William, " is when human 
 beings are slain, who have it not in their power to defend 
 themselves." 
 
 " Dear cousin William," said Henry, " that must ever be 
 the case with every one who is killed." 
 
 After a short hesitation, William replied — 
 
 " In massacres, people are put to death for no crime, but 
 merely because they are objects of suspicion." 
 
 " But in battle," said Henry, " the persons put to death 
 are not even suspected." 
 
 The Bishop now condescended to end this disputation, by 
 saying emphatically — 
 
414 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the infant, 
 the aged, the sick, nor infirm, are involved, but only those 
 in the full prime of health and vigour." 
 
 As this argument came from so great and reverend a 
 man as the Bishop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from 
 his uncle, to submit, as one refuted; although he had an 
 answer at the veriest tip of his tongue, which it was torture 
 to him not to utter. What he wished to say must ever 
 remain a secret. The church has its terrors as well as the 
 law ; and Henry was awed by the Dean's tremendous 
 wig, as much as Paternoster Row is awed by the attorney- 
 general. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 415 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 If the Dean had loved his wife but moderately, seeing all 
 her faults clearly as he did, he must frequently have 
 quarrelled with her: if he had loved her with tenderness, 
 he must have treated her with a degree of violence in the 
 hope of amending her failings ; but, having neither per- 
 sonal nor mental affection towards her, sufficiently inte- 
 resting to give himself the trouble to contradict her will 
 in anything, he passed for one of the best husbands in 
 the world. Lady Clementina went out when she liked, 
 stayed at home when she liked, dressed as she liked, and 
 talked as she liked, without a word of disapprobation from 
 her husband, and all — because he cared nothing about 
 her. 
 
 Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate 
 affection ; and observers in general thought her happier in 
 her marriage than the beloved wife who bathes her pillow 
 with tears by the side of an angry husband, whose affection 
 is so excessive, that he unkindly upbraids her because she 
 is — less than perfection. 
 
 The Dean's wife was not so dispassionately considered by 
 some of his acquaintance as by himself; for they would 
 now and then hint at her foibles : but this great liberty she 
 also conceived to be the effect of most violent love, or most 
 violent admiration; and such would have been her con- 
 struction, had they commended her follies — had they totally 
 slighted, or had they beaten her. 
 
41 6 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Amongst those acquaintances, the aforesaid bishop, by far 
 the most frequent visitor, did not come merely to lounge an 
 idle hour, but he had a more powerful motive — the desire 
 of fame, and dread of being thought a man receiving large 
 emolument for unimportant service. 
 
 The Dean, if he did not procure him the renown he 
 wished, still preserved him from the apprehended cen- 
 sure. 
 
 The elder William was, to his negligent or ignorant supe- 
 riors in the church, such as an apt boy at school is, to the 
 rich dunces — William performed the prelates' tasks for 
 them, and they rewarded him, not, indeed, with toys or 
 money, but with their countenance, their company, their 
 praise. And scarcely was there a sermon preached from 
 the patrician part of the bench, in which the Dean did 
 not fashion some periods, blot out some uncouth phrases, 
 render some obscure sentiments intelligible, and he was the 
 person, when the work was printed, to correct the press. 
 
 This honourable and right reverend bishop delighted in 
 printing and publishing his works, or rather the entire works 
 of the Dean, which passed for his ; and so degradingly did 
 William, the shopkeeper's son, think of his own honest ex- 
 traction, that he was blinded, even to the loss of honour, by 
 the lustre of this noble acquaintance : for though, in other 
 respects, he was a man of integrity, yet, when the gratifica- 
 tion of his friend was in question, he was a liar : he not only 
 disowned his giving him aid in any of his publications, but 
 he never published anything in his own name, without de- 
 claring to the world, " that he had been obliged for several 
 hints on the subject, for many of the most judicious cor- 
 rections, and for those passages in page so and so (naming 
 the most eloquent parts of the work), to his noble and 
 learned friend the bishop." 
 
 The Dean's wife, being a fine lady, while her husband 
 
NATURE AXD ART. 417 
 
 and his friend pored over books or their own manuscripts at 
 home, ran from house to house, from public amusement 
 to public amusement; but much less for the pleasure of 
 seei?ig, than for that of being seen. Xor was it material to 
 her enjoyment, whether she were observed or welcome where 
 she went, as she never entertained the smallest doubt of 
 either, but rested assured that her presence aroused curiosity 
 and dispensed gladness all around. 
 
 One morning she went forth to pay her visits, all smiles. 
 such as she thought captivating : she returned all tears, such 
 as she thought no less endearing. 
 
 ^Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to be 
 patient under a misfortune to which even kings are liable — 
 namely, defamation. 
 
 Young Henry, struck with compassion at grief of which 
 he knew not the cause, begged to know " what was the 
 matter ? ; ' 
 
 "Inhuman monsters, to treat a woman thus!" cried his 
 aunt, in a fun", casting the corner of her eye into a looking- 
 glass, to see how rage became her. 
 
 " But, comfort yourself,'" 5 said one of her companions : 
 "few people will believe you merit the charge." 
 
 " But few ! if only one believe it, I shall call my reputation 
 lost, and I will shut myself up in some lonely hut, and for- 
 ever renounce all that is dear to me ! :: 
 
 "What! all your fine clothes ? ;; said Henry, in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Of what importance will my best dresses be, when no- 
 body would see them ? ;: 
 
 " You would see them yourself, dear aunt ; and I am sure 
 nobody admires them more." 
 
 "Now you speak of that," said she, " I do not think this 
 gown I have on, becoming ; I am sure I look " 
 
 The Dean, with the Bishop (to whom he had been reading 
 E E 
 
41 8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 a treatise just going to the press, which was to be published 
 in the name of the latter, though written by the former), 
 now entered, to inquire why they had been sent for in such 
 haste. 
 
 "Oh, Dean! oh, my Lord Bishop!" she cried, resuming 
 that grief which the thoughts of her dress had for a time 
 dispelled, "my reputation is destroyed : a public print has 
 accused me of playing deep at my own house, and winning 
 all the money ! " 
 
 " The world will never reform," said the Bishop : " all our 
 labour, my friend, is thrown away." 
 
 "But is it possible," cried the Dean, "that any one has 
 dared to say this of you ?" 
 
 " Here it is in print," said she, holding out a news- 
 paper. 
 
 The Dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed — 
 
 " I can forgive a falsehood spoken — the warmth of con- 
 versation may excuse it ; but to write and print an un- 
 truth is unpardonable, — and I will prosecute this pub- 
 lisher." 
 
 "Still the falsehood will go down to posterity," said 
 Lady Clementina; "and after-ages will think I was a 
 gambler." 
 
 " Comfort yourself, dear Madam," said young Henry, 
 wishing to console her ; " perhaps after-ages may not hear 
 of you, nor even the present age think much about you." 
 
 The Bishop now exclaimed, after having taken the paper 
 from the Dean, and read the paragraph — 
 
 "It is a libel, a rank libel, and the author must be 
 punished." 
 
 " Not only the author, but the publisher," said the Dean. 
 
 " Not only the publisher, but the printer," continued the 
 Bishop. 
 
 " And must my name be bandied about by lawyers in a 
 
NATURE AND ART. 419 
 
 common court of justice?" cried Lady Clementina; "how 
 shocking to my delicacy ! " 
 
 " My Lord, it is a pity we cannot try them by the eccle- 
 siastical court," said the Dean, with a sigh. 
 
 " Or by the Indian delinquent bill," said the Bishop, with 
 vexation. 
 
 "So totally innocent as I am ! " she vociferated with sobs. 
 " Every one knows I never touch a card at home, and 
 this libel charges me with playing at my own house ; and 
 though, whenever I do play, I own I am apt to win, yet it is 
 merely for my amusement." 
 
 " Win or not win, play or not play," exclaimed both the 
 churchmen, " this is a libel — no doubt, no doubt, a libel." 
 
 Poor Henry's confined knowledge of his native language 
 tormented him so much with curiosity upon this occasion, 
 that he went softly up to his uncle, and asked him in a 
 whisper, "What is the meaning of the word libel ?" 
 
 "A libel," replied the Dean, in a raised voice, "is that 
 which one person publishes to the injury of another." 
 
 "And what can the injured person do," asked Henry, "if 
 the accusation should chance to be true ? " 
 
 " Prosecute," replied the Dean. 
 
 " But, then, what does he do if the accusation be false ? " 
 
 " Prosecute likewise," answered the Dean. 
 
 " How, uncle ! is it possible that the innocent behave just 
 like the guilty ? " 
 
 " There is no other way to act." 
 
 " Why, then, if I were the innocent, I would do nothing 
 at all, sooner than I would act like the guilty. I would not 
 persecute " 
 
 " I said prosecute" cried the Dean in anger. " Leave the 
 room : you have no comprehension." 
 
 " Oh yes, now I understand the difference of the two 
 words ; but they sound so much alike, I did not at first 
 E E 2 
 
420 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 observe the distinction. You said, " the innocent prosecute, 
 but the guilty persecute" He bowed (convinced as he 
 thought), and left the room. 
 
 After this modern star-chamber, which was left sitting 
 had agreed on its mode of vengeance, and the writer of the 
 libel was made acquainted with his danger, he waited, in all 
 humility, upon Lady Clementina, and assured her, with every 
 appearance of sincerity — that she was not the person 
 alluded to by the paragraph in question, but that the initials 
 which she had conceived to mark out her name were, in 
 fact, meant to point out Lady Catherine Newland. 
 
 " But, Sir," cried Lady Clementina, " what could induce 
 you to write such a paragraph upon Lady Catherine ? She 
 never plays." 
 
 " We know that, Madam, or we dared not have attacked 
 her. Though we must circulate libels, Madam, to gratify 
 our numerous readers, yet no people are more in fear 
 of prosecutions than authors and editors : therefore, unless 
 we are deceived in our information, we always take care 
 to libel the innocent ; we apprehend nothing from them 
 — their own characters support them — but the guilty are 
 very tenacious, and what they cannot secure by fair means, 
 they will employ force to accomplish. Dear Madam, be 
 assured I have too much regard for a wife and seven small 
 children, who are maintained by my industry alone, to have 
 written anything in the nature of a libel upon your Lady- 
 ship." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 42 1 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 About this period the Dean had just published a pamph- 
 let in his own name, and in which that of his friend the 
 Bishop was only mentioned with thanks for hints, observa- 
 tions, and condescending encouragement to the author. 
 
 This pamphlet glowed with the Dean's love for his 
 country ; and such a country as he described, it was im- 
 possible not to love. " Salubrious air, fertile fields, wood, 
 water, corn, grass, sheep, oxen, fish, fowl, fruit, and vege- 
 tables," were dispersed with the most prodigal hand; 
 ' valiant men, virtuous women ; statesmen wise and just ; 
 tradesmen abounding in merchandise and money; husband- 
 men possessing peace, ease, plenty ; and all ranks liberty." 
 This brilliant description, while the Dean read the work 
 to his family, so charmed poor Henry, that he repeatedly 
 cried out — 
 
 " I am glad I came to this country." 
 
 But it so happened that, a few days after, Lady Clemen- 
 tina, in order to render the delicacy of her taste admired, 
 could eat of no one dish upon the table, but found fault 
 with them all. The Dean at length said to her — 
 
 " Indeed, you are too nice : reflect upon the hundreds of 
 poor creatures who have not a morsel or a drop of any- 
 thing to subsist upon, except bread and water ; and even 
 of the first a scanty allowance, but for which they are 
 obliged to toil six days in a week, from sun to sun." 
 
42 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Pray, uncle," cried Henry, " in what country do these 
 poor people live ? " 
 
 " In this country," replied the Dean. 
 
 Henry rose from his chair, ran to the chimney-piece, took 
 up his uncle's pamphlet, and said, " I don't remember your 
 mentioning them here." 
 
 " Perhaps I have not," answered the Dean, coolly. 
 
 Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book ; but he 
 could meet only with luxurious details of " the fruits of the 
 earth, the beasts of the field, the birds of the air, and the 
 fishes of the sea." 
 
 " Why, here is provision enough for all the people," said 
 Henry: "why should they want? why do not they go and 
 take some of these things ; " 
 
 "They must not," said the Dean, "unless they were their 
 own." 
 
 " What, uncle ! does no part of the earth, nor anything 
 which the earth produces, belong to the poor ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Why did not you say so then in your pamphlet ? " 
 
 " Because it is what everybody knows." 
 
 " Oh, then, what you have said in your pamphlet is only 
 what — nobody knows." 
 
 There appeared to the Dean, in the delivery of this 
 sentence, a satirical acrimony, which his irritability as an 
 author could but ill forgive. 
 
 An author, it is said, has more acute feelings in respect to 
 his works than any artist in the world besides. 
 
 Henry had some cause, on the present occasion, to think 
 this observation just ; for no sooner had he spoken the 
 foregoing words, than his uncle took him by the hand out of 
 the room ; and leading him to his study, there he enumerated 
 his various faults, and having told him "it was for all 
 those, too long permitted with impunity, and not merely 
 
Hwv 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 423 
 
 for the present impertinence, that he meant to punish him," 
 ordered him to close confinement in his chamber for a 
 week. 
 
 In the meantime, the Dean's pamphlet (less hurt by 
 Henry's critique than he had been) was proceeding to the 
 tenth edition, and the author acquiring literary reputation 
 beyond what he had ever conferred on his friend the 
 bishop. 
 
 The style, the energy, the eloquence of the work, was 
 echoed by eveiy reader who could afford to buy it ; some 
 few enlightened ones excepted, who chiefly admired the 
 author's invention. 
 
424 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Dean, in the good humour which the rapid sale of 
 his book produced, once more took his nephew to his 
 bosom ; and although the ignorance of young Henry upon 
 the late occasions had offended him very highly, yet that 
 self-same ignorance, evinced a short time after upon a 
 different subject, struck his uncle as productive of a most 
 rare and exalted virtue. 
 
 Henry had frequently, in his conversation, betrayed the 
 total want of all knowledge in respect to religion or futurity; 
 and the Dean, for this reason, delayed taking him to church, 
 till he had previously given him instructions wherefore he 
 went. 
 
 A leisure morning arrived : on which he took his nephew 
 to his stud}-, and implanted in his youthful mind the first 
 unconfused idea of the Creator of the universe. 
 
 The Dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention ; his 
 understanding, expanded by time to the conception of a 
 God, and not warped by custom, from the sensations which 
 a just notion of that God inspires, dwelt with delight and 
 wonder on the information given him ; lessons which, in- 
 stilled into the head of a senseless infant, too often produce, 
 throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to the 
 truths revealed. 
 
 Yet, with all that astonished and respectful sensibility 
 which Henry shewed on this great occasion, he still ex- 
 pressed his opinion, and put questions to the Dean with his 
 usual simplicity, till he felt himself convinced. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 425 
 
 "What!" cried he, after being informed of the attributes 
 inseparable from the Supreme Being, and having received 
 the injunction to offer prayers to Him night and morning — 
 "what! am I permitted to speak to Power Divine?" 
 
 "At all times," replied the Dean. 
 
 " How ! whenever I like ? " 
 
 "Whenever you like," returned the Dean. 
 
 "I durst not," cried Henry, "'make so free with the 
 Bishop, nor dare any of his attendants." 
 
 "The Bishop," said the Dean, "is the servant of God, 
 and therefore must be treated with respect." 
 
 "With more respect than his Master? " asked Henry. 
 
 The Dean not replying immediately to this question, 
 Henry, in the rapidity of inquiry, ran on to another : " But 
 what am I to say when I speak to the Almighty ? " 
 
 " First, thank Him for the favours He has bestowed on 
 you." 
 
 " What favours ? " 
 
 "'You amaze me," cried the Dean, "by your question. 
 Do not you live in ease, in plenty, and happiness ?" 
 
 "And do the poor and the unhappy thank Him too, 
 Uncle ? " 
 
 " No doubt : every human being glorifies Him, for having 
 been made a rational creature."' 
 
 "And does my aunt, and all her card-parties, glorify Him 
 for that ? " 
 
 The Dean again made no reply, and Henry went on to 
 other questions, till his uncle had fully instructed him as to 
 the nature and the form of prayer j and now, putting into his 
 hands a book, he pointed out to him a few short prayers, 
 which he wished him to address to Heaven in his presence. 
 
 Whilst Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed, 
 he trembled, turned pale, and held, for a slight support, on 
 the chair placed before him. 
 
426 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 His uncle went to him, and asked him " What was the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " Oh," cried Henry, " when I first came to your door with 
 my poor father's letter, I shook for fear you would not look 
 upon me ; and I cannot help feeling even more now than I 
 did then." 
 
 The Dean embraced him with warmth, gave him con- 
 fidence, and retired to the other side of the study to observe 
 his whole demeanour on this new occasion. 
 
 As he beheld his features varying between the passions of 
 humble fear and fervent hope, his face sometimes glowing 
 with the rapture of thanksgiving, and sometimes with the 
 blushes of contrition, he thus exclaimed apart — 
 
 " This is the true education on which to found the prin- 
 ciples of religion. The favour conferred by Heaven in 
 granting the freedom of petitions to its throne can never 
 be conceived with proper force but by those whose most 
 tedious moments during their infancy were not passed in 
 prayer. Unthinking governors of childhood ! to insult the 
 Deity with a form of worship, in which the mind has no 
 share — nay, worse, for which it has repugnance ; and, by the 
 thoughtless habits of youth, prevent, even in age, devo- 
 tion." 
 
 Henry's attention was so firmly fixed, that he forgot there 
 was a spectator of his fervour ; nor did he hear young Wil- 
 liam enter the chamber, and even speak to his father. 
 
 At length, closing his book, and rising from his knees, he 
 approached his uncle and cousin with a sedateness in his air 
 which gave the latter a very false opinion of the state of his 
 youthful companion's mind. 
 
 " So, Mr. Henry," cried William, " you have been obliged, 
 at last, to say your prayers." 
 
 The Dean informed his son "that to Henry it was no 
 punishment to pray." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 427 
 
 "He is the strangest boy I ever knew," said William, 
 inadvertently. 
 
 " To be sure," said Henry, " I was frightened when I first 
 knelt ; but when I came to the words, Father ; which art in 
 heaven, they gave me courage ; for I know how merciful and 
 kind a father is, beyond any one else." 
 
 The r>ean again embraced his nephew, let fall a tear to 
 his poor brother Henry's misfortunes, and admonished the 
 youth to shew himself equally submissive to other instruc- 
 tions, as he had done to those which inculcate piety. 
 
428 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The interim between youth and manhood was passed by 
 young William and young Henry in studious application to 
 literature ; some casual mistakes in our customs and man- 
 ners on the part of Henry, — some too close adherences to 
 them on the side of William. 
 
 Their different characters when boys were preserved when 
 they became men. Henry still retained that natural simpli- 
 city which his early destiny had given him ; he wondered 
 still at many things he saw and heard, and at times would 
 venture to give his opinion, contradict, and even act in 
 opposition to persons whom long experience and the appro- 
 bation of the world, had placed in situations which claimed 
 his implicit reverence and submission. 
 
 Unchanged in all his boyish graces, young William, now a 
 man, was never known to infringe upon the statutes of good- 
 breeding ; even though sincerity, his own free will, duty to 
 his neighbour, with many other plebeian virtues and privi- 
 leges, were the sacrifice. 
 
 William inherited all the pride and ambition of the 
 Dean; Henry all his father's humility. And yet, so various 
 and extensive is the acceptation of the word pride, that, on 
 some occasions, Henry was proud even beyond his cousin. 
 He thought it far beneath his dignity ever to honour, or 
 contemplate with awe, any human being in whom he saw 
 numerous failings ; nor would he, to ingratiate himself into 
 the favour of a man above him, stoop to one servility such 
 as the haughty William daily practised. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 429 
 
 "I know I am called proud," said William, one day to 
 Henry. 
 
 " Dear cousin," replied Henry, "it must be only, then, by 
 those who do not know you ; for to me you appear the hum- 
 blest creature in the world." 
 
 "Do you really think so ! " 
 
 " I am certain of it ; or would you always give up your 
 opinion to that of persons in a superior state, however inferior 
 in their understanding ? Would, else, their weak judgment 
 immediately change yours, though, before, you had been 
 decided on the opposite side ? Now, indeed, cousin, I have 
 more pride than you ; for I never will stoop to act or to 
 speak contrary to my feelings." 
 
 " Then you will never be a great man." 
 
 " Nor ever desire it, if I must first be a mean one." 
 
 There was in the public opinion of these two young men 
 another mistake which the common retailers of character 
 committed. Henry was said to be wholly negligent, while 
 William was reputed to be extremely attentive to the other 
 sex. William, indeed, was gallant, was amorous, and in- 
 dulged his inclination to the libertine society of women; 
 but Henry it was who loved them. He admired them at a 
 reverential distance, and felt so tender an affection for the 
 virtuous female, that it shocked him to behold, much more 
 to associate with, the depraved and vicious. 
 
 In the advantages of person, Henry was still superior to 
 William ; and yet the latter had no common share of those 
 attractions which captivate weak, thoughtless, or unskilful 
 minds. 
 
43° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 About the time that Henry and William quitted college, 
 and had arrived at their twentieth year, the Dean purchased 
 a small estate in a village near to the country residence of 
 Lord and Lady Bendham; and, in the total want of society, 
 the Dean's family were frequently honoured with invitations 
 from the great house. 
 
 Lord Bendham, besides a good estate, possessed the office 
 of a Lord of the Bedchamber to his Majesty. Historians 
 do not ascribe much importance to the situation, or to the 
 talents of nobles in this department, nor shall this little 
 history. A lord of the bedchamber is a^personage well- 
 known in Courts, and in all capitals where Courts reside ; 
 with this advantage to the inquirer, that in becoming 
 acquainted with one of those noble characters, he becomes 
 acquainted with all the remainder; not only with those of 
 the same kingdom, but those of foreign nations; for, in 
 whatever land, in whatever clime, a lord of the bedchamber 
 must necessarily be the self-same creature : one, wholly 
 made up of observance, of obedience, of dependence, and 
 of imitation — a borrowed character — a character formed by 
 reflection. 
 
 The wife of this illustrious peer, as well as himself, took 
 her hue, like the chameleon, from surrounding objects : her 
 manners were not governed by her mind, but were solely 
 directed by external circumstances. At Court, humble, re- 
 signed, patient, attentive : at balls, masquerades, gaming- 
 
NATURE AND ART. 43 1 
 
 tables, and routs, gay, sprightly, and flippant : at her co'untry 
 seat, reserved, austere, arrogant, and gloomy. 
 
 Though in town her timid eye, in presence of certain per- 
 sonages, would scarcely uplift its trembling lid, so much she 
 felt her own insignificance ; yet, in the country, till Lady 
 Clementina arrived, there was not one being of consequence 
 enough to share in her acquaintance ; and she paid back to 
 her inferiors there, all the humiliating slights, all the morti- 
 fications, which in London she received from those to whom 
 she was inferior. 
 
 Whether in town or country, it is but justice to acknow- 
 ledge, that in her own person she was strictly chaste ; but in 
 the country she extended that chastity even to the persons 
 of others ; and the young woman who had lost her virtue in 
 the village of Anfield, had better have lost her life. Some 
 few were now and then found hanging or drowned, while no 
 other cause could be assigned for their despair, than an im- 
 putation on the discretion of their character, arid dread of 
 the harsh purity of Lady Bendham. She would remind the 
 parish priest of the punishment allotted for female dis- 
 honour, and by her influence had caused many an unhappy 
 girl to do public penance, in her own or the neighbouring 
 church. 
 
 But this country rigour, in town, she could dispense 
 withal ; and, like other ladies of virtue, she there visited and 
 received into her house the acknowledged mistresses of any 
 man in elevated life : it was not therefore the crime, but the 
 rank which the criminal held in society, that drew down 
 Lady Bendham's vengeance : she even carried her distinc- 
 tion of classes in female error to such a very nice point, that 
 the adulterous concubine of an elder brother was her most 
 intimate acquaintance, whilst the less guilty unmarried 
 mistress of the younger she would not sully her lips to ex- 
 change a word with. 
 
m< 
 
 wa 
 
 432 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Lord and Lady Bendham's birth, education, talents, and 
 character, being much on the same scale of eminence, they 
 would have been a very happy pair, had not one great mis- 
 fortune intervened, the lady never bore her lord a child, 
 while every cottage of the village was crammed with half- 
 starved children ; whose fathers from week to week, from 
 year to year, exerted their manly youth and wasted their 
 strength in vain to protect them from hunger; whose 
 mothers mourned over their new-born infants as little 
 wretches sent into the world to deprive the rest of what 
 already was too scanty for them. In the castle, which 
 owned every cottage and all the surrounding land, and 
 where one single day of feasting would have nourished for a 
 
 lonth all the poor inhabitants of the parish, not one child 
 was given to partake the plenty. The curse of barrenness 
 was on the family of the Lord of the Manor— -the curse of 
 fruitfulness upon the famished poor. 
 
 This lord and lady, with an ample fortune, both by in- 
 heritance and their sovereign's favour, had never yet the 
 economy to be exempt from debts ; still, over their splendid, 
 their profuse table, they could contrive and plan excellent 
 schemes "Jiow the poor might live most comfortably with a 
 little better management." 
 
 The wages of a labouring man, with a wife and half a 
 dozen small children, Lady Bendham thought quite suffi- 
 cient, if they would only learn a little economy. 
 
 " You know, my Lord, these people never want to dress — 
 shoes and stockings, a coat and waistcoat, a gown and a 
 cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, are all they want — 
 fire, to be sure, in winter — then all the rest is merely for 
 provision." 
 
 " I'll get a pen and ink," said young Henry, one day 
 when he had the honour of being at their table, "and see 
 what the rest amounts to." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 433 
 
 " No, no accounts," cried my Lord, " no summing up : but 
 if you were to calculate, you must add to the receipts of the 
 poor my gift at Christmas — last year, during the frost, no 
 less than a hundred pounds." 
 
 " How benevolent ! " exclaimed the Dean. 
 
 " How prudent ! " exclaimed Henry. 
 
 " What do you mean by prudent ? " asked Lord Bendham. 
 " Explain your meaning." 
 
 "No, my Lord," replied the Dean, "do not ask for an ex- 
 planation : this youth is wholly unacquainted with our 
 customs, and though a man in stature, is but a child in in- 
 tellects. Henry, have not I often cautioned you " 
 
 """ Whatever his thoughts are upon this subject," cried Lord 
 Bendham, " I desire to know them." 
 
 " Why, then, my Lord," answered Henry, " I thought it 
 was prudent in you to give a little ; lest the poor, driven to 
 despair, should take all." 
 
 " And if they had, they would have been hanged." 
 
 " Hanging, my Lord, our history, or some tradition, says, 
 Was formerly adopted as a mild punishment, in place of 
 starving." 
 
 " I am sure," cried Lady Bendham (who seldom spoke 
 directly to the argument before her), — " I am sure they 
 ought to think themselves much obliged to us." 
 
 " That is the greatest hardship of all," cried Henry. 
 
 " What, Sir ? " exclaimed the Earl. 
 
 " I beg your pardon — my uncle looks displeased — I am 
 very ignorant — I did not receive my first education in this 
 country — and I find I think so differently from every one 
 else, that I am ashamed to utter my sentiments." 
 
 " Never mind, young man," answered Lord Bendham ; " we 
 shall excuse your ignorance for once. Only inform us what 
 it was you just now called the greatest hardship of all" 
 
 "It was, my Lord, that what the poor receive to keep 
 F F 
 
434 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 them from perishing, should pass under the name of gifts 
 and bounty. Health, strength, and the will to earn a mode- 
 rate subsistence, ought to be every man's security from 
 x \ obligation." 
 
 "I think a hundred pounds a great deal of money," cried 
 Lady Bendham ; " and I hope my Lord will never give it 
 again." 
 
 "I hope so too," cried Henry; "for if my Lord would 
 only be so good as to speak a few words for the poor, as a 
 senator, he might possibly for the future keep his hundred 
 pounds, and yet they never want it." 
 
 Lord Bendham had the good nature only to smile at 
 Henry's simplicity, whispering to himself, " I had rather 
 keep my " His last word was lost in the whisper. 
 
 <$> 
 
NATURE AND ART. 435 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 In the country — where the sensible heart is still more 
 susceptible of impressions, and where the unfeeling mind, 
 in the want of other men's wit to invent, forms schemes fol- 
 ks own amusement — our youths both fell in love : if 
 passions, that were pursued on the most opposite principles, 
 can receive the same appellation. William, well versed in 
 all the licentious theory, thought himself in love, because he 
 perceived a tumultuous impulse cause his heart to beat 
 while his fancy fixed on a certain object, whose presence 
 agitated yet more his breast. 
 
 Henry thought himself not in love, because, while he 
 listened to William on the subject, he found their sensations 
 did not in the least agree. 
 
 William owned to Henry that he loved Agnes^ the 
 daughter of a cottager in the village, and hoped to make 
 her his mistress. 
 
 Henry felt that his tender regard for Rebecca, the 
 daughter of the curate of the parish, did not inspire him 
 even with the boldness to acquaint her with his sentiments ; 
 much less to meditate one design that might tend to her 
 dishonour. 
 
 While William was cautiously planning how to meet in*.^ 
 private, and accomplish the seduction of the object of his 
 passion, Henry was endeavouring to fortify the object of his 
 choice with every virtue. He never read a book from which 
 
 F F 2 
 
43 6 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 he received improvement, that he did not carry it to Rebecca 
 — never heard a circumstance which might assist towards 
 her moral instruction, that he did not haste to tell it her — 
 and once, when William boasted — 
 
 " He knew he was beloved by Agnes," — 
 
 Henry said, with equal triumph, " He had not dared to 
 take the means to learn, nor had Rebecca dared to give one 
 instance of her partiality." 
 
 Rebecca was the youngest, and by far the least handsome 
 daughter of four, to whom the Reverend Mr. Rymer, a 
 widower, was father. The other sisters were accounted 
 beauties ; and she, from her comparative want of personal 
 charms, having been less beloved by her parents, and less 
 caressed by those who visited them than the rest, had, for 
 some time past, sought other resources of happiness than 
 the affection, praise, and indulgence of her fellow-creatures. 
 The parsonage-house, in which this family lived, was the 
 forlorn remains of an ancient abbey : it had, in later times, 
 been the habitation of a rich and learned rector, by whom 
 at his decease, a library was bequeathed for the use of every 
 succeeding resident. Rebecca, left alone in this huge 
 ruinous abode, while her sisters were paying stated visits 
 in search of admiration, passed her solitary hours in read- 
 ing. She not merely read — she thought ; the choicest English 
 books from this excellent library taught her to think; and 
 reflection fashioned her mind to bear the slights, the mortifi- 
 cations of neglect, with a patient dejection, rather than with 
 an indignant or a peevish spirit. 
 
 This resignation to injury and contumely gave to her 
 perfect symmetry of person, a timid eye, a retiring manner, 
 and spread upon her face a placid sweetness, a pale serenity 
 indicating sense, which no wise connoisseur in female 
 charms would have exchanged for all the sparkling eyes and 
 florid tints of her vain and vulgar sisters. Henry's soul was 
 
NATURE AND ART. 437 
 
 so enamoured of her gentle deportment, that in his sight she 
 appeared beautiful ; while she, with an understanding com- 
 petent to judge of his worth, was so greatly surprised, so 
 prodigiously astonished at the distinction, the attention, the 
 many offices of civility paid her by him, in preference to her 
 idolized sisters, that her gratitu de for such unexpected 
 favours had sometimes (even in his presence, and in that of 
 her family) nearly drowned her eyes with tears. Yet they 
 were only trifles, in which Henry had the opportunity or the 
 power to give her testimony of his regard — trifles, often 
 more grateful to the sensible mind than efforts of high im- 
 portance ; and by which the proficient in the human heart 
 will accurately trace a passion wholly concealed from the 
 dull eye of the unskilled observer. 
 
 The first cause of amazement to Rebecca in the manners 
 of Henry was, that he talked with her as well as with her" 
 sisters ; no visitor else had done so. In appointing a 
 morning's or an evening's walk, he proposed her going with 
 the rest ; no one had ever required her company before. 
 When he called and she was absent, he asked where she 
 was ; no one had ever missed her before. She thanked 
 him most sincerely, and soon perceived that, at those times 
 when he was present, company was more pleasing even than 
 books. 
 
 Her astonishment, her gratitude, did not stop here — 
 Henry proceeded in attention — he soon selected her from 
 her sisters, to tell her the news of the day ; answered her 
 observations the first ; once gave her a sprig of myrtle from 
 his bosom, in preference to another who had praised its 
 beauty; and once — never-to-be-forgotten kindness — shel- 
 tered her from a hasty shower with his fiarapluie, while he 
 lamented, to her drenched companions — 
 
 " That he had but one to offer." 
 
 From a man whose understanding and person they ad- 
 
43& NATURE AND ART. 
 
 mire, how dear, how impressive on the female heart is 
 every trait of tenderness ! Till now, Rebecca had expe- 
 rienced none ; not even of the parental kind ; and merely 
 from the overflowings of a kind nature (not in return for 
 affection) had she ever loved her father and her sisters. 
 Sometimes, repulsed by their severity, she transferred the 
 fullness of an affectionate heart to birds, or the brute 
 creation ; but now, her alienated mind was recalled and 
 softened by a sensation that made her long to complain of 
 the burden it imposed. Those obligations which exact 
 silence, are a heavy weight to the grateful ; and Rebecca 
 longed to tell Henry, "that even the forfeit of her life 
 would be too little to express the full sense she had of the 
 respect he paid to her." But, as modesty forbade not only 
 every kind of declaration, but every insinuation purporting 
 what she felt, she wept through sleepless nights from a 
 load of suppressed explanation ; yet still she would not 
 have exchanged this trouble for all the beauty of her 
 sisters. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 439 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Old John and Hannah Primrose, a prudent, hardy couple, 
 who, by many years of peculiar labour and peculiar absti- 
 nence, were the least poor of all the neighbouring cottagers, 
 had an only child (who has been named before) called 
 Agnes ; and this cottage girl was reckoned, in spite of the 
 beauty of the elder Miss Rymers, by far the prettiest female 
 in the village. 
 
 Reader of superior rank, if the passions which rage in the 
 bosom of the inferior class of human kind are beneath your 
 sympathy, throw aside this little history, for Rebecca Rymer 
 and Agnes Primrose are its heroines. 
 
 But, you, unprejudiced reader, whose liberal observations 
 are not confined to stations, but who consider all mankind 
 alike deserving your investigation; who believe that there 
 "Exist in some, knowledge without the advantage of instruction; 
 refinement of sentiment independent of elegant society; 
 honourable pride of heart, without dignity of blood ; and 
 genius destitute of art to render it conspicuous—^^ will, 
 perhaps, venture to read on ; in hopes that the remainder 
 of this story may deserve your attention, just as the wild 
 herb of the forest, equally with the cultivated plant in the 
 garden, claims the attention of the botanist. * 
 
 Young William saw in young Agnes even more beauty 
 than was beheld by others ; and on those days when he felt 
 no inclination to ride, to shoot, or to hunt, he would contrive, 
 by some secret device, the means to meet with her alone, 
 
44° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 and give her tokens (if not of his love) at least of his admi- 
 ration of her beauty, and of the pleasure he enjoyed in her 
 company. 
 
 Agnes listened, with a kind of delirious enchantment, to 
 all her elevated and eloquent admirer uttered ; and in return 
 for his praises of her charms, and his equivocal replies 
 n respect to his designs towards her, she gave to him 
 her most undisguised thoughts, and her whole enraptured 
 heart. 
 
 This harmless intercourse (as she believed it) had not 
 lasted many weeks before she loved him : she even con- 
 fessed she did, every time that any unwonted mark of atten- 
 tion from him struck with unexpected force her infatuated 
 senses. 
 
 It has been said by a celebrated writer, upon the affection 
 subsisting between the two sexes, "that there are many 
 persons who, if they had never heard of the passion of love, 
 would never have felt it." Might it not, with equal truth, be 
 added, that there are many more, who, having heard of it, 
 and, believing most firmly that they feel it, are, nevertheless, 
 mistaken ? Neither of these cases was the lot of Agnes. 
 She experienced the sentiment before she ever heard it 
 named in the sense with which it had possessed her — joined 
 with numerous other sentiments : for genuine love, however 
 rated as the chief passion of the human heart, is but a poor 
 dependent, a retainer upon other passions ; admiration, 
 gratitude, respect, esteem, pride in the object. Divest the 
 boasted sensation of these, and it is no more than the im- 
 pression of a twelvemonth, by courtesy, or vulgar error, 
 termed love. 
 
 Agnes was formed, by the rarest structure of the human 
 frame, and destined by the tenderest thrillings of the human 
 soul, to inspire and to experience real love ; but her nice 
 taste, her delicate thoughts, were so refined beyond the 
 
J 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 44 1 
 
 sphere of her own station in society, that nature would have 
 produced this prodigy of attraction in vain, had not one of 
 superior education and manners assailed her affections ; and 
 had she been accustomed to the conversation of men in 
 William's rank of life, she had, perhaps, treated William's 
 addresses with indifference ; but, in comparing him with her 
 familiar acquaintance, he was a miracle ! His unremitting 
 attention seemed the condescension of an elevated being, to 
 whom she looked up with reverence, with admiration, with 
 awe, with pride, with sense of obligation — and all those 
 various passions which constitute true and never-to-be- 
 eradicated love. 
 
 But in vain she felt, and even avowed with her lips, what 
 every look and gesture had long denoted ; William, with 
 discontent, sometimes with anger, upbraided her for her 
 false professions, and vowed " that while one tender proof, 
 which he fervently besought, was wanting, she did but 
 aggravate his misery by less endearments." 
 
 Agnes had been taught the full estimation of female 
 virtue; and if her nature could have detested any one 
 creature in a state of wretchedness, it would have been the 
 woman who had lost her honour: yet, for William, what 
 would not Agnes forfeit? The dignity, the peace, the 
 serenity, the innocence of her own mind, love soon encou- 
 raged her to fancy she could easily forego — and this same 
 overpowering influence at times so forcibly possessed her, 
 that she even felt a momentary transport in the contem- 
 plation " of so precious a sacrifice to him." But then she 
 loved her parents, and their happiness she could not prevail 
 with herself to barter even for his. She wished he would 
 demand some other pledge of her attachment to him ; for 
 there was none but this, her ruin in no other shape, that she 
 
 I' would deny at his request. While thus she deliberated, she 
 prepared for her fall. 
 
44 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Bred up with strict observance both of his moral and reli- 
 I gious character, William did not dare to tell an unequivocal 
 j lie even to his inferiors — he never promised Agnes he would 
 marry her ; nay, even, he paid so much respect to the forms 
 of truth, that no sooner was it evident that he had obtained 
 her heart, her whole soul entire — so that loss of innocence 
 would be less terrifying than separation from him — no 
 sooner did he perceive this, than he candidly told her he 
 "could never make her his wife." At the same time he 
 lamented "the difference of their births, and the duty he 
 owed his parents' hopes," in terms so pathetic to her par- 
 tial ear, that she thought him a greater object of compassion 
 in his attachment even than herself; and was now urged by 
 pity to remove the cause of his complainings. 
 
 One evening, Henry accidentally passed the lonely spot 
 where William and she constantly met. He observed his 
 cousin's impassioned eye, and her affectionate yet fearful 
 glance. William, he saw, took delight in the agitation of 
 mind, in the strong apprehension mixed with the love of 
 Agnes. This convinced Henry that either he or himself 
 was not in love ; for his heart told him he would not have 
 beheld such emotions of tenderness, mingled with such 
 marks of sorrow upon the countenance of Rebecca, for the 
 wealth of the universe. 
 
 The first time he was alone with William after this, he 
 mentioned his observation on Agnes's apparent affliction, 
 and asked " Why her grief was the result of their stolen 
 meetings." 
 
 " Because," replied William, " her professions are un- 
 limited, while her manners are reserved ; and I accuse her 
 of loving me with unkind moderation, while I love her to 
 distraction." 
 
 " You design to marry her, then ? " 
 
 " How can you degrade me by the supposition ? " 
 
NATURE AND ART. 443 
 
 " Would it degrade you more to marry her than to make 
 her your companion ? To talk with her for hours in prefer- 
 ence to all other company ? To wish to be endeared to her 
 by still closer ties ? " 
 
 " But all this is not raising her to the rank of my wife." 
 
 " It is still raising her to that rank for which wives alone 
 were allotted." 
 
 " You talk wildly ! I tell you I love her ; but not enough, 
 I hope, to marry her." 
 
 " But too much, I hope, to undo her ? " 
 
 " That must be her own free choice — I make use of no 
 unwarrantable methods." 
 
 " What are the warrantable ones ? " 
 
 " I mean I have made her no false promises — offered no 
 pretended settlement — vowed no eternal constancy." 
 
 " But you have told her you love her ; and, from that con- 
 fession, has she not reason to expect every protection which 
 even promises could secure ? " 
 
 " I cannot answer for her expectations ; but I know if she 
 should make me as happy as I ask, and I should then for- 
 sake her, I shall not break my word." 
 
 "Still she will be deceived; for you will falsify your 
 looks." 
 
 "Do you think she depends on my looks ? " 
 
 "I have read in some book, Looks are the lovers sole 
 dependence." 
 
 " I have no objection to her interpreting mine in her 
 favour; but then, for the consequences, she will have her- o 
 self, and only herself, to blame." 
 
 "Oh, Heaven!" 
 
 " What makes you exclaim so vehemently ? " 
 
 "A forcible idea of the bitterness of that calamity which 
 inflicts self-reproach ! Oh, rather deceive her — leave her the 
 consolation to reproach you rather than herself? 
 
444 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " My honour will not suffer me." 
 
 " Exert your honour, and never see her more." 
 
 " I cannot live without her." 
 
 " Then live with her by the laws of your country ; and 
 make her and yourself both happy." 
 
 "Am I to make my father and my mother miserable? 
 They would disown me for such a step." 
 
 " Your mother, perhaps, might be offended, but your 
 father could not. Remember the sermon he preached but 
 last Sunday, upon the shortness of this life — contempt of all 
 riches and worldly honours in balance with a quiet con- 
 science — and the assurance he gave us that the greatest 
 happiness enjoyed upon earth, was to be found under an 
 humble roof with heaven in prospect" 
 
 " My father is a very good man," said William, " and yet, 
 instead of being satisfied with an humble roof, he looks im- 
 patiently forward to a bishop's palace." 
 
 "He is so very good, then," said Henry, "that perhaps, 
 seeing the dangers to which men in exalted stations are 
 exposed, he has such extreme philanthropy, and so little 
 self-love, he would rather that himself should brave those 
 perils incidental to wealth and grandeur, than any other 
 person." 
 
 " You are not yet civilised," said William ; " and to argue 
 with you, is but to instruct without gaining instruction." 
 
 " I know, Sir," replied Henry, " that you are studying the 
 law most assiduously, and indulge flattering hopes of rising 
 to eminence in your profession ; but let me hint to you, that 
 though you may be perfect in the knowledge how to ad- 
 minister the commandments of men, unless you keep in 
 view the precepts of God, your judgment, like mine, will be 
 fallible." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 445 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The Dean's family passed this first summer at the newly-, 
 purchased estate so pleasantly, that they left it with regret 
 when winter called them to their house in town. 
 
 But if some felt concern in quitting the village of Anfield, 
 others who were left behind, felt the deepest anguish. Those 
 were not the poor ; for rigid attention to the religion and 
 morals of people in poverty, and total neglect of their bodily 
 wants, was the Dean's practice. He forced them to attend 
 church every Sabbath ; but whether they had a dinner on 
 their return, was too gross and temporal an inquiry for his 
 spiritual fervour. Good of the soul was all he aimed at; 
 and this pious undertaking, besides his diligence as a pastor, 
 required all his exertion as a magistrate; for to be very 
 poor and very honest, very oppressed yet very thankful, is a 
 degree of sainted excellence not often to be attained without 
 the aid of zealous men to frighten into virtue. 
 
 Those, then, who alone felt sorrow at the Dean's depar- 
 ture, were two young women, whose parents, exempt from 
 indigence, preserved them from suffering under his unpity- 
 ing piety ; but whose discretion had not protected them 
 from the bewitching smiles of his nephew, and the seducing 
 wiles of his son. 
 
 The first morning that Rebecca rose and knew Henry 
 was gone till the following summer, she wished she could 
 have laid down again, and slept away the whole long in- 
 terval. Her sisters' peevishness, her father's austerity, she 
 
44^ NATURE AND ART. 
 
 foresaw would be insupportable, now that she had expe- 
 rienced Henry's kindness, and he was no longer near to 
 fortify her patience. She sighed — she wept — she was 
 unhappy. 
 
 But, if Rebecca awoke with a dejected mind and an 
 aching heart, what were the sorrows of Agnes ? The only 
 child of doting parents, she had never been taught the neces- 
 sity of resignation — untutored, unread, unused to reflect, 
 but knowing how to feelj what were her sufferings, when, 
 on waking, she called to mind that " William was gone?" 
 and with him, gone all that excess of happiness which his 
 presence had bestowed, and for which she had exchanged 
 her future tranquility. 
 
 Loss of tranquility even Rebecca had to bemoan : Agnes 
 had still more — the loss of innocence. 
 
 Had William remained in the village, shame, even con- 
 science, perhaps, might have been silenced ; but, separated 
 from her betrayer, parted from the joys of guilt, and left 
 only to its sorrows, every sting which quick sensibility could 
 sharpen, to torture her, was transfixed in her heart. First 
 came the recollection of a cold farewell from the man whose 
 love she had hoped her yielding passion had for ever won ; 
 next flashed on her thoughts her violated person ; next, the 
 crime incurred ; then her cruelty to her parents ; and, last 
 of all, the horrors of detection. 
 
 She knew that as yet, by wariness, care, and contrivance, 
 her meetings with William had been unsuspected; but, 
 in this agony of mind, her fears foreboded an informer 
 who would defy all caution ; who would stigmatise her 
 with a name — dear and desired by every virtuous 
 female — abhorrent to the blushing harlot — the name 
 of mother. 
 
 That Agnes, thus impressed, could rise from her bed, 
 meet her parents and her neighbours with her usual smile 
 
NATURE AND ART. 447 
 
 of vivacity, and voice of mirth, was impossible. To leave 
 her bed at all, to creep down stairs, and reply in a faint, 
 broken voice to questions asked, were, in her state of mind, 
 mighty efforts, and they were all to which her struggles could 
 attain, for many weeks. 
 
 William had promised to write to her while he was away ; 
 he kept his word ; but not till the end of two months did 
 she receive a letter. Fear for his health, apprehension of 
 his death during this cruel interim, caused an agony of sus- 
 pense, which, by representing him to her distracted fancy in 
 a state of suffering, made him, if possible, still dearer to 
 her. In the excruciating anguish of uncertainty, she walked 
 with trembling steps, through all weathers (when she could 
 steal half a day, while her parents were employed in labour 
 abroad), to the post-town, at six miles distance, to inquire 
 for his long-expected, long wished-for letter. When at last 
 it was given to her, that moment of consolation seemed to 
 repay her for the whole time of agonising terror she had 
 endured. 
 
 " He is alive ! " she said, " and I have suffered nothing." 
 
 She hastily put this token of his health and his remem- 
 brance of her into her bosom, rich as an empress with a 
 newly-acquired dominion. The way from home, which she 
 had trod with heavy pace, in the fear of renewed disappoint- 
 ment, she skimmed along on her return, swift as a doe : the 
 cold did not pierce, neither did the rain wet her. Many a 
 time she put her hand upon the prize she possessed, to find 
 if it were safe : once, on the road, she took it from her bosom, 
 curiously viewed the seal and the direction, then replacing 
 it, did not move her fingers from their fast gripe, till she 
 arrived at her own house. 
 
 Her father and her mother were still absent. She drew a 
 chair, and placing it near to the only window in the room, 
 seated herself with ceremonious order ; then gently drew 
 
44-8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 forth her treasure ; laid it on her knee ; and, with a smile 
 that almost amounted to a laugh of gladness, once more 
 inspected the outward part, before she would trust herself 
 with the excessive joy of looking within. 
 
 At length the seal was broken — but the contents still a 
 secret. Poor Agnes had learned to write as some youths 
 learn Latin: so short a time had been allowed for the 
 acquirement, and so little expert had been her master, that 
 it took her generally a week to write a letter of ten lines, 
 and a month to read one of twenty. But this being a letter 
 on which her mind was deeply engaged, her whole imagina- 
 tion aided her slender literature, and at the end of a fort- 
 night she had made out every word. They were these : — 
 
 "Dear Agnes, — I hope you have been well since we 
 parted : I have been very well myself; but I have been 
 teased with a great deal of business, which has not given 
 me time to write to you before. I have been called to the 
 bar, which engages every spare moment; but I hope it 
 will not prevent my coming down to Anfield with my father 
 in the summer. 
 
 " I am, Dear Agnes, 
 
 " With gratitude for all the favours you 
 
 me, 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 have conferred on me, 
 
 W. N." 
 
 To have beheld the illiterate Agnes trying for two weeks, 
 day and night, to find out the exact words of this letter, 
 would have struck the spectator with amazement, hacThe 
 also understood the right, the delicate, the nicely proper 
 sensation with which she was affected by every sentence it 
 contained. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 44 9 
 
 She wished it had been kinder, even for his sake who 
 wrote it ; because she thought so well of him, and desired 
 still to think so well, that she was sorry at any faults which 
 rendered him less worthy of her good opinion. The cold 
 civility of his letter had this effect — her clear, her acute 
 judgment felt it a kind of prevarication to promise to write — 
 and then write nothing that was hoped for. But, enthralled 
 by the magic of her passion, she shortly found excuses 
 for the man she loved, at the expense of her own condem- 
 nation. 
 
 " He has only the fault of inconstancy," she cried ; " and 
 that has been caused by my change of conduct. Had I been 
 virtuous still, he had still been affectionate." 
 
 Bitter reflection ! 
 
 Yet there was a sentence in the letter that, worse than all 
 the tenderness left out, wounded her sensibility ; and she 
 could not read the line, gratitude for all the favours con- 
 ferred on me, without turning pale with horror, then kind- 
 ling with indignation at the common-place thanks which in- 
 sultingly reminded her of her innocence given in exchange 
 for unmeaning acknowledgments. 
 
 G G 
 
45 O NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Absence is said to increase strong and virtuous love, but 
 to destroy that which is weak and sensual. In the parallel 
 between young William and young Henry, this was the case ; 
 for Henry's real love increased, while William's turbulent 
 passion declined in separation. Yet had the latter not so 
 much abated that he did not perceive a sensation, like a 
 sudden shock of sorrow, on a proposal made him by his 
 father, of entering the marriage state with a young woman, 
 the dependent niece of Lady Bendham; who, as the Dean 
 informed him, had signified her Lord's and her own appro- 
 bation of his becoming their nephew. 
 
 At the first moment William received this intimation 
 from his father, his heart revolted with disgust from the 
 object, and he instantly thought upon Agnes, with more 
 affection than he had done for many weeks before. This 
 was from the comparison between her and his proposed 
 wife, for he had frequently seen Miss Sedgeley at Lord 
 Bendham's, but had never seen in her whole person, or 
 manners, the least attraction to excite his love. He pic- 
 tured to himself an unpleasant home, with a companion so 
 little suited to his taste, and he felt a pang of conscience, as 
 well as of attachment, in the thought of giving up for ever 
 his poor Agnes. 
 
 But these reflections, these feelings, lasted only for the 
 
NATURE AND ART. 45 1 
 
 moment : no sooner had the Dean explained why the 
 marriage was desirable, recited what great connections and 
 what great patronage it would confer upon their family, 
 than William listened with eagerness, and both his love and 
 his conscience were, if not wholly quieted, at least for the 
 present hushed. 
 
 Immediately after the Dean had expressed to Lord and 
 Lady Bendham his son's " sense of the honour and the 
 happiness conferred on him, by their condescension in 
 admitting him a member of their noble family" — Miss 
 Sedgeley received from her aunt nearly the same shock 
 as William had done from his father. For she (placed 
 in the exact circumstance of her intended husband) had 
 frequently seen the Dean's son at Lord Bendhairfs, but had 
 never seen in his whole person or manners the least at- 
 tractio7i to excite her love. She pictured to herself an 
 unpleasant ho?ne, with a companion so little suited to her 
 taste: and at this moment she felt a more than usual 
 partiality to the Dean's nephew, finding the secret hope 
 she had long indulged, of winning his affections, so near 
 being thwarted. 
 
 But Miss Sedgeley was too much subjected to the power 
 of her uncle and aunt to have a will of her own, — at least, 
 to dare to utter it. She received the commands of Lady' 
 Bendham with her accustomed submission, while all the 
 consolation for the grief they gave her was, " that she 
 resolved to make a very bad wife." 
 
 " I shall not care a pin for my husband," said she to 
 herself; "and so I will dress and visit, and do just as I 
 like — he dares not be unkind because of my aunt. Besides, 
 now I think again, it is not so disagreeable to marry him 
 as if I were obliged to marry into any other family, because 
 I shall see his cousin Henry as often, if not oftener, than 
 ever." 
 
 G G 2 
 
45 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 For Miss Sedgeley — whose person he did not like, and 
 with her mind thus disposed — William began to force 
 himself to shake off every little remaining affection, even 
 all pity, for the unfortunate, the beautiful, the sensible, 
 the doting Agnes ; and determined to place in a situation 
 to look down with scorn upon her sorrows, this weak, this 
 unprincipled woman. 
 
 Connections, interest, honours, were powerful advocates ; 
 his private happiness William deemed trivial, compared to 
 public opinion ; and to be under obligations to a peer, his 
 wife's relation, gave greater renown in his servile mind than 
 all the advantages which might accrue from his own intrinsic 
 independent worth. 
 
 In the usual routine of pretended regard, and real 
 indifference, sometimes disgust, between parties allied by 
 what is falsely termed prudence, the intended union of 
 Mr. Norwynne with Miss Sedgeley proceeded in all due 
 form ; and at their country seats at Anfield, during the 
 summer, their nuptials were appointed to be celebrated. 
 
 William was now introduced into all Lord Bendham's 
 courtly circles : his worldly soul was entranced in glare 
 and show ; he thought of nothing but places, pensions, 
 titles, retinues ; and steadfast, alert, unshaken to the pur- 
 suit of honours, neglected not the lesser means of rising 
 to preferment — his own endowments. But in this round 
 of attention to pleasures and to study, he no more com- 
 plained to Agnes of " excess of business." Cruel as she 
 had once thought that letter in which he thus apologized 
 for slighting her, she at last began to think it was won- 
 drous kind ; for he never found time to send her another. 
 Yet she had studied with all her most anxious care^to 
 write him an answer ; such a one as might not lessen 
 her understanding, which he had often praised, in his 
 esteem. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 453 
 
 Ah, William ! even with less anxiety your beating, 
 ambitious heart panted for the admiration of an attentive 
 auditory, when you first ventured to harangue in public ! 
 With far less hope and fear (great as yours were) did you 
 first address a crowded court, and thirst for its approbation 
 on your efforts, than Agnes sighed for your approval, when 
 she took a pen and awkwardly scrawled over a sheet of 
 paper. Near twenty times she began — but to a gentleman 
 — and one she loved like William — what could she dare 
 to say? Yet she had enough to tell, if shame had not 
 interposed — or if remaining confidence in his affection had 
 but encouraged her. 
 
 Overwhelmed by the first, and deprived of the last, her 
 hand shook, her head drooped, and she dared not com- 
 municate what she knew must inevitably render her letter 
 unpleasing ; and still more depreciate her in his regard, as 
 the occasion of incumbrance, and of injury to his moral 
 reputation. 
 
 Her free, her liberal, her venturous spirit subdued, in- 
 timidated by the force of affection, she only wrote — 
 
 " Sir, — I am sorry you have so much to do, and should be 
 ashamed if you put it off to write to me. I have not 
 been at all well this winter — I never before passed such a 
 one in all my life, and I hope you will never know such a 
 one yourself in regard to not being happy — I should be 
 sorry if you did — think I would rather go through it again 
 myself than you should. 
 
 " I long for the summer, the fields are so green, and 
 everything so pleasant at that time of the year : I 
 always do long for the summer, but I think never so 
 much in my life as for this that is coming — though 
 sometimes I wish that last summer had never come. 
 
454 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Perhaps you wish so too — and that this summer would not 
 come either. 
 
 " Hope you will excuse all faults, as I never learnt but 
 one month. 
 
 " Your obedient humble servant, 
 
 " A. P." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 455 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Summer arrived — and lords and ladies, who had partaken 
 of all the dissipation of the town, whom opera-houses, 
 gaming-houses, and various other houses, had detained 
 whole nights from their peaceful home, were now poured 
 forth from the metropolis, to inbibe the wholesome air 
 of the farmer and peasant, and disseminate, in return, moral 
 and religious principles. 
 
 Among the rest, Lord and Lady Bendham, strenuous 
 opposers of vice in the poor, and gentle supporters of it 
 in the rich, never played at cards, or had concerts on a 
 Sunday, in the village, where the poor were spies ; he, there, 
 never gamed, nor drank, except in private ; and she banished 
 from her doors every woman of sullied character. Yet 
 poverty and idiotism are not the same : the poor can hear, 
 canjalk, sometimes can reflect ; servants will tell their 
 equals how they live in town ; listeners will smile and shake 
 their heads ; and thus hypocrisy, instead of cultivating 
 destroys every seed of moral virtue. 
 
 The arrival of Lord Bendham's family at Anfield an- 
 nounced to the village that the Dean's would quickly follow. 
 Rebecca's heart bounded with joy at the prospect. Poor 
 Agnes felt a sinking, a foreboding tremour, that wholly 
 interrupted the joy of her expectations. She had not 
 
456 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 heard from William for five tedious months : she did not 
 know whether he loved or despised — whether he thought 
 of or had forgotten her. Her reason argued against the 
 hope that he loved her ; yet hope still subsisted ; she would 
 not abandon herself to despair while there was doubt : 
 she "had frequently been deceived by the appearance of 
 circumstances ; and perhaps he might come all kindness, 
 perhaps even not like her the less for that indisposition 
 which had changed her bloom to paleness, and the spark- 
 ling of her eyes to a pensive languor." 
 
 Henry's sensations, on his return to Anfield, were the 
 self-same as Rebecca's were — sympathy in thought, sym- 
 ^ pathy in affection, sympathy in virtue, made them so. 
 As he approached the little village, he felt more light than 
 usual. He had committed no trespass there, dreaded no 
 person's reproach or inquiries ; but his arrival might prove, 
 at least to one object, the cause of rejoicing. 
 
 William's sensations were the reverse of these. In spite 
 of his ambition, and the flattering view of one day accom- 
 plishing all to which it aspired, he often, as they proceeded 
 on their journey, envied the gaiety of Henry, and felt an 
 •"-^inward monitor, that told him "he must first act like Henry, 
 to be as happy." 
 
 His intended marriage was still, to the families of both 
 parties (except to the heads of the houses) a profound secret. 
 Neither the servants, nor even Henry, had received the 
 slightest intimation of the designed alliance; and this to 
 William was matter of some comfort. 
 
 When men submit to act in contradiction to their prin- 
 i ciples, nothing is so precious as a secret. In their estima- 
 tion, to have their conduct known is the essential mischief; 
 while it is hid, they fancy the sin but half committed ; and 
 to the moiety of a crime they reconcile their feelings, till, in 
 progression, the whole, when disclosed, appears trivial. He 
 
NATURE AND ART. 457 
 
 designed that Agnes should receive the news from himself 
 by degrees, and in such a manner as to console her, or at 
 least to silence her complaints ; and, with a wish to soften 
 the regret which he still felt on the prudent necessity of 
 yielding her wholly up when his marriage should take place, 
 he promised to himself some intervening hours of private 
 meetings, which he hoped would produce satiety. 
 
 While Henry flew to Mr. Rymer's house with a conscience 
 clear, and a face enlightened with gladness ; while he met 
 ; Rebecca with open-hearted friendship and frankness, which 
 charmed her soul to peaceful happiness; William skulked 
 around the cottage of Agnes, dreading detection ; and when, 
 towards midnight, he found the means to obtain the com- 
 pany of the sad inhabitant, he grew so impatient at her 
 tears and sobs, at the delicacy with which she withheld her 
 caresses, that he burst into bitter upbraidings at her coyness, 
 and at length (without discovering the cause of her peculiar 
 agitation and reserve) abruptly left her, vowing " never to 
 see her more." 
 
 As he turned away, his heart even congratulated him 
 "that he had made so discreet a use of his momentary dis- 
 appointment as thus to shake her off at once without farther 
 explanation or excuse." 
 
 She, ignorant and illiterate as she was, knew enough of 
 her own heart to judge of his, and to know that such violent 
 affections and expressions, above all, such a sudden, heart- 
 breaking manner of departure, were not the effects of love, 
 nor even of humanity. She felt herself debased by a ruffian ; 
 yet still, having loved him when she thought him a far dif- 
 ferent character, the blackest proof of the deception could 
 not erase a sentiment formed whilst she was deceived. 
 
 She passed the remainder of the night in anguish; but 
 with the cheerful morning some cheery thoughts consoled 
 her. She thought " perhaps William by this time had found 
 
A 
 
 458 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 himself to blame, and had conceived the cause of her grief 
 and her distant behaviour, and had pitied her." 
 
 The next evening she waited with anxious heart for the 
 signal that had called her out the foregoing night. In vain 
 she watched, counted the hours and the stars, and listened 
 to the nightly stillness of the fields around. They were not 
 disturbed by the tread of her lover. Daylight came; the 
 sun rose in its splendour ; William had not been near her, 
 and it shone upon none so miserable as Agnes. 
 
 She now considered his word, "never to see her more," 
 as solemnly passed. She heard anew the impressive, the 
 implacable tone in which the sentence was pronounced, and 
 could look back on no late token of affection on which to 
 found the slightest hope that he would recall it. 
 
 Still reluctant to despair — in the extremity of grief, in the 
 extremity of fear for an approaching crisis which must 
 speedily arrive — she, after a few days had elapsed, trusted 
 a neighbouring peasant with a letter to deliver to Mr. Nor- 
 wynne in private. 
 
 This letter, unlike the last, was dictated without the hope 
 to please. No pains were taken with the style, no care in 
 the formation of the letters. The words flowed from neces- 
 sity ; strong necessity guided her hand. 
 
 " Sir, — I beg your pardon — pray don't forsake me all at once 
 — see me one time more — I have something to tell you — it is 
 what I dare tell nobody else — and what I am ashamed to tell 
 you — yet pray give me a word of advice — what to do I don't 
 know — I then will part, if you please, never to trouble you, 
 never any more — but hope to part friends — pray do, if you 
 please — and see me one time more. 
 
 "Your obedient, 
 
 "A P " 
 
NATURE AND ART. 459 
 
 These incorrect, inelegant lines produced this immediate 
 reply : — 
 
 "To Agnes Primrose. 
 
 " I have often told you that my honour is as dear to me as 
 my life. My word is a part of that honour— you heard me 
 say / would never see you again. I shall keep my word." 
 
4^0 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 When the Dean's family had been at Anfield about a 
 month, one misty morning, such as portends a sultry day, as 
 Henry was walking swiftly through a thick wood, on the 
 skirts of the parish, he suddenly started on hearing a dis- 
 tant groan, expressive, as he thought, both of bodily and 
 mental pain. He stopped to hear it repeated, that he might 
 pursue the sound. He heard it again ; and though now but 
 in murmurs, yet, as the tone implied excessive grief, he 
 directed his course to that part of the wood from which it 
 came. 
 
 As he advanced, in spite of the thick fog, he discerned the 
 appearance of a female stealing away on his approach. His 
 eye was fixed on this object ; and, regardless where he 
 placed his feet, he soon shrunk back with horror on per- 
 ceiving they had nearly trod on a new-born infant, lying on 
 the ground ! a lovely male child, entered on a world where 
 not one preparation had been made to receive him. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Henry, forgetting the person who had fled, 
 and, with a smile of compassion on the helpless infant, " I 
 am glad I have found you; you give more joy to me than 
 you have done to your hapless parents. Poor dear," con- 
 tinued he, while he took off his coat to wrap it in, " I will 
 take care of you while I live ; I will beg for you rather than 
 you shall want — but first I will carry you to those who can 
 at present do more for you than myself." 
 
 Thus Henry said and thought, while he enclosed the child 
 carefully in his coat, and took it in his arms. But, proceed- 
 
NATURE AND ART. 46 1 
 
 ing to walk his way with it, an unlucky query struck him, 
 where he should go. 
 
 " I must not take it to the Dean's," he cried, " because 
 Lady Clementina will suspect it is not nobly, and my uncle 
 will suspect it is not lawfully, born. Nor must I take it to 
 Lord Bendham's for the self-same reason ; though, could it 
 call Lady Bendham mother, this whole village, nay, the 
 whole country round, would ring with rejoicings for its birth. 
 How strange ! " continued he, " that we should make so little 
 of human creatures, that one sent among us, wholly inde- 
 pendent of his own high value, becomes a curse, instead of 
 a blessing, by the mere accident of circumstances." 
 
 He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through 
 the folds of his coat to look again at his charge. He 
 started, turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the 
 surprise of first seeing the child, had escaped his obser- 
 vation. Around its little throat was a cord, entwined by a 
 slipping noose, and drawn half-way, as if the trembling 
 hand of the murderer had revolted from its dreadful office, 1 $\M 
 and he or she had left the infant to pine away in nakedness ; 
 and hunger rather than see it die. 
 
 Again Henry wished himself joy of the treasure he had 
 found ; and more frequently than before ; for he had not 
 only preserved one fellow-creature from death, but another 
 from murder. 
 
 Once more he looked at his charge, and was transported 
 to observe upon its serene brow and sleepy eye no traces of 
 the dangers it had passed ; no trace of shame, either for 
 itself or its parents ; no discomposure at the unwelcome 
 reception it was likely to encounter from a proud world. 
 He now slipped the fatal string from its neck ; and, by this 
 affectionate disturbance, causing the child to cry, he ran 
 (but he scarcely knew whither) to convey it to a better 
 nurse. 
 
462 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 He at length found himself at the door of his dear 
 Rebecca : for so very happy Henry felt at the good luck 
 which had befallen him, that he longed to bestow a part of 
 the blessing upon her he loved. 
 
 He sent for her privately out of the house, to speak to 
 him. When she came — 
 
 " Rebecca," said he (looking around that no one observed 
 him), — " Rebecca, I have brought you something you will 
 like." 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. 
 
 "You know, Rebecca, that you love deserted birds, 
 strayed kittens, and motherless lambs. I have brought 
 something more pitiable than any of these. Go, get a cap, 
 and a little gown, and then I will give it you." 
 
 " A gown ! " exclaimed Rebecca. " If you have brought 
 me a monkey, much as I should esteem any present from 
 you, indeed I cannot touch it." 
 
 "A monkey!" repeated Henry, almost in anger: then, 
 changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph, " It is 
 a child!" 
 
 On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might con- 
 firm the pleasing truth he spoke. 
 
 " A child ! " repeated Rebecca, in amaze. 
 
 " Yes ; and indeed I found it." 
 
 "Found it!" 
 
 " Indeed I did. The mother, I fear, had just forsaken 
 it." 
 
 " Inhuman creature ! " 
 
 " Nay, hold, Rebecca ! I am sure you will pity her when 
 you see her child ; you then will know she must have loved 
 it ; and you will consider how much she certainly had suf- 
 fered, before she left it to perish in a wood." 
 
 " Cruel ! " once more exclaimed Rebecca. 
 
 " Oh, Rebecca, perhaps, had she possessed a home of her 
 
NATURE AND ART. 463 
 
 own, she would have given it the best place in it ; had she 
 possessed money, she would have dressed it with the nicest 
 care ; or, had she been accustomed to disgrace, she would 
 have gloried in calling it hers ! But now, as it is, it is sent 
 to us — to you and me, Rebecca, to take care of." 
 
 Rebecca, soothed by Henry's compassionate eloquence, 
 held out her arms, and received the important parcel ; and, 
 as she kindly looked in upon the little stranger — 
 
 " Now, are not you much obliged to me," said Henry, 
 " for having brought it to you ? I know no one but yourself 
 to whom I would have trusted it with pleasure." 
 
 " Much obliged to you," repeated Rebecca, with a very 
 serious face, " if I did but know what to do with it — 
 where to put it — where to hide it from my father and 
 sisters." 
 
 " Oh, anywhere," returned Henry. "It is very good 
 — it will not cry. Besides, in one of the distant, unfre- 
 quented rooms of your old abbey, through the thick walls 
 and long gallery, an infant's cry cannot pass. Yet, pray" 
 be cautious how you conceal it; for if it should be dis- 
 covered by your father or sisters, they will take it from you, 
 prosecute the wretched mother, and send the child to the 
 parish." 
 
 " I will do all I can to prevent them," said Rebecca ; " and 
 I think I call to mind a part of the house where it must be 
 safe. I know, too, I can take milk from the dairy, and 
 bread from the pantry, without their being missed, or my 
 father much the poorer. But if " 
 
 That instant they were interrupted by the appearance of 
 the stern curate at a little distance. Henry was obliged to 
 run swiftly away, while Rebecca returned by stealth into the 
 house with her innocent burden. 
 
464 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 There is a word in the vocabulary more bitter, more 
 direful in its import, than all the rest. Reader, if poverty, if 
 disgrace, if bodily pain, even if slighted love be your 
 unhappy fate, kneel and bless Heaven for its beneficent 
 influence^ so that you are not tortured with the anguish of — 
 remorse. 
 
 Deep contrition for past offences had long been the 
 punishment of unhappy Agnes ; but, till the day she brought 
 her child into the world, remorse had been averted. From 
 that day, life became an insupportable load, for all reflection 
 was torture. To think, merely to think, was to suffer excru- 
 ciating agony; yet never before was thought so intrusive; 
 it haunted her in every spot, in all discourse or company ; 
 sleep was no shelter — she never slept but her racking dreams 
 told her — " she had slain her infant." 
 
 They presented to her view the naked innocent whom she 
 had longed to press to her bosom, while she lifted up her 
 hand against its life. They laid before her the piteous babe 
 whom her eye-balls strained to behold once more, while her 
 feet hurried her away for ever. 
 
 Often had Agnes, by the winter's fire, listened to tales of 
 ghosts — of the unceasing sting of a guilty conscience ; often 
 had she shuddered at the recital of murders ; often had she 
 wept over the story of the innocent put to death, and stood 
 aghast that the human mind could premeditate the heinous 
 crime of assassination ! 
 
NATURE AND ART. 465 
 
 From the tenderest passion the most savage impulse may 
 arise ; in the deep recesses of fondness sometimes is im- 
 planted the root of cruelty ; and from loving William with 
 ^unbounded, lawless affection, she found herself depraved so 
 as to become the very object which could most of all excite 
 her own horror. 
 
 Still, at delirious intervals, that passion which, like a fatal 
 talisman, had enchanted her whole soul, held out the delu- 
 sive prospect that " William might yet relent;" for, though 
 she had for ever discarded the hope of peace, she could not 
 force herself to think but that, again blessed with his society, 
 she should, at least for the time that he was present with 
 her, taste the sweet cup of "forgetfulness of the past," for 
 which she so ardently thirsted. 
 
 " Should he return to me," she thought, in those 
 paroxysms of delusion, " I would to him unbosom all my 
 guilt ; and, as a remote, a kind of unwary accomplice in 
 my crime, his sense, his arguments, ever ready in making 
 light of my sins, might afford a respite to my troubled 
 conscience." 
 
 While thus she unwittingly thought, and sometimes 
 watched through the night, starting with convulsed rapture 
 at every sound, because it might possibly be the harbinger 
 of him, he was busied in carefully looking over marriage 
 articles, fixing the place of residence with his destined 
 bride, or making love to her in formal process. Yet, Agnes, 
 vaunt ! He sometimes thought on thee ; he could not wit- 
 ness the folly, the weakness, the vanity, the selfishness, of 
 his future wife, without frequently comparing her with thee. 
 When equivocal words and prevaricating sentences, fell from 
 her lips, he remembered with a sigh thy candour, that open 
 sincerity which dwelt upon thy tongue, and seemed to vie 
 with thy undisguised features to charm the listener, even 
 beyond the spectator. While Miss Sedgeley eagerly 
 H H 
 
466 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 grasped at all the gifts he offered, he could not but call 
 to mind " that Agnes's declining hand was always closed, 
 and her looks forbidding, every time he proffered such 
 disrespectful tokens of his love." He recollected the soft- 
 ness which beamed from her eyes, the blush on her face at 
 his approach, while he could never discern one glance of 
 tenderness from the niece of Lord Bendham ; and the artificial 
 bloom on her cheeks was nearly as disgusting as the ill-con- 
 ducted artifice with which she attempted gentleness and love. 
 
 But all these impediments were only observed as trials of 
 his fortitude; his prudence could overcome his aversion, 
 and thus he valued himself upon his manly firmness. 
 
 'T was now that William, being rid, by the peevishness of 
 Agnes, most honourably of all future ties to her, and the day 
 of his marriage with Miss Sedgeley being fixed, that Henry, 
 with the rest of the house, learnt what to them was news. 
 The first dart of Henry's eye upon his cousin, when, in his 
 presence, he was told of the intended union, caused a 
 reddening on the face of the latter. He always fancied 
 Henry saw his thoughts ; and he knew that Henry in return 
 would give him his. On the present occasion, no sooner 
 were they alone, and Henry began to utter them, than 
 William charged him — 
 
 " Not to dare to proceed ; for that, too long accustomed 
 to trifle, the time was come when serious matters could 
 alone employ his time ; and when men of approved sense 
 must take place of friends and confidants like him." 
 
 Henry replied, " The love, the sincerity of friends, I 
 thought were their best qualities ; these I possess." 
 
 " But you do not possess knowledge." 
 
 "If that be knowledge which has of late estranged you 
 from all who bear you a sincere affection, which imprints 
 every day more and more upon your features the marks 
 of gloomy inquietude, am I not happier in my ignorance ? " 
 
NATURE AND ART. 467 
 
 " Do not torment me with your ineffectual reasoning." 
 
 " I called at the cottage of poor Agnes the other day," 
 returned Henry : "her father and mother were taking their 
 homely meal alone ; and when I asked for their daughter, 
 they wept, and said, ' Agnes was not the girl she had 
 been.' " 
 
 William cast his eyes on the floor. 
 
 Henry proceeded : — " They said a sickness, which they 
 feared would bring her to the grave, had preyed upon her 
 for some time past. They had procured a doctor ; but no 
 remedy was found, and they feared the worst." 
 
 "What worst?" cried William (now recovered from the 
 effect of the sudden intelligence, and attempting a smile), 
 " do they think she will die ? And do you think it will be 
 for- love? We do not hear of these deaths often, Henry." 
 
 "And if she die, who will hear of that? No one but;! 
 those interested to conceal the cause ; and thus it is that 
 dying for love becomes a phenomenon." 
 
 Henry would have pursued the discourse farther ; but 
 William, impatient on all disputes, except where his argu- 
 ment was the better one, retired from the controversy, 
 crying out, " I know my duty, and want no instructor." 
 
 It would be unjust to William to say he did not feel 
 for this reported illness of Agnes : he felt during that 
 whole evening, and part of the next morning ; but busi- 
 ness, pleasures, new occupations, and new schemes of 
 future success, crowded to dissipate all unwelcome reflec- 
 tions ; and he trusted to her youth, her health, her animal 
 spirits, and, above all, to the folly of the gossip's story of 
 dying for love, as a surety for her life, and a safeguard 
 for his conscience. 
 
 H H 2 
 
468 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The child of William and Agnes was secreted, by 
 Rebecca, in a distant chamber belonging to the dreary 
 parsonage, near to which scarcely any part of the family 
 ever went. There she administered to all its wants, visited 
 it every hour of the day, and at intervals, during the night, 
 viewed almost with the joy of a mother its health, its 
 promised life, — and, in a short time, found she loved her 
 little gift better than any thing on earth, except the giver. 
 
 Henry called the next morning, and the next, and many 
 succeeding times, in hopes of an opportunity to speak alone 
 with Rebecca, to inquire concerning her charge, and consult 
 when, and how, he could privately relieve her from her 
 trust, as he now meant to procure a nurse for wages. In 
 vain he called or lurked around the house ; for near five 
 weeks all the conversation he could obtain with her was 
 in the company of her sisters, who, beginning to observe 
 his preference, his marked attention to her, and the languid, 
 half-smothered transport with which she received it, indulged 
 their envy and resentment at the contempt shown to their 
 charms, by watching her steps when he was away, and her 
 every look and whisper while he was present. 
 
 For five weeks, then, he was continually thwarted in his 
 expectation of meeting her alone ; and at the end of that 
 period, the whole design he had to accomplish by such a 
 meeting was rendered abortive. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 469 
 
 Though Rebecca had, with strictest caution, locked the 
 door of the room in which the child was hid, and covered 
 each crevice, and every aperture through which sound 
 might more easily proceed ; though she had surrounded 
 the infant's head with pillows, to obstruct all noise from 
 his crying, yet one unlucky night, the strength of his voice 
 increasing with his age, he was heard by the maid, who 
 slept the nearest to that part of the house. 
 
 Not meaning to injure her young mistress, the servant 
 next morning simply related to the family what sound 5 " 
 had struck her ear during the night, and whence they pre 
 ceeded. At first she was ridiculed "for supposing herseh 
 awake, when in reality she must be dreaming." But stead- 
 fastly persisting in what she had said, and Rebecca's 
 blushes, confusion, and eagerness to prove the maid mis- 
 taken, giving suspicion to her charitable sisters, they 
 watched her the very next time she went by stealth to 
 supply the office of a mother ; and breaking abruptly on 
 her, while feeding and caressing the infant, they instantly 
 concluded it was her own, seized it, and, in spite of her 
 entreaties, carried it down to her father. 
 
 That account which Henry had given Rebecca " of his 
 having found the child," and which her own sincerity, 
 joined to the faith she had in his word, made her receive 
 as truth, she now felt would be heard by the present auditors 
 with contempt, even with indignation, as a falsehood. Her 
 affright is easier conceived than described. 
 
 Accused, and forced by her sisters along with the child 
 before the curate, his attention to their representation, his 
 , crimsoned face, knit brow, and thundering voice, struck 
 with terror her very soul. Innocence is not always a pro- 
 tection against fear — sometimes it is less bold than 
 guilt. 
 
 In her father and sisters she saw, she knew, the sus- 
 
47° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 picious, partial, cruel, boisterous natures by whom she was 
 to be judged ; and timid, gentle, oppressed, she fell trembling 
 on her knees, and could only articulate — 
 
 " Forgive me ! " 
 
 The curate would not listen to this supplication till she 
 had replied to his question, " Whose child is this ? " 
 
 She replied, " I do not know." 
 
 Questioned louder, and with more violence still, " How 
 the child came there, wherefore her affection for it, and 
 whose it was ? " she felt the improbability of the truth still 
 more forcibly than before, and dreaded some immediate 
 peril from her father's rage, should she dare to relate an 
 apparent lie. She paused to think upon a more probable 
 tale than the real one, and as she hesitated, shook in every 
 limb, while her father exclaimed — 
 
 " I understand the cause^of-this terror : it confirms your 
 sisters' fears, and your oWn shame. From your infancy I 
 have predicted that some fatal catastrophe would befall 
 you. I never loved you like my other children — I never 
 had the cause : you were always unlike the rest, and I 
 knew your fate would be calamitous ; but the very worst 
 of my forebodings did not come to this — so young, so guilty, 
 and so artful ! Tell me this instant, are you married ? " 
 
 Rebecca answered, " No." 
 
 The sisters lifted up their hands. 
 
 The father continued — " Vile creature ! I thought as 
 much. Still I will know the father of this child." 
 
 She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and firmly vowed she 
 " did not know herself ; nor who the mother jvvas." 
 
 " This is not to be borne ! " exclaimed the curate in 
 
 fury. " Persist in this, and you shall never see my face 
 
 again. Both your child and you I'll turn out of my house 
 
 . instantly, unless you confess your crime, and own the 
 
 father." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 47 1 
 
 Curious to know this secret, the sisters went up to 
 Rebecca with seeming kindness, and "conjured her to 
 spare her father still greater grief, and her own and her 
 child's public infamy, by acknowledging herself its mother, 
 and naming the man who had undone her." 
 
 Emboldened by this insult from her own sex, Rebecca 
 now began to declare the simple truth. But no sooner had 
 she said, that " the child was presented to her care, by a 
 young man who had found it," than her sisters burst into 
 laughter, and her father into redoubled rage. 
 
 Once more the women offered their advice, "to confess 
 and be forgiven." 
 
 Once more the father raved. 
 
 Beguiled by solicitations, and terrified by threats, like 
 women forme rly accused of witchcraft, and other wretches 
 put to the torture, she thought her present sufferings worse 
 than any that could possibly succeed ; and felt inclined to' 
 confess a falsehood, at which her virtue shrunk, to obtain 
 a momentary respite from reproach ; she felt inclined to 
 take the mother's share of the infant, but was at a loss to 
 whom to give the father's. She thought that Henry had 
 entailed on himself the best right to the charge ; but she 
 loved him, and could not bear the thought of accusing him 
 falsely. 
 
 While, with agitation in the extreme, she thus deliberated, 
 the proposition again was put — 
 
 " Whether she would trust to the mercy of her father by 
 confessing, or draw down his immediate vengeance by 
 denying her guilt?" 
 
 She made choice of the former, and, with tears and sobs, 
 " owned herself the mother of the boy." 
 
 But still— "Who is the father?" 
 
 Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently im- 
 plored "to be spared on that point." 
 
47 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the 
 Curate's rage increased till she acknowledged — 
 
 " Henry was the father." 
 
 " I thought so ! " exclaimed all her sisters at the same 
 time." 
 
 "Villain!" cried the Curate. "The Dean shall know, 
 before this hour is expired, the baseness of the nephew 
 whom he supports upon charity. He shall know the misery, 
 the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how un- 
 worthy he is of his protection." 
 
 " Oh, have mercy on him ! " cried Rebecca, as she still 
 knelt to her father. "Do not ruin him with his uncle, for 
 he is the best of human beings." 
 
 " Ay, ay ; we always saw how much she loved him," cried 
 her sisters. 
 
 " Wicked, unfortunate girl ! " said the clergyman, his rage 
 now subsiding, and tears supplying its place, "you have 
 brought a scandal upon us all. Your sisters' reputation will 
 be stamped with the colour of yours ; my good name will 
 suffer — but that is trivial; your soul is lost to virtue, to 
 religion, to shame " 
 
 " No, indeed! " cried Rebecca : " if you will but believe 
 me." 
 
 " Do not I believe you ? Have not you confessed ? " 
 
 "You will not pretend to unsay what you have said," 
 cried her eldest sister: "that would be making things 
 worse." 
 
 " Go, go out of my sight ! " said her father. " Take your 
 child with you to your chamber, and never let me see either 
 of you again. I do not turn you out of my doors to-day, 
 i because I gave you my word I would not, if you revealed 
 your shame ; but by to-morrow I will provide some place 
 for your reception, where neither I nor any of your relations 
 shall ever see or hear of you again." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 473 
 
 Rebecca made an effort to cling around her father, and 
 once more to declare her innocence ; but her sisters inter- 
 posed, and she was taken, with her reputed son, to the 
 chamber where the Curate had sentenced her to remain, till 
 she quitted his house for ever. 
 
474 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The Curate, in the disorder of his mind, scarcely felt the 
 ground he trod as he hastened to the Dean's house to com- 
 plain of his wrongs. His name procured him immediate 
 admittance into the library; and the moment the Dean 
 appeared the Curate burst into tears. The cause being re- 
 quired of such " very singular marks of grief," Mr. Rymer 
 described himself " as having been, a few moments ago, the 
 happiest of parents ; but that his peace and that of his 
 whole family had been destroyed by Mr. Henry Norwynne, 
 the Dean's nephew." 
 
 He now entered into a minute recital of Henry's frequent 
 visits there, and of all which had occurred in his house that 
 morning — from the suspicion that a child was concealed 
 under his roof, to the confession made by his youngest 
 daughter of her fall from virtue, and of her betrayer's 
 name. 
 
 The Dean was astonished, shocked, and roused to anger. 
 He vented reproaches and menaces on his nephew; and, 
 "blessing himself in a virtuous son, whose wisdom and 
 counsel were his only solace in every care," sent for Wil- 
 liam to communicate with him on this unhappy subject. 
 
 William came, all obedience, and heard, with marks of 
 amazement and indignation, the account of such black 
 villany! /fn perfect sympathy with Mr. Rymer and his 
 father, he allowed "no punishment could be too great for 
 
NATURE AND ART. 475 
 
 the seducer of innocence, the selfish invader of a whole 
 family's repose." / 
 
 Nor did William here speak what he did not think — he 
 merely forgot his own conduct ; or, if he did recall it to his 
 mind, it was with some fair interpretation in his own behalf, 
 such as self-love ever supplies to those who wish to cheat 
 intruding conscience. 
 
 Young Henry being sent for, to appear before this trium- 
 virate, he came with a light step and a cheerful face. But, 
 on the charge against him being exhibited, his countenance 
 changed — yet only to the expression of surprise ! He boldly 
 asserted his innocence, plainly told the real fact, and with a 
 deportment so perfectly unembarrassed that nothing but the 
 asseverations of the Curate " that his daughter had confessed 
 the whole " could have rendered the story Henry told sus- 
 pected ; although some of the incidents he related were of 
 no common kind. But Mr. Rymer's charge was an objection 
 to his veracity too potent to be overcome; and the Dean 
 exclaimed, in anger — 
 
 " We want not your avowal of your guilt — the mother's 
 evidence is testimony sufficient." 
 
 — ii The virtuous Rebecca is not a mother," said Henry, with 
 firmness. 
 
 William here, like Rebecca's sisters, took Henry aside, 
 and warned him not to " add to his offence by denying what 
 was proved against him." 
 
 But Henry's spirit was too manly, his affection too sin- 
 cere, not to vindicate the chastity of her he loved, even at 
 his own peril. He again and again protested "she was 
 virtuous." 
 
 — " Let her instantly be sent for," said the Dean, " and this 
 madman confronted with her." Then adding that, as he 
 wished everything might be conducted with secrecy, he 
 would not employ his clerk on the unhappy occasion, he 
 
47 6 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 desired William to draw up the form of an oath, which he 
 would administer as soon as she arrived. 
 
 A man and horse were immediately despatched to bring 
 Rebecca. William drew up an affidavit as his father had 
 directed him — in Rebecca? s name solemnly protesting she was 
 a mother, and Henry the father of her child — and now the 
 Dean, suppressing till she came the warmth of his displea- 
 sure, spoke thus calmly to Henry : — 
 
 "Even supposing that your improbable tale of having 
 found this child, and all your declarations in respect to it, 
 were true, still you would be greatly criminal. What plea 
 can you make for not having immediately revealed the cir- 
 cumstance to me or some other proper person, that the real 
 mother might have been detected and punished for her de- 
 sign of murder ? " 
 
 " In that, perhaps, I was to blame," returned Henry ; " but 
 whoever the mother was, I pitied her." 
 
 " Compassion on such an occasion was ill-placed," said 
 the Dean. 
 
 "Was I wrong, Sir, to pity the child?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then how could I feel for that, and yet divest myself of 
 all feeling for its mother ? " 
 
 " Its mother! " exclaimed William, in anger; "she ought 
 to have been immediately pursued, apprehended, and cqm- 
 mitted to prison." 
 
 " It struck me, cousin William," replied Henry, " that the 
 father was more deserving of a prison. The poor woman 
 had abandoned only one — the man, in all likelihood, had 
 forsaken two pitiable creatures." 
 
 William was pouring execrations " on the villain, if such 
 there could be," when Rebecca was announced. 
 
 Her eyes were half closed with weeping: deep confusion 
 overspread her face ; and her tottering limbs could hardly 
 
NATURE AND ART. 477 
 
 support her to the awful chamber where the Dean, her 
 father, and William sat in judgment, whilst her beloved 
 Henry stood arraigned as a culprit, by her false evidence. 
 
 Upon her entrance, her father first addressed her, and 
 said, in a stern, threatening, yet feeling tone — 
 
 " Unhappy girl, answer me before all present — Have you, 
 or have you not, owned yourself a mother ?" 
 
 She replied, stealing a fearful look at Henry, " I have." 
 " And have you not," asked the Dean, "owned that Henry 
 Norwynne is the father of your child?" 
 
 She seemed as if she wished to expostulate. 
 The Curate raised his voice, — " Have you, or have you 
 not?" 
 
 " I have," she faintly replied. 
 
 "Then, here," cried the Dean to William, "read that 
 paper to her, and take the Bible." 
 
 William read the paper, which, in her name, declared a 
 momentous falsehood : he then held the book in form, while 
 she looked like one distracted — wrung her hands, and was 
 near sinking to the earth. 
 
 At the moment when the book was lifted up to her lips to 
 kiss, Henry rushed to her — 
 
 " Stop ! " he cried, " Rebecca, do not wound your future 
 peace. I plainly see under what prejudices you have been 
 accused, under what fears you have fallen. But do not be 
 terrified into the commission of a\crime which hereafter will 
 distract your delicate conscience. My requesting you of your 
 father for my wife, will satisfy his scruples, prevent your 
 oath — and here I make the demand." 
 
 " He at length confesses ! Surprising audacity ! Com- 
 plicated villany ! " exclaimed the Dean; then added, "Henry 
 Norwynne, your first guilt is so enormous — your second, 
 in steadfastly denying it, so base — this last conduct so 
 audacious — that, from the present hour, you must never 
 
47 8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 dare to call me relation, or to consider my house as your 
 home." 
 
 William, in unison with his father, exclaimed — 
 
 " Indeed, Henry, your actions merit this punishment." 
 
 Henry answered with firmness — 
 
 " Inflict what punishment you please." 
 
 "With the Dean's permission, then," said the curate, 
 " you must marry my daughter." 
 
 Henry started — 
 
 " Do you pronounce that as a punishment ? It would be 
 the greatest blessing Providence could bestow. But, how 
 are we to live ! My uncle is too much offended ever to be 
 my friend again ; and, in this country, persons of a certain 
 class are so educated, they cannot exist without the assist- 
 ance, or, what is called the patronage, of others : when 
 that is withheld, they steal or starve. Heaven protect 
 Rebecca from such misfortune ! Sir " (to the Curate), " do 
 you but consent to support her only a year or two longer, 
 and in that time I will learn some occupation that shall 
 raise me to the position of maintaining both her and myself 
 without one obligation, or one inconvenience, to a single 
 being." 
 
 Rebecca exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, you have saved me from such a weight of sin, that 
 my future life would be too happy, passed as yjDUj-_slaye." 
 
 " No, my dear Rebecca, return to your father's house, 
 return to slavery but for a few years more, and the rest of 
 your life I will make free." 
 
 "And can you forgive me ?" 
 
 " I can love you ; and in that is comprised e verything t hat 
 iskind.," 
 
 The Curate, who, bating a few passions and a few preju- 
 dices, was a man of some worth and feeling, felt, in the 
 midst of her distress, though the result of supposed crimes, 
 
NATURE AND ART. 479 
 
 that he loved this neglected daughter better than he had 
 before conceived; and he now agreed "to take her home for 
 a time, provided she were relieved from the child, and the 
 matter so hushed up, that it might draw no imputation upon 
 the characters of his other daughters." 
 
 ""The Dean did not degrade his consequence by consulta- 
 1 tions of this nature ; but, having penetrated (as he imagined) 
 J into the very bottom of this intricate story, and issued his 
 mandate against Henry, as a mark that he took no further 
 concern in the matter, he proudly walked out of the room, 
 without uttering another word. 
 
 William as proudly and silently followed. 
 
 The Curate was inclined to adopt the manners of such 
 great examples ; but self-interest, some affection to Rebecca, 
 and concern for the character of his family, made him wish 
 to talk a little more with Henry; who now repeated what he 
 had said respecting his marriage with Rebecca, and pro- 
 mised " to come the very next day, in secret, and deliver her 
 from the care of the infant, and the suspicion that would 
 attend her nursing it." 
 
 " But, above all," said the Curate, " procure your uncle's 
 pardon ; for, without that, without his protection, or the 
 protection of some other rich man, to marry, to obey God's 
 ordinance, increase and multiply, is to want food for your- 
 self and your offspring." 
 
480 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Though this unfortunate occurrence in the Curate's 
 family was, according to his own phrase, "to be hushed 
 up," yet certain persons of his, of the Dean's, and of Lord 
 Bendham's house, immediately heard and talked of it. 
 Among these, Lady Bendham was most of all shocked and 
 offended : she said she never could bear to hear Mr. Rymer 
 either pray or preach again. He had not conducted him- 
 self with proper dignity, either as a clergyman or a father : 
 he should have imitated the Dean's example in respect to 
 Henry, and have turned his daughter out of doors." 
 
 Lord Bendham was less severe on the seduced, but had 
 no mercy on the seducer — "A vicious youth, without one 
 accomplishment to endear vice." For vice, Lord Bendham 
 thought (with certain philosophers), might be most exqui- 
 sitely pleasing, in a pleasing garb. " But this youth sinned 
 without elegance, without one particle of wit, or an atom of 
 good breeding." 
 
 Lady Clementina would not permit the subject to be 
 mentioned a second time in her hearing — extreme delicacy 
 in woman she knew was bewitching ; and the delicacy she 
 displayed on this occasion went so far, that she " could not 
 even intercede with the Dean to forgive his nephew, because 
 the topic was too gross for her lips to name, even in the ear 
 of her husband." 
 
 Miss Sedgeley, though on the very eve of her bridal-day 
 with William, felt so tender a regard for Henry, that often 
 
NATURE AND ART. 48 1 
 
 she thought " Rebecca happier in disgrace and poverty, 
 blest with the love of him, than she was likely to be in the 
 possession of friends and fortune with his cousin." 
 
 Had Henry been of a nature to suspect others of evil, or 
 had he felt a confidence in his own worth, such a passion as 
 this young woman's would soon have disclosed its existence 
 to him; but he, regardless of any attractions of Miss 
 Sedgeley, equally supposed he had none in her eyes ; and 
 thus, fortunately, for the peace of all parties, this prepos- 
 session ever remained a secret, except to herself. 
 
 So little did William conceive that his clownish cousin 
 could rival him in the affections of a woman of fashion, that 
 he even slightly solicited his father " that Henry might not 
 be banished from the house at least till after the following 
 day, when the great festival of his marriage was to be cele- 
 brated." 
 
 But the Dean refused, and reminded his son, " that he 
 was bound, both by his moral and religious character, in the 
 eyes of God, and still more in the eyes of men, to show 
 lasting resentment of iniquity like his." 
 
 William acquiesced, and immediately delivered to his 
 cousin the Dean's "wishes for his amendment," and a 
 letter of recommendation procured from Lord Bendham, to 
 introduce him on board a man-of-war ; where, he was told, 
 he might hope to meet with preferment, according to his 
 merit, as a sailor and a gentleman. 
 
 Henry pressed William's hand on parting, wished him 
 happy in his marriage, and supplicated, as the only favour 
 he would implore, an interview with his uncle, to thank him 
 for all his former kindness, and to see him for the last 
 time. 
 
 William repeated this petition to his father, but with so 
 little energy, that the Dean did not grant it. He felt him- 
 self, he said, compelled to resent that reprobate character 
 
 I I 
 
482 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 in which Henry had appeared ; and he feared, " lest the 
 remembrance of his last parting from his brother might, on 
 taking a formal leave of that brother's son, reduce him to 
 some tokens of weakness, that would ill become his dignity 
 and just displeasure. 
 
 He sent him his blessing, with money to convey him to 
 the ship ; and Henry quitted his uncle's house in a flood of 
 tears, to obtain first a new protectress for his little foundling, 
 and then to seek his fortune. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 483 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 The wedding-day of Mr. William Norwynne and Miss 
 Caroline Sedgeley arrived : and, on that day, the bells of 
 every parish surrounding that in which they lived joined with 
 their own in celebration of the blissful union. Flowers 
 were strewed before the new-married pair, and favours and 
 ale made many a heart more gladsome than that of either 
 bridegroom or bride. 
 
 Upon this day of ringing and rejoicing, the bells were 
 not muffled, nor was conversation on the subject withheld 
 from the ear of Agnes. She heard like her neighbours ; 
 and, sitting on the side of her bed in her little chamber, 
 suffered, under the cottage roof, as much affliction as ever 
 visited a palace. 
 
 Tyrants, who have imbrued their hands in the blood of 
 myriads of their fellow-creatures, can call their murders 
 "religion, justice, attention to the good of mankind." Poor 
 Agnes knew no sophistiy to calm her sense of guilt ; she 
 felt herself a harlot and a murderer ; a slighted, a deserted 
 wretch, bereft of all she loved in this world, all she could 
 hope for in the next. 
 
 She complained bitterly of illness, nor could the entreaties 
 of her father and mother prevail on her to share in the 
 sports of this general holiday. As none of her humble 
 visitors suspected the cause of her more than ordinary in- 
 disposition, they endeavoured to divert it with an account 
 1 1 2 
 
484 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 of everything they had seen at church — " what the bride 
 wore — how joyful the bridegroom looked" — and all the 
 seeming signs of that complete happiness which they con- 
 ceived was for certain tasted. 
 
 Agnes, who, before this event, had at moments suppressed 
 the agonising sting of self-condemnation, in the faint 
 prospect of her lover, one day restored, on this memorable 
 occasion lost every glimpse of hope, and was weighed to 
 the earth with an accumulation of despair. 
 
 Where is the degree in which the sinner stops? Un- 
 happy Agnes ! the first time you permitted indecorous 
 familiarity from a man who made you no promise, who 
 gave you no hope of becoming his wife, who professed 
 nothing beyond those fervent, though slender, affections 
 which attach the rake to the wanton ; the first time you 
 interpreted his kind looks and ardent prayers into tender- 
 ness and constancy ; the first time you descended from the 
 character of purity, you rushed imperceptibly on the 
 blackest crimes. The more sincerely you loved, the more 
 you plunged in danger : from one ungoverned passion pro- 
 ceeded a second and a third. In the fervency of affection 
 you yielded up your virtue ! In the excess of fear, you 
 stained your conscience with the intended murder of your 
 child ! and now, in the violence of grief you meditate — 
 what? — to put an end to your existence by your own 
 I hand ! 
 
 After casting her thoughts around, anxious to find some 
 little bud of comfort on which to fix her longing eye, she 
 beheld, in the total loss of William, nothing but a wide 
 waste, an extensive plain of anguish. " How am I to be 
 sustained through this dreary journey of life ? " she ex- 
 claimed. Upon this question she felt, more poignantly 
 than ever, her loss of innocence : innocence would have 
 been her support ; but, in place of this best prop to the 
 
NATURE AND ART. 485 
 
 afflicted, guilt flashed on her memory every time she flew 
 for aid to reflection. 
 
 At length, from horrible rumination, a momentary alle- 
 viation came: — "But one more step in wickedness," she 
 triumphantly said, " and all my shame, all my sufferings are 
 over." She congratulated herself upon the lucky thought ; 
 when, but an instant after, the tears trickled down her 
 face for the sorrow her death, her sinful death, would bring 
 to her poor and beloved parents. She then thought upon 
 the probability of a sigh it might draw from William : and 
 the pride, the pleasure of that little tribute, counterpoised 
 every struggle on the side of life. 
 
 As she saw the sun decline, " When you rise again," she 
 thought, "when you peep bright to-morrow morning into 
 this little room to call me up, I shall not be here to open my 
 eyes upon a hateful day — I shall no more regret that you 
 have waked me ! I shall be sound asleep, never to wake 
 again in this wretched world — not even the voice of William 
 would then arouse me." 
 
 While she found herself resolved, and evening just come 
 on, she hurried out of the house, and hastened to the fatal 
 wood ; the scene of her dishonour — the scene of intended 
 murder — and now the meditated scene of suicide. 
 
 As she walked along between the close-set trees, she saw, 
 at a little distance, the spot where William first made love 
 to her ; and where, at every appointment, he used to wait 
 her coming. She darted her eye away from this place with 
 horror ; but, after a few moments of emotion, she walked 
 slowly up to it — shed tears, and pressed with her trembling 
 lips the tree, against which he was accustomed to lean while 
 he talked with her. She felt an inclination to make this the 
 spot to die in ; but her preconcerted plan of the less frightful 
 death, of leaping into a pool on the other side of the wood, 
 induced her to go onwards. 
 
486 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Presently, she came near the place where her child, and 
 William 'j, was exposed to perish. Here she started with 
 a sense of the most atrocious guilt ; and her whole frame 
 shook with the dread of an approaching, an omnipotent 
 Judge, to sentence her for murder. 
 
 She halted, appalled, aghast ! undetermined whether to 
 exist longer beneath the pressure of a criminal conscience 
 or die that very hour, and meet her final condemna- 
 tion. 
 
 She proceeded a few steps farther, and beheld the very 
 ivy-bush close to which her infant lay, when she left him 
 exposed : and now, from this minute recollection, all the 
 mother rising in her soul, she saw, as it were, her babe again 
 in its deserted state ; and, bursting into tears of bitterest 
 contrition and compassion, she cried — 
 
 " As I was merciless to thee, my child, thy father has been 
 pitiless to me / As I abandoned thee to die with cold and 
 hunger, he has forsaken, and has driven me to die by 
 self-slaughter." 
 
 She now fixed her eager eyes on the distant pond, and 
 walked more nimbly than before, to rid herself of her 
 agonising sensations. 
 
 Just as she had nearly reached the wished-for brink, 
 she heard a footstep, and saw, by the glimmering of a 
 clouded moon, a man approaching. She turned out of her 
 path, for fear her intentions should be guessed at, and 
 opposed ; but still, as she walked another way, her eye was 
 wishfully bent towards the water that was to obliterate her 
 love and her remorse — obliterate, for ever, William and his 
 child. 
 
 It was now that Henry, who, to prevent scandal, had 
 stolen at that still hour of the night to rid the curate of the 
 incumbrance so irksome to him, and take the foundling to a 
 woman whom he had hired for the charge : it was now that 
 
NATURE AND ART. ' 487 
 
 Henry came up, with the child of Agnes in his arms care- 
 fully covered all over from the night's dew. 
 
 "Agnes, is it you?" cried Henry, at a little distance. 
 " Where are you going thus late ?" 
 
 " Home, Sir," said she, and rushed among the trees. 
 
 " Stop, Agnes," he cried : " I want to bid you farewell : 
 to-morrow I am going to leave this part of the country for a 
 long time. So God bless you, Agnes ! " Saying this, he 
 stretched out his arm to shake her by the hand. 
 
 Her poor heart trusting that his blessing, for want of more 
 potent offerings, might perhaps, at this tremendous crisis, 
 ascend to Heaven in her behalf, she stopped, returned, and 
 put out her hand to take his. 
 
 " Softly ! " said he ; " don't wake my child. This spot has 
 been a place of danger to him ; for underneath this very ivy- 
 bush it was that I found him." 
 
 " Found what ? " cried Agnes, with a voice elevated to a 
 tremendous scream. 
 
 " I will not tell you the story," replied Henry; "for no one 
 I have ever yet told of it would believe me." 
 
 " I will believe you, — I will believe you," she repeated, 
 with tones yet more impressive. 
 
 "Why, then," said Henry, "only five weeks ago " 
 
 "Ah ! " shrieked Agnes. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Henry. 
 
 " Go on," she articulated, in the same voice. 
 
 " Why, then, as I was passing this very place, I wish I 
 may never speak truth again if I did not find " — (here he 
 pulled aside the warm rug in which the infant was wrapt — 
 " this beautiful child." 
 
 "With a cord?" 
 
 " A cord was round its neck." 
 
 " Tis mine — the child is mine — 'tis mine — my child — I am 
 the mother and the murderer — I fixed the cord, while the 
 
NATURE AND ART. 
 
 ground shook under me — while flashes of fire darted before 
 my eyes — while my heart was bursting with despair and 
 horror ! But I stopped short — I did not draw the noose — I had 
 a moment of strength, and I ran away. I left him living — 
 he is living now — escaped from my hands — and I am no 
 longer ashamed, but overcome with joy that he is mine ! I 
 bless you, my dear, my dear, for saving his life — for giving 
 him to me again — for preserving my life as well as my 
 child's." 
 
 Here she took her infant, pressed it to her lips and to her 
 bosom ; then bent to the ground, clasped Henry's knees, and 
 wept upon his feet. 
 
 He could not for a moment doubt the truth of what she 
 said. Her powerful, yet broken accents, her convulsive 
 embraces of the child, even more than her declaration, 
 convinced him she was its mother. 
 
 "Good Heaven !" cried Henry; "and this is my cousin 
 William's child ! " 
 
 " But your cousin does not know it," said she. " I never 
 told him — he was not kind enough to embolden me ; there- 
 fore do not blame him for_#gj^_sjn : __Jile_^ 
 my wicked designs — he did not encourage me " 
 
 " But he forsook you, Agnes." 
 
 " He never said he would not. He always told me he 
 could not marry me." 
 
 " Did he tell you so at his first private meeting ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor at the second ? " 
 
 " No ; nor yet at the third." 
 
 " When was it he told you so ? " 
 
 "J[_ forget the exact time; but I remember it was on that 
 very evening when I confessed to him " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That he had won my heart." 
 
V 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 489 
 
 " Why did you confess it ? " 
 
 " Because he asked me, and said it would make him 
 happy if I would say so." 
 
 " Cruel ! Dishonourable ! " 
 
 " Nay, do not blame him. He cannot help not loving me, 
 no more than I can help loving him." 
 
 Henry rubbed his eyes. 
 
 " Bless, me, you weep ! I always heard that you were 
 brought up in a savage country ; but I suppose it is a mis- 
 take. It was your cousin William." 
 
 "Will you not apply to him for the support of your 
 child ? " asked Henry. 
 
 " If I thought he would not be angry." 
 
 "Angry! I will write to him on the subject, if you will 
 give me leave." 
 
 " But do not say it is by my desire. Do not say I wish to 
 trouble him. I would sooner beg than be a trouble to him." 
 
 " Why are you so delicate ? " 
 
 " It is for my own sake — I wish him not to hate me." 
 
 " Then thus you may secure his respect. I will write to 
 him, and let him know all the circumstances of your case. I 
 will plead for his compassion on his child, but assure him 
 that no conduct of his will ever induce you to declare (ex- 
 cept only to me, who knew of your previous acquaintance) 
 who is the father." 
 
 To this she consented ; but when Henry offered to take 
 from her the infant, and carry him to the nurse he had en- 
 gaged, to this she would not consent. 
 
 "Do you mean, then, to acknowledge him yours ?" Henry 
 asked. 
 
 " Nothing shall force me to part from him again. I will 
 keep him, and let my neighbours judge of me as they 
 
 ease." 
 . 'Here Henry caught at a hope he feared to name before. 
 
 Pi 
 
490 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 You will, then, have no objection," said he, "to clear an 
 unhappy girl to a few friends, with whom her character has 
 suffered by becoming, at my request, his nurse ? " 
 
 " I will clear any one, so that I do not accuse the father." 
 
 " You give me leave, then, in your name, to tell the whole 
 story to some particular friends, my cousin William's part in 
 it alone excepted?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 Henry now exclaimed, " God bless you ! " with greater 
 fervour than when he spoke it before ; and he now hoped 
 the night was nearly gone, that the time might be so much 
 the shorter before Rebecca should be reinstated in the 
 esteem of her father, and of all those who had misjudged 
 her. 
 
 "God bless you/" said Agnes, still more fervently, as she 
 walked with unguided steps towards her home ; for her eyes 
 never wandered from the precious object which caused her 
 unexpected return. 
 
NATURE AND ART 49 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Henry rose early in the morning, and flew to the Curate's 
 house, with more than even his usual thirst of justice, to 
 clear injured innocence— to redeem from shame her whom 
 he loved. With eager haste he told that he had found the 
 mother, whose fall from virtue Rebecca, overcome by con- 
 fusion and threats, had taken on herself. 
 
 Rebecca rejoiced; but her sisters shook their heads, and 
 even the father seemed to doubt. 
 
 Confident in the truth of his story, Henry persisted so 
 boldly in his affirmations that, if Mr. Rymer did not entirely 
 believe what he said, he sincerely hoped that the Dean and 
 other people might ; therefore he began to imagine he could 
 possibly cast from his family the present stigma, whether or 
 no it belonged to any other. 
 
 No sooner was Henry gone than Mr. Rymer waited on 
 the Dean to report what he had heard; and he frankly 
 attributed his daughter's false confession to the compulsive 
 methods he had adopted in charging her with the offence. 
 Upon this statement, Henry's love to her was also a so- 
 lution of his seemingly inconsistent conduct on that singular 
 occasion. 
 
 The Dean immediately said, " I will put the matter be- 
 yond all doubt ; for I will this moment send for the present 
 reputed mother; and, if she acknowledges the child, I will 
 instantly commit her to prison for the attempt of putting it 
 to death." 
 
49 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 The Curate applauded the Dean's sagacity. A warrant 
 was issued, and Agnes brought prisoner before the grand- 
 father of her child. 
 
 She appeared astonished at the peril in which she found 
 herself. Confused, also, with a thousand inexpressible sen- 
 sations which the Dean's presence inspired, she seemed to 
 prevaricate in all she uttered. 
 
 Accused of this prevarication, she was still more discon- 
 certed ; said, and unsaid ; confessed herself the mother of 
 the infant ; but declared she did not know, then owned she 
 I did know, the name of the man who had undone her, but 
 would never utter it. At length she cast herself on her 
 knees before the father of her betrayer, and supplicated " he 
 would not punish her with severity, as she most penitently 
 confessed her fault, so far as it related to herself." 
 
 While Mr. and Mrs. Norwynne, just entered on the 
 /honeymoon, were sitting side by side, enjoying, with peace 
 | and with honour, conjugal society, poor Agnes, threatened, 
 | reviled, and sinking to the dust, was hearing from the mouth 
 of William's father, the enormity of those crimes to which 
 his son had been accessoryT) She saw the mittimus written 
 that was to convey her into a prison — saw herself delivered 
 once more into the hands of constables, before her resolution 
 left her of concealing the name of William in her story. 
 She now, overcome with affright, and thinking she should 
 expose him still more in a public court, if, hereafter on her 
 trial, she should be obliged to name him — she now humbly 
 asked the Dean to hear a few words she had to say in 
 private ; where she promised she would speak nothing but 
 the truth. — - 
 
 " This was impossible," he said. " No private confessions 
 before a magistrate. All must be done openly." 
 
 She urged again and again the same request. It was 
 denied more peremptorily than at first. On which she 
 said — 
 
NATURE AND ART. 493 
 
 " Then, Sir, forgive me, since you force me to it, if I speak 
 before Mr. Rymer and these men, what I would for ever have 
 kept a secret if I could. One of your family is my child's 
 father." 
 
 "Any of my servants?" cried the Dean. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " My nephew ?" 
 
 " No : one who is nearer still." 
 
 """ Come this way," said the Dean ; " I will speak to you 
 in private." v_ 
 
 It was not that the Dean, as a magistrate, distributed 
 partial decrees of pretended justice — he was rigidly faithful 
 to his trust. He would not inflict punishment on the^inno- 
 cent, nor let the' guilty escapel"~b^tpih^It^aTticulars of 
 refined or coarse treatment, he would alleviate or aggravate 
 according to the rank of the offender. He could not feel 
 that a secret was of equal importance to a poor as to a rich 
 person ; and while Agnes gave no intimation but that her 
 delicacy arose from fears for herself, she did not so forcibly 
 impress him with an opinion that it was a case which had 
 weighty cause for a private conference, as when she boldly 
 said, " A part of his family, very near to him, was concerned 
 in her tale." 
 
 The final result of their conversation, in an adjoining 
 room, was a charge from the Dean, in the words of Mr. 
 Rymer, "to hush the affair up;" and his promise that the 
 infant should be immediately taken from her, and that " she 
 should have no more trouble with it." 
 
 " I have no trouble with it," replied Agnes ; " my child is 
 now all my comfort ; and I cannot part from it." 
 
 " Why, you inconsistent woman, did you not attempt to 
 murder it?" 
 
 " That was before I had nursed it." 
 
 " 'T is necessary you should give it up. It must be sent 
 
494 
 
 NATURE AXD ART. 
 
 some miles away ; and then the whole circumstances will be 
 soon forgotten." 
 
 "/shall never forget it." 
 
 " Xo matter; you must give up the child. Do not some 
 of our first women of quality part with their children ?" 
 
 " Women of quality have other things to love : I have 
 nothing else/'* 
 
 "An d w ould you occasion my son and his new-made 
 bride, the shame and the uneasiness " 
 
 Here Agnes burst into a flood of tears; and being angrily 
 asked by the Dean, " why she blubbered so ?" 
 
 "/have had shame and uneasiness,*' she replied, wringing 
 her hands. 
 
 " And you deserve them. They are the sure attendants 
 of crimes such as yours. If you allured and entrapped a 
 young man like my son " 
 
 " I am the youngest by five years." said Agnes. 
 
 "Well, well, repent," returned the Dean; "repent, and 
 resign your child. Repent, and you may yet marry an 
 honest man, who knows nothing of the matter." 
 
 "And repenTTorrf^asked; Agnes:"" 
 
 Not the insufferable ignorance of young Henry, when he 
 first came to England, was more vexatious or provoking to 
 the Dean than the rustic_simplicity of poor Agnes's uncul- 
 tured replies. He, at last, in an offen^decT^andTHetermined 
 manner, told her, " That, if she would resign the child, and 
 keep the father's name a secret, not only the child should be 
 taken care of, but she, herself might, perhaps, receive some 
 favours ; but if she persisted in her imprudent folly, she 
 must expect no consideration on her own account ; nor 
 should she be allowed for the maintenance of the boy. a 
 sixpence beyond the stated sum for a poor man's unlawful 
 offspring." Agnes, resolving not to be separated from her 
 infant, bowed resignation to this last decree ; and, terrified 
 
NATURE AND ART. 495 
 
 at the loud words and angry looks of the Dean, after being 
 regularly discharged, stole to her home ; where the smiles of 
 her infant, and the caresses she lavished on it, repaid her for 
 the sorrows she had just suffered for its sake. 
 
 Let it here be observed, that the Dean, on suffering Agnes 
 to depart, without putting in force the law against her, as he 
 had threatened, did nothing, as it were, behind the curtain. 
 He openly and candidly owned, on his return to Mr. Rymer, 
 his clerk, and the two constables who were attending, " that 
 an affair of some little gallantry, in which, he was extremely 
 sorry to say, his son was rather too nearly involved, required, 
 in consideration of his recent marriage, and an excellent 
 young woman's (his bride's) happiness, that what had oc- 
 curred should not be publicly talked of ; therefore, he had 
 thought proper only to reprimand the hussy, and send her 
 about her business." 
 
 The Curate assured the Dean, "that upon this, and upon 1 
 all other occasions, which should, would, or cotdd occur, 
 he owed to his judgment, as his superior, implicit obe- 
 dience." 
 
 The clerk and the two constables most properly said, 
 " His honour was a gentleman, and, of course, must know 
 better how to act than they." 
 
496 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The pleasure of a mother, which Agnes experienced, did 
 not make her insensible to the sorrow of a daughter. 
 
 Her parents had received the stranger child, along with a 
 fabricated tale she told " of its appertaining to another," 
 without the smallest suspicion ; but, by the secret diligence 
 of the Curate, and the nimble tongues of his elder daughters, 
 the report of all that had passed on the subject of this un- 
 fortunate infant soon circulated through the village; and 
 Agnes, in a few weeks, had seen her parents pine away-in- 
 grief and shame at her loss of virtue. 
 
 She perceived her neighbours avoid, or openly sneer at 
 her; but that was little; she saw them slight her aged 
 father and mother upon her account : and she now took 
 the resolution rather to perish for want in another part of 
 the country, than live where she was known, and so entail 
 an infamy upon the few who loved her. She slightly hoped, 
 too, that by disappearing from the town and neighbourhood, 
 some little reward might be allowed her, for her banish- 
 ment, by the Dean's family. In that she was deceived. No 
 sooner was she gone, indeed, than her guilt was forgotten ; 
 but with her guilt her wants. The Dean and his family 
 rejoiced at her and her child's departure : but, as the mode 
 she had chosen chanced to be no specified condition in 
 the terms proposed to her, they did not think they were 
 bound to pay her for it ; an<f while she was too fearful and 
 bashful to solicit the Dean, and too proud (forlorn as she 
 
NATURE AND ART. 497 
 
 was) to supplicate his son, they both concluded she " wanted 
 for nothing;" for to be poor, and too delicate to complain, 
 they deemed incompatible. 
 f^ To heighten the sense of her degraded, friendless situa- 
 \ tion, she knew that Henry had not been unmindful of his 
 promise to her, but that he had applied to his cousin in 
 her and his child's behalf; for he had acquainted her that 
 William's answer was — "All obligations on his part were 
 now undertaken by his father; for that Agnes, having 
 chosen (in a fit of malignity upon his marriage) to apprise the 
 Dean of their former intercourse, such conduct had for ever 
 cancelled all attention due from him to her, or to her child, 
 beyond what its bare maintenance exacted." 
 
 In vain had Henry explained to him, by a second ap- 
 plication, the predicament in which poor Agnes was in- 
 
 father : William was happy in an excuse to rid himself 
 of a burden ; and he seemed to believe, what he wished 
 to be true, that she had forfeited all claim to his further 
 notice. 
 
 Henry informed her of this unkind reception of his 
 efforts in her favour, in as gentle terms as possible, for 
 she excited his deepest compassion. Perhaps our own 
 misfortunes are the cause of our pity for others, even 
 more than their ills ; and Henry's present sorrows had 
 softened his heart to peculiar sympathy in woe. He had 
 unhappily found, that the ardour which had hurried him to 
 vindicate the reputation of Rebecca was likely to deprive 
 him of the blessing of her ever becoming his wife ; for 
 the Dean, chagrined that his son was at length proved an 
 offender instead of his nephew, submitted to the tempta- 
 tion of punishing the latter, while he forgave the former. 
 ifev He sent for Henry, and having coldly congratulated him 
 on his and Rebecca's innocence, represented to him the 
 
 K K 
 
49 8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 impropriety of marrying the daughter of a poor curate, 
 and laid his commands on him "never to harbour such 
 an intention more." Henry found this restriction so severe, 
 that he would not promise obedience ; but on his next 
 attempt to visit Rebecca, he met a positive repulse from 
 her father, who signified to him, "that the Dean had for- 
 bidden him to permit their farther acquaintance ; " and the 
 curate declared, "that, for his own part, he had no will, 
 
 (judgment, or faculties, but that he submitted in all things to 
 the superior clergy." 
 
 At the very time young Henry had received the proposal 
 from Mr. Rymer, of his immediate union with his daughter, 
 and the Dean had made no objection, Henry waived the 
 happiness for the time present, and had given a reason 
 why he wished it postponed. The reason he then gave 
 had its weight ; but he had another concealed, of yet more 
 import. Much as he loved, and looked forward with rapture 
 to that time when every morning, every evening, and all the 
 day, he should have the delight of Rebecca's society, still 
 there was one other wish nearer his heart than this one 
 desire, which, for years, had been foremost in his thoughts, 
 and which not even love could eradicate : — he longed, he 
 pined to know what fate had befallen his father. Provided 
 he were living, he could conceive no joy so great as that 
 of seeing him : if he were dead, he was anxious to pay 
 the tribute of filial piety he owed, by satisfying his 
 affectionate curiosity in every circumstance of the sad 
 event. 
 
 While a boy, he had frequently expressed these sentiments 
 o both his uncle and his cousin ; sometimes they apprised 
 him of the total improbability of accomplishing his wishes ; 
 at other times, when they saw the disappointment weigh 
 heavy on his mind, they bade him "wait till he was a man, 
 before he could hope to put his designs in execution." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 499 
 
 He did wait. But on the very day he arrived at the 
 age of twenty-one, he made a vow, "that to gain intelli- 
 gence of his father should be the first important act of his 
 free will." 
 
 Previously to this time, he had made all the inquiries 
 possible, whether any new adventure to that part of Africa 
 in which he was bred was likely to be undertaken. Of 
 this there appeared to be no prospect, till the intended ex- 
 pedition to Sierra Leone was announced, and which favoured 
 his hope of being able to procure a passage among those 
 adventurers, so near to the island on which his father was 
 (or had been) prisoner, as to obtain an opportunity of visit- 
 ing it by stealth. 
 
 Fearing contention, or the being dissuaded from his 
 plans if he communicated them, he not only formed them 
 in private, but he kept them secret ; and his imagination 
 filled with the kindness, the tenderness, the excess of fond- 
 ness he had experienced from his father, beyond any other 
 person in the world, he had thought with delight on the 
 separation from all his other kindred, to pay his duty to 
 him, or to his revered memoiy. Of late, indeed, there 
 had been a -person introduced to his acquaintance, from 
 whom it was bitter to part ; but his designs had been 
 planned and firmly fixed before he knew Rebecca ; nor 
 could he have tasted contentment even with her, at the 
 expense of his piety to his father. 
 
 In the last interview he had with the Dean, Henry, per- 
 ceiving that his disposition towards him was not less harsh 
 than when, a few days before, he had ordered him on 
 board a vessel, found this the proper time to declare his 
 intentions of accompanying the fleet to Sierra Leone. His 
 uncle expessed surprise : but immediately gave him a sum 
 of money, in addition to that he had sent him before, and 
 as much as he thought might defray his expenses ; and 
 K K 2 
 
5 CO NATURE AND ART. 
 
 as he gave it, by his willingness, his look, and his accent, 
 he seemed to say, " I foresee this is the last you will ever 
 require." 
 
 Young William, though a very dutiful son, was amazed 
 when he heard of Henry's project, as "the serious and 
 settled resolution of a man." 
 
 Lady Clementina, Lord and Lady Bendham, and twenty 
 others, " wished him a successful voyage," and thought no 
 more about him. 
 
 It was for Rebecca alone to feel the loss of Henry — it 
 was for a mind like hers alone to know his worth ; nor did 
 this last proof of it, the quitting her for one who claimed 
 by every tie a preference, lessen him in her esteem. When 
 by a message from him, she became acquainted with his 
 design, much as it interfered with her happiness, she valued 
 him the more for this observance of his duty ; the more 
 regretted his loss, and the more anxiously prayed for his 
 return — a return which he, in the following letter, written 
 just before his departure, taught her to hope for with aug- 
 mented impatience : — 
 
 " My dear Rebecca, — I do not tell you I am sorry to 
 part from you — you know I am, and you know all I have 
 suffered since your father denied me permission to see you. 
 
 " But, perhaps, you do not know the hopes I enjoy, and 
 which bestow on me a degree of peace ; and those I am 
 eager to tell you. 
 
 "I hope, Rebecca, to see you again : I hope to return to 
 England, and overcome every obstacle to our marriage ; and 
 then, in whatever station we are placed, I shall consider 
 myself as happy as it is possible to be in this world. I feel 
 a conviction that you would be happy also. 
 
 " Some persons, I know, estimate happiness by fine 
 houses, gardens, and parks ; others by pictures, horses, 
 
NATURE AND ART. 501 
 
 money, and various things wholly remote from their own 
 species : but when I wish to ascertain the real felicity of 
 any rational man, I always inquire whom he has to love. 
 If I find he has nobody, or does not love those he has, even 
 in the midst of all his profusion of finery, and grandeur, I 
 pronounce him a being in deep adversity. In loving you, I 
 am happier than my cousin William, even though I am 
 obliged to leave you for a time. 
 
 "Do not be afraid you should grow old before I return — 
 age can never alter you in my regard. It is your gentle 
 nature, your unaffected manners, your easy cheerfulness, 
 your clear understanding, the sincerity of all your words 
 and actions, which have gained my heart ; and while you 
 preserve charms like these, you will be dearer to me with 
 white hairs and a wrinkled face, than any of your sex, who, 
 not possessing all these qualities, enjoy the form and features 
 of perfect beauty. 
 
 " You will esteem me, too, I trust, though I should return, 
 on crutches, with my poor father, whom I may be obliged to 
 maintain by daily labour. 
 
 " I shall employ all my time, during my absence, in the 
 study of som£"art which may enable me to support you both, 
 provided Heaven will bestow two such blessings on me. 
 In the cheering thought that it will be so, and in that only, 
 I have the courage, my dear, — dear Rebecca, to say to you, 
 
 " Farewell ! 
 
 " H. Norwynne." 
 
502 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Before Henry could receive a reply to his letter, the 
 fleet in which he sailed put to sea. 
 
 By his absence not only was Rebecca deprived of the 
 friend she loved, but poor Agnes lost a kind and com- 
 passionate adviser. The loss of her parents, too, she had 
 to mourn ; for they both sickened, and both died, in a short 
 time after. And now wholly friendless in her little exile, 
 where she could only hope for toleration, not being known, 
 she was contending with suspicion, rebuffs, disappointments, 
 and various other ills, which might have made the most 
 rigorous of her Anfield persecutors feel compassion for her, 
 could they have witnessed the throbs of her heart, and all 
 the deep wounds there imprinted. 
 I Still, there are few persons whom Providence afflicts be- 
 I yond the limits of all consolation — few cast so low as not to 
 feel pride on certain occasions ; and Agnes felt a comfort 
 and a dignity in the thought that she had both a mind and 
 a body capable of sustaining every hardship which her 
 destiny might inflict, rather than submit to the disgrace of 
 soliciting William's charity a second time. 
 
 This determination was put to a variety of trials. In vain 
 she offered herself to the strangers of the village, in which 
 she was accidentally cast, as a servant ; her child, her de- 
 jected looks, her broken sentences, a wildness in her eye, a 
 kind of bold despair which at times overspread her features, 
 
 
NATURE AND ART. 503 
 
 her imperfect story who and what she was, prejudiced all 
 those to whom she applied; and after thus travelling to 
 several small towns and hamlets, the only employer she 
 could obtain was a farmer, and the only employment, to 
 tend and feed his cattle while his men were in the harvest 
 tilling the ground, or at some other labour which required at 
 the time peculiar expedition. 
 
 Though Agnes was born of peasants, yet, having been the 
 only child of industrious parents, she had been nursed with 
 a tenderness and delicacy ill-suited to her present occu- 
 pation. But she endured it with patience; and the most 
 laborious part would have seemed light, could she have 
 dismissed the reflection — what it was that had reduced her 
 to such a state. 
 
 Soon her tender hands became hard and rough, her fair 
 skin burnt and yellow; so that when, on a Sunday, she 
 looked in the glass, she started back, as if it were some 
 other face she saw instead of her own. But this loss of 
 beauty gave her no regret — while William did not see her 
 it was indifferent to her whether she were beautiful or 
 hideous. On the features of her child only she now looked 
 with joy. There she fancied she saw William at every 
 glance; and, in the fond imagination, felt, at times, every 
 happiness short of seeing him. 
 
 - By herding with the brute creation, she and her child were 
 allowed to live together ; and this was a state she preferred 
 to the society of human creatures, who would have separated 
 her from what she loved so tenderly. Anxious to retain a 
 service in which she possessed such a blessing, care and 
 attention to her humble office caused her master to prolong 
 her stay through all the winter ; then, during the spring, she 
 tended his yeaning sheep — in the summer, watched them as 
 they grazed ; and thus season after season passed, till her 
 young son could afford her assistance in her daily work. 
 
5<H 
 
 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 He now could charm her with his conversation as well as 
 with his looks. A thousand times, in the transports of 
 parental love, she has pressed him to her bosom, and 
 thought, with an agony of horror, upon her criminal, her 
 mad intent to destroy what was now so dear, so necessary 
 to her existence. 
 
 """Still the boy grew up more and more like his father. In 
 one resemblance alone he failed: he loved Agnes with an 
 affection totally distinct from the pitiful and childish gratifi- 
 cation of his own self-love ; he never would quit her side for 
 all the tempting offers of toys or money ; never would eat of 
 rarities given to him till Agnes took a part ; never crossed 
 her will, however contradictory to his own ; never saw her 
 smile that he did not laugh ; nor did she ever weep but he 
 wept too. 
 
NATURE AND ART . 505 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 From the mean subject of oxen, sheep, and peasants, we 
 return to personages — i.e., persons of rank and fortune. The 
 Bishop who was introduced in the foregoing pages, but who 
 has occupied a very small space there, is now mentioned 
 again, merely that the reader may know he is at present in 
 the same state as his writings — dying ; and that his friend, 
 the Dean, is talked of as the most likely successor to his 
 dignified office. 
 
 The Dean, most assuredly, had a strong friendship for the 
 Bishop, and now, most assuredly, wished him to recover; 
 and yet, when he reflected on the success of his pamphlet a 
 few years past, and of many which he had written since on 
 the very same subject, he could not but think "that he had 
 more righteous pretensions to fill the vacant seat of his 
 much-beloved and right reverend friend (should Providence 
 ordain it to be vacated) than any other man ; " and he knew 
 that it would not take one moment from that friend's re- 
 maining life should he exert himself, with all due manage- 
 ment, to obtain the elevated station when he should be no 
 more. 
 
 In presupposing the death of a friend, the Dean, like 
 many other virtuous men, " always supposed him going to 
 a better place." With perfect resignation, therefore, he 
 waited whatever change might happen to the Bishop ; ready 
 to receive him with open arms if he recovered, or equally 
 ready, in case of his dissolution, to receive his dignities. 
 
506 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 Lady Clementina displayed her sensibility and feeling for 
 the sick prelate by the extravagance of hysteric fits ; except 
 at those times when she talked seriously with her husband 
 upon the injustice which she thought would be done to him, 
 and to his many pamphlets and sermons, if he did not im- 
 mediately rise to the episcopal honour. 
 
 "Surely, Dean," said she, "should you be disappointed 
 upon this occasion, you will write no more books for the 
 good of your country?" 
 
 " Yes, I will," he replied ; " but the next book I write for 
 the good of my country shall be very different — nay, the 
 very reverse of those I have already written." 
 
 "How, Dean! would you shew yourself changed?" 
 
 " No ; but I will shew that my country is changed." 
 
 "What! since you produced your last work, only six 
 weeks ago?" 
 
 — - -* Great changes may occur in six days," replied the Dean, 
 with a threatening accent ; " and if I find things have taken 
 a new and improper turn, I will be the first to expose it." 
 
 " But before you act in this manner, my dear, surely you 
 will wait " 
 
 " I will wait till the see is disposed of to another," said he. 
 
 He did wait : the Bishop died : the Dean was promoted 
 to the see of * * *, and wrote a folio on the prosperity of 
 our happy country. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 507 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 While the Bishop and his son were sailing before 
 prosperous gales on the sea of life, young Henry was 
 contending with adverse winds, and many other perils, on 
 the watery ocean ; yet still his distresses and dangers were 
 less than those whick. Agnes had to encounter upon land. 
 The sea threatens an untimely death; the shore menaces 
 calamities from which death is a refuge. 
 
 The afflictions she had already experienced could just 
 admit of aggravation : the addition occurred. 
 
 Had the good farmer who made her the companion of his 
 flocks and herds lived till now, till now she might have been 
 secure from the annoyance of human kind; but, thrown 
 once more upon society, she was unfit to sustain the conflict 
 of decorum against depravity. Her master, her patron, her 
 preserver, was dead; and hardly as she had earned the 
 pittance she received from him, she found,. that it sur- 
 passed her power to obtain the like again/ Her doubtful 
 character, her capacious mind, her unmethodical manners, 
 were still badly suited to the nice precision of a country 
 housewife ; and as the prudent mistress of a family sneered 
 at her pretensions, she, in her turn, scorned the narrow- 
 minded mistress of a family^- 
 
 In her inquiries how to gain her bread free from the 
 cutting reproaches of- discretion, she was informed that 
 London was the only private corner where guilt could be 
 secreted undisturbed; and the only public place where, in 
 
508 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 open day, it might triumphantly stalk, attended by a train of 
 audacious admirers. 
 
 There was a charm to the ear of Agnes in the name of 
 London which thrilled through her soul. William lived in 
 London ; and she thought that, while she retired to some 
 dark cellar with her offences, he probably would ride in state 
 with his, and she at humble distance might sometimes catch 
 a glimpse of him. 
 
 As difficult as to eradicate insanity from a mind once 
 possessed, so difficult is it to erase from the lover's breast 
 the deep impression of a real affection. Coercion may 
 prevail for a short interval, still love will rage again. Not 
 all the ignominy which Agnes experienced in the place 
 where she now was, without a home ; not the hunger which 
 she at times suffered, and even at times saw her child en- 
 dure ; not every inducement for going to London, or motive 
 for quitting her present desolate station, had the weight to 
 affect her choice so much as — in London she should live 
 nearer William ; — in the present spot she could never hope 
 to see him again ; but there she might chance to pass him 
 in the streets; she might pass his house every day unob- 
 served ; might inquire about him of his inferior neighbours, 
 who would be unsuspicious of the cause of her curiosity. 
 For these gratifications she could imbibe new fortitude; for 
 these she could bear all hardships which London threatened ; 
 and for these she at length undertook a three weeks' 
 journey to that perilous town on foot, cheering, as she 
 walked along, her innocent and wearied companion. 
 
 William ! in your luxurious dwelling, possessed of coffers 
 filled with gold, relations, friends, clients, joyful around you, 
 delicious viands and rich wines upon your sumptuous board, 
 — voluptuousness displayed in every apartment of your habi- 
 tation, — contemplate, for a moment, Agnes, your first love, 
 with her son, your first and only child, walking through 
 
NATURE AND ART. 509 
 
 frost and snow to London, with a foreboding fear on the 
 mother, — that, wher/arrived, they both may perish for the 
 want of a friend. / 
 
 But no soone/did Agnes find herself within the smoke of 
 the metropolis, than the old charm was renewed; and 
 scarcely had she refreshed her child at the poor inn at 
 which she stopped, than she inquired — how far it was to 
 that part of the town where William, she knew, resided ? 
 
 She received for answer, " About two miles." 
 
 Upon this information, she thought that she would keep 
 in reserve, till some new sorrow befell her, the consolation 
 of passing his door (perchance of seeing him), which must 
 ever be an alleviation of her grief. It was not long before 
 she had occasion for more substantial comfort. She soon 
 found she was not likely to obtain a service here, more 
 than in the country. Some objected that she could not 
 make caps and gowns ; some that she could not preserve 
 and pickle ; some that she was too young ; some that she 
 was too pretty ; and all declined accepting her, till at last 
 a citizen's wife, on condition of her receiving but half the 
 wages usually given, took her as a servant of all work. 
 
 In romances, and in some plays, there are scenes of dark 
 "and unwholesome mines, wherein the labourer works, during 
 the brightest day, by the aid of artificial light. There are in 
 London, kitchens, — equally dismal, though not quite so 
 much exposed to damp and noxious vapours. In one of 
 these, underground, hidden from the cheerful light of the 
 sun, poor Agnes was doomed to toil from morning till night, 
 subjected to the command of a dissatisfied mistress, who, not 
 estimating as she ought the misery incurred by serving her, 
 constantly threatened her servants with dismissal ; at which 
 the unthinking wretches would tremble, merely from the sound 
 of the words : for to have reflected — to have considered 
 what their purport was — "to be released from a dungeon, 
 
5IO NATURE AND ART. 
 
 relieved from continual upbraidings, and vile drudgery," 
 must have been a subject of rejoicing;— and yet, because 
 these good tidings were delivered as a menace, custom had 
 made the hearer fearful of the consequence. So, death 
 being described to children as a disaster, even poverty and 
 shame will start from it with affright ; whereas, had it been 
 pictured with its benign aspect, it would have been feared 
 but by few, and many, many would welcome it with glad- 
 ness. 
 
 — AH the care of Agnes to please, her fear of offending, her 
 toilsome days, her patience, her submission, could not pre- 
 vail on her she served to retain her one hour after, by 
 chance, she had heard, "that she was the mother of a child ; 
 that she wished it should be kept a secret ; and that she 
 stole out now and then to visit him." 
 
 Agnes, with swimming eyes, and an almost breaking 
 heart, left a place, where to have lived one hour would 
 , have plunged any fine lady in the deepest grief. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 511 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Agnes was driven from service to service — her deficiency 
 in the knowledge of a mere drudge, or her lost character, 
 pursued her wherever she went : — at length, becoming 
 wholly destitute, she gladly accepted a place where the 
 latter misfortune was not of the least impediment. 
 
 In one of those habitations where continual misery is 
 dressed in continual smiles ; where extreme poverty is con- 
 cealed by extreme of finery; where wine dispenses mirth 
 only by dispensing forgetfulness ; and where female beauty 
 is so/cheap, so complying, that while it inveigles, it disgusts, 
 the man of pleasure. In one of those houses, to attend 
 upon its wretched inhabitants, Agnes was hired. Her 
 feelings of rectitude submitted to those of hunger ; her 
 principles of. virtue (which the loss of virtue had not de- 
 stroyed) received a shock when she engaged to be the 
 abettor of vice, from which her delicacy, morality, and re- 
 ligion shrunk; but persons of honour and of reputation 
 would not employ her: was she then to perish? That, 
 perhaps, was easy to resolve ; but she had a child to leave 
 behind ! a child, from whom to part for a day was a torment. 
 Yet, before she submitted to a situation which filled her 
 mind with a kind of loathing horror, often she paced up and 
 down the street in which William lived, looked wistfully 
 at his house, and sometimes, lost to all her finer feelings of 
 independent pride, thought of sending a short petition to 
 him; but, at the idea of a repulse, and of that frowning 
 
512 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 brow which she knew William could dart on her petitions, 
 she preferred death, or the most degrading life, to the 
 trial. 
 
 It was long since that misfortune and dishonour had made 
 her callous to the good or ill opinion of all the world, except 
 his; and the fear of drawing upon her his increased con- 
 tempt, was still, at the crisis of applying, so powerful, 
 that she found she dared not hazard a reproof from him, 
 even in the person of his father, whose rigour she had 
 already more than once experienced, in the frequent harsh 
 messages conveyed to her with the poor stipend for her 
 boy. 
 
 Awed by the rigid and pious character of the new bishop, 
 the growing reputation and rising honours of his son, she 
 mistook the appearance of moral excellence for moral excel- 
 lence itself, and felt her own un worthiness even to become 
 the supplicant of those great men. 
 
 s*"* Day after day she watched those parts of the town 
 through which William's chariot was accustomed to drive ; 
 but to see the carriage was all to which she aspired — a 
 feeling, not to be described, forced her to cast her eyes upon 
 the earth as it drew near to her ; and when it had passed, 
 she beat her breast and wept that she had not seen 
 him. 
 
 Impressed with the superiority of others, and her own 
 abject and disgustful state, she cried, " Let me herd with 
 those who won't despise me — let me only see faces whereon 
 I can look without confusion and terror — let me associate 
 with wretches like myself, rather than force my shame 
 before those who are so good, they can but scorn and 
 hate me." 
 
 With a mind thus languishing for sympathy in disgrace, 
 she entered as a servant the house just now described. 
 There, disregarding the fatal proverb against " evil com- 
 
NATURE AND ART. 513 
 
 * munications" she had not the firmness to be an exception to 
 , the general rule. That pliant disposition, which had yielded 
 ' to the licentious love of William, stooped to still baser pros- 
 titution in company still .more depraved. 
 
 At first she shuddered at those practices she saw, at those 
 conversations she heard; and blest herself that poverty, 
 not inclination, had caused her to be a witness of such 
 profligacy, and had condemned her in this vile abode to 
 be a servant, rather than in the lower rank of mistress. 
 Use softened those horrors every da y : at len gth, self- 
 defence, the fear of ridicule, and the hope of favour,, induced 
 her to_adopt- that very; conduct from which her heart 
 revolted. „ , 
 
 In her sorrowful countenance, and fading charms, there 
 yet remained attraction for many visitors ; and she now sub- 
 mitted to the mercenary profanations of love — more odious 
 as her mind had been subdued by its most captivating, most 
 endearing joys. 
 
 While incessant regret whispered to her " that she ought 
 to have endured every calamity rather than this," she thus 
 questioned her nice sense of wrong : — " Why, why respect 
 myself, since no other respects me? Why set a value on my 
 own feelings, when no one else does?" 
 
 Degraded in her own judgment, she doubted her own 
 understanding, when it sometimes told her she had deserved 
 better treatment — for she felt herself a fool in comparison 
 
 rwkh her learned seducer and the rest who despised her. 
 "And why," she continued, "should I ungratefully persist to 
 contemn women, who alone are so kind as to accept me for 
 a companion ? Why refuse conformity to their customs, 
 since none of my sex besides will admit me to their society 
 a partaker of virtuous habits ? " 
 t^In speculation, these arguments appeared reasonable, and 
 she pursued their dictates : but in the practice of the life in 
 L L 
 
514 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 which she plunged she proved the fallacy of the system ; 
 and at times tore her hair with frantic sorrow — that she 
 had not continued in the mid-way of guilt, and so preserved 
 some portion of self-approbation, to recompense her, in a 
 small degree, for the total loss of the esteem of all the 
 reputable world. 
 
 But she had gone too far to recede. Could she now have 
 recalled her innocence, even that remnant she brought with 
 her to London, experience would have taught her to have 
 given up her child, lived apart from him, and once more 
 with the brute creation, rather than to have mingled with 
 her present society. Now, alas ! the time for flying was 
 past — all prudent choice was over — even all reflection was 
 gone for ever — or only admitted on compulsion, when it im- 
 periously forced its way amidst the scenes of tumultuous 
 mirth, or licentious passion, of distracted riot, shameless 
 effrontery, and wild intoxication — when it would force its 
 way — even through the walls of a brothel. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 515 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Is there a reader so little experienced in the human heart, 
 so forgetful of his own, as not to feel the possibility of the 
 following fact ? 
 
 A series of uncommon calamities had been for many 
 years the lot of the elder Henry — a succession of prosperous 
 events had fallen to the share of his brother William. 
 The one was the envy, while the other had the compassion, 
 of all who thought about them. For the last twenty years, 
 William had lived in affluence bordering upon splendour — 
 his friends, his fame, his fortune daily increasing; while 
 Henry, throughout that very period, had, by degrees, lost all 
 he loved on earth, and was now existing apart from 
 civilised society — and yet, during those twenty years, 
 where William knew one happy moment, Hemy tasted 
 hundreds. 
 
 That the state of the mind, and not outward circum- 
 stances, is the nice point on which happiness depends, is but 
 a trite remark ; but that intellectual power should have the 
 force to render a man discontented in extraordinary 
 prosperity, such as that of the present Bishop, or contented 
 in his brother's extreme of adversity, requires illustration. 
 
 The first great affliction to Henry was his brother's in- 
 gratitude ; but reasoning on the frailty of man's nature, and 
 the force of man's temptations, he found excuses for 
 William, which made him support the treatment he had re- 
 ceived with more tranquility than William's proud mind 
 L L 2 
 
5l6 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 supported his brothers marriage. Henry r s indulgent dis- 
 position made him less angry with William, than William 
 was with him. 
 
 The next affliction Henry suffered was the loss of his 
 beloved wife. That was a grief which time and change of 
 objects gradually alleviated: while William's wife was to 
 him a permanent grief: her puerile mind, her talking vanity, 
 her affected virtues, soured his domestic comfort : and. in 
 time, he had suffered more painful moments from her 
 society, than his brother had experienced, even from the 
 death of her he loved. 
 
 In their children, indeed, William was the happier — his 
 son was a pride and pleasure to him, while Henry never 
 thought upon his without lamenting his loss with bitterest 
 anguish. But if the elder brother had in one instance the 
 advantage, still Henry had a resource to over-balance this 
 article. Henry, as he lay imprisoned in his dungeon, and 
 when, his punishment being remitted, he was again allowed 
 to wander and seek his subsistence where he would, — in all 
 his tedious walks and solitary resting-places, during all his 
 lonely days and mournful nights, had this resource to console 
 him : — 
 
 "I never did an injur}" to any one: never was harsh, 
 severe, unkind, deceitful : I did not merely confine myself to 
 i do my neighbour no harm — I strove to do him service." 
 
 This was the resource that cheered his sinking heart 
 amidst gloomy deserts and a barbarous people: lulled him 
 to peaceful slumber in the hut of a savage hunter, and in 
 the hearing of the lion's roar ; at times impressed him with 
 a sense of happiness ; and made him contemplate, with a 
 longing hope, the recompense of a future world. 
 
 The Bishop, with all his comforts, had no comfort like 
 this : he had his solitary reflections too : but they were of a 
 tendency the reverse of these. " I used my brother ill," was 
 
NATURE AND ART. 517 
 
 a secret thought of most powerful influence ; it kept him 
 waking upon his safe and commodious bed; was sure to re- 
 cur with every misfortune by which he was threatened, to 
 make his fears still stronger; and came, with invidious 
 stabs, upon every successful event, to take from him a part 
 of his joy. In a word, it was conscience which made Henry's j 
 years pass happier than William's. 
 
 But though, comparatively with his brother, William was 
 the less happy man, yet his self-reproach was not of such 
 magnitude, for an offence of that atrocious nature, as to 
 banish from his breast a certain degree of happiness, a 
 sensibility to the smiles of fortune ; nor was Henry's self- 
 acquittal of such exquisite kind as to chase away the feeling 
 of his desolate condition. 
 
 As he fished or hunted for his daily dinner, many a time 
 in full view of his prey, a sudden burst of sorrow at his fate, 
 a sudden longing for some dear associate, for some friend to 
 share his thoughts, for some kind shoulder on which to lean 
 his head, for some companion to partake his repast, would 
 make him instantaneously desist from his pursuit, and cast 
 him on the ground in a fit of anguish, till a shower of tears, 
 and his conscience, came to his relief. 
 
 It was after an exile of more than twenty-three years — 
 when, on one sultry morning, after pleasant dreams during 
 the night, Henry had waked with more than usual percep- 
 tion of his misery — that, sitting upon the beach, his wishes 
 and his looks all bent on the sea towards his native land, 
 he thought he saw a sail swelling before an unexpected 
 breeze. 
 
 " Sure I am dreaming still ! " he cried. " This is the very 
 vessel I saw last night in my sleep ! Oh, what cruel 
 mockery, that my eyes should so deceive me ! " 
 
 Yet, though he doubted, he leaped upon his feet in trans- 
 port : held up his hands, stretched at their length, in a kind 
 
5l8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 of ecstatic joy; and as the glorious sight approached, was 
 near rushing into the sea to hail and meet it. 
 
 For awhile hope and fear kept him in a state bordering 
 on distraction. 
 
 Now he saw the ship making for the shore, and tears 
 flowed for the grateful prospect. Now it made for another 
 point, and he vented shrieks and groans from the disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 It was at those moments, while hope and fear thus pos- 
 sessed him, that the horrors of his abode appeared more 
 than ever frightful. Inevitable afflictions must be borne; 
 but that calamity which admits the expectation of relief, and 
 then denies it, is insupportable. 
 
 After a few minutes passed in dreadful uncertainty, which 
 enhanced the wished-for happiness, the ship evidently drew 
 near the land— a boat was launched from her — and while 
 Henry, now upon his knees, wept, and prayed fervently for 
 the event, a youth sprang from the barge on the strand, 
 rushed towards him, and falling on his neck, then at his 
 feet, exclaimed, " My father ! oh, my father ! " 
 
 William ! Dean ! Bishop ! what are your honours, what 
 your riches, what all your possessions, compared to the 
 happiness, the transport bestowed by this one sentence on 
 your poor brother Henry ? 
 
NATURE AND ART. 5 19 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 The crosses at land, and the perilous events at sea, had 
 made it now two years since young Henry first took the 
 vow of a man, no longer dependent on the will of another, 
 to seek his father. His fatigues, his dangers, were well 
 recompensed. Instead of weeping over a silent grave, he 
 had the inexpressible joy to receive a parent's blessing for 
 his labours. Yet the elder Henry, though living, was so 
 changed in person, that his son would scarcely have known 
 him in any other than the favourite spot, which the younger 
 (keeping in memory every incident of his former life) knew 
 his father had always chosen for his morning contem- 
 plations ; and where, previously to his coming to England, 
 he had many a time kept him company. It was to that 
 particular corner of the island that the captain of the ship 
 had generously ordered they should steer, out of the general 
 route, to gratify the filial tenderness he expressed. But 
 scarcely had the interview between the father and the son 
 taken place, than a band of natives, whom the appear- 
 ance of the vessel had called from the woods and hills, 
 came to attack the invaders. The elder Henry had no 
 friend with whom he wished to shake hands at his de- 
 parture : the old negro servant who had assisted in young 
 Henry's escape was dead ; and he experienced the excessive 
 joy of bidding adieu to the place, without one regret for all 
 he left behind. 
 
520 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 On the night of that day, whose morning had been 
 marked by peculiar sadness at the lowering prospect of 
 many exiled years to come, he slept on board an English 
 vessel, with Englishmen his companions, and his son, his 
 beloved son — who was still more dear to him for that mind 
 which had planned and executed his rescue — this son, his 
 attentive servant, and most affectionate friend. 
 
 Though many a year passed, and many a rough encounter 
 was destined to the lot of the two Henrys before they saw 
 the shores of Europe, yet to them, to live or to die together 
 was happiness enough : even young Henry for a time asked 
 for no greater blessing ; but, the first glow of filial ardour 
 over, he called to mind, "Rebecca lived in England ; " and 
 every exertion which love, founded on the highest reverence 
 and esteem, could dictate, he employed to expedite a 
 voyage, the end of which would be crowned by the sight 
 of her. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 521 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 The contrast of the state of happiness between the two 
 brothers was nearly resembled by that of the two cousins 
 — the riches of young William did not render him happy ; 
 nor did the poverty of young Henry doom him to misery. 
 His affectionate heart, as he had described in his letter to 
 Rebecca, loved persons rather than things; and he would 
 not have exchanged the society of his father, nor the pros- 
 pect of her hand and heart, for all the wealth and splendour 
 of which his cousin William was the master. 
 
 He was right. Young William, though he viewed with 
 contempt Henry's inferior state, was far less happy than 
 he. His marriage had been the very counterpart of his 
 father's ; and, having no child to create affection to his 
 home, his stud.y_was the only relief from that domestic 
 incumbrance called his wife ; and though, by unremitting 
 application there (joined to the influence of the potent re- 
 lations of the woman he hated), he at length arrived at the 
 summit of his ambitious desires, still they poorly repaid him 
 for the sacrifice he had made in early life of every tender 
 disposition. 
 
 Striding through a list of rapid advancements in the 
 profession of the law, at the age of thirty-eight he found 
 himself raised to a preferment such as rarely falls to the 
 share of a man of his short experience — he found himself 
 invested with a judge's robe : and gratified by the exalted 
 
\ 
 
 522 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 office, curbed more than ever that aversion which her want 
 of charms or sympathy had produced against the partner of 
 his honours. 
 
 While William had thus been daily rising in fortune's 
 favour, poor Agnes had been daily sinking deeper and 
 deeper under fortune's frowns ; till at last she became a 
 midnight wanderer through the streets of London, soliciting^ 
 or rudely demanding, money of the passing stranger. 
 Sometimes, hunted by the watch, she affrighted fled from 
 street to street, from portico to portico — and once, un- 
 knowing in her fear which way she hurried, she found her 
 trembling knees had sunk, and her wearied head was 
 reclined, against the stately pillars that guarded William's 
 door. 
 
 At the sudden recollection where she was, a swell of 
 passion composed of horror, of anger, of despair, and love, 
 gave re-animated strength to her failing limbs ; and, re- 
 gardless of her pursuer's steps, she ran to the centre of the 
 street, and, looking up to the windows of the mansion, 
 cried, "Ah! there he sleeps in quiet, in peace, in ease — 
 he does not even dream of me — he does not care how the 
 cold pierces, or how the people persecute, me ! He does 
 not thank me for all the lavish love I have borne him and his 
 child! His heart is so hard, he does not even recollect that 
 it was he who brought me to ruin." 
 
 Had these miseries, common to the unhappy prostitute, 
 been alone the punishment of Agnes — had her crimes and 
 sufferings ended in distress like this — her story had not, 
 perhaps, been selected for a public recital ; for it had been 
 no other than the customary history of thousands of her 
 sex. But Agnes had a destiny yet more fatal. Unhappily, 
 she was endowed with a mind so sensibly alive to every joy, 
 and every sorrow, to every mark of kindness, every token 
 of severity, so liable to excess in passion, that, once per- 
 
NATURE AND ART. 523 
 
 verted, there was no degree of error from which it would 
 revolt. 
 
 Taught by the conversation of the desolate poor, with 
 whom she now associated, or by her own observation on 
 the wordly reward of elevated villany, she began to suspect 
 "that dishonesty was only held a sin to secure the property 
 of the rich ; and that, to take from those who did not want, 
 by the art of stealing, was less guilt than to take from those 
 who did want, by the power of the law." 
 
 By false yet seducing opinions such as these, her reason 
 estranged from every moral and religious tie, her necessities 
 urgent, she reluctantly accepted the proposal to mix with 
 a band of practised sharpers and robbers, and became an 
 accomplice in negotiating bills forged on a country banker. 
 
 But though ingenious in arguments to excuse the deed 
 before its commission, in the act she had ever the dread of 
 some incontrovertible statement on~the~ other side of the 
 question. Intimidated by this apprehension, she was the 
 veriest bungler in her vile profession — and on the alarm 
 of being detected, while every one of her confederates 
 escaped and absconded, she alone was seized, was arrested 
 for issuing notes they had fabricated, and committed to the 
 provincial gaol, about fifty miles from London, where the 
 crime had been perpetrated, to take her trial for — life or 
 death. 
 
524 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 The day at length is come, on which Agnes shall have a 
 sight of her beloved William ! She who has watched for 
 hours near his door, to procure a glimpse of him going 
 out, or returning home ; who has walked miles to see his 
 chariot pass ; she now will behold him, and he will see her 
 OSy command of the laws of their country. Those laws, 
 
 L which will deal with rigour towards her, are in this one 
 instance still indulgent. 
 " The time of the assizes, at the county-town in which 
 she is imprisoned, is arrived — the prisoners are demanded 
 at the shire hall — the gaol doors are opened — they go in sad 
 procession ; — the trumpet sounds — it speaks the arrival of 
 the judge — and that judge is William. 
 
 The day previous to her trial Agnes had read, in the 
 printed calendar of the prisoners, his name as the learned 
 justice before whom she was to appear. For a moment she 
 forgot her perilous state in the excess of joy which the still 
 unconquerable love she bore to him permitted her to taste 
 even on the brink of the grave ! After-reflection made her 
 check these worldly transports as unfit for the present 
 solemn occasion. But, alas ! to her earth and William 
 were so closely united, that, till she forsook the one, she 
 could never cease to think, without the contending passions 
 of hope, of fear, of joy, of love, of shame, and of despair, 
 on the other. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 525 
 
 Now fear took the place of her first immoderate joy. She 
 feared that, although much changed in person since he had 
 seen her, and her real name now added to many an alias — 
 yet she feared that some^well-known glance of the eye, turn 
 of the action, or accent of speech, might recall her to his 
 remembrance ; and at that idea shame overcame all her other 
 sensations — for still she retained pride, in respect to his 
 opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was that wretch she 
 felt she was. Once a ray of hope beamed on her " that if he 
 knew her, if he recognised her, he might possibly befriend 
 her cause ; " and life bestowed through William's friendship 
 seemed a precious object ! But again, that rigorous honour 
 she had often heard him boast, that firmness to his word, of 
 which she had fatal experience, taught her to know he would 
 not, for any improper compassion, any unmanly weakness, 
 forfeit his oath of impartial justice. 
 
 In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless 
 night. 
 
 When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar, and 
 her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-seat 
 of William, imagination could not form two figures or two 
 situations, more incompatible with the existence of former 
 familiarity than the judge and the culprit; and yet these 
 very persons had passed together the most blissful moments 
 that either ever tasted! Those hours of tender dalliance 
 were now present to her mind. His thoughts were more 
 nobly employed in his high office ; nor could the haggard 
 face, hollow eye, desponding countenance, and meagre per- 
 son of the poor prisoner once call to his memory, though 
 her name was uttered among a list of others which she had 
 assumed, his former youthful, lovely Agnes. 
 
 She heard herself arraigned with trembling limbs and 
 downcast looks ; and many witnesses had appeared against 
 her before she ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful judge. 
 
526 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 She then gave one fearful glance, and discovered William, 
 unpitying but beloved William, in every feature ! It was a 
 face she had been used to look on with delight, and a 
 kind of absent smile of gladness now beamed on her poor 
 wan visage. 
 
 When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had 
 been examined, the judge addressed himself to her : — 
 
 " What defence have you to make ? " 
 
 It was William spoke to Agnes ! The sound was sweet ; 
 the voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging ! 
 It almost charmed her to a love of life ! — not such a voice 
 as when William last addressed her ; when he left her un- 
 done and pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to her more. 
 
 She could have hung upon the present words for ever ! 
 She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect of 
 practice, the art of his occupation ; which, at times, is but a 
 copy, by the unfeeling, from his benevolent brethren of the 
 |>ench. In the present judge tenderness was not designed 
 for the consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation of 
 fhe auditors. 
 
 There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last 
 he parted from you. If there had, the awful William had 
 been awed to marks of pity. 
 
 Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue 
 directed to her, she stood like one just petrified — all vital 
 power seemed suspended. 
 
 Again he put the question, and with these additional sen- 
 tences, tenderly and emphatically delivered, — "Recollect 
 yourself. Have you no witnesses ? No proof in your be- 
 half?" 
 
 A dead silence followed these questions. 
 
 He then mildly, but forcibly, added, — " What have you to 
 say ? " 
 
 Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she fixed 
 
NATURE AND ART. 527 
 
 earnestly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while she 
 faintly articulated — 
 
 " Nothing, my Lord." 
 
 After a short pause he asked her, in the same forcible but 
 benevolent tone — 
 
 " Have you no one to speak to your character?" 
 
 The prisoner answered — 
 
 "No." 
 
 A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she called 
 to mind by whom her character had first been blasted. 
 
 He summed up the evidence; and every time he was 
 compelled to press hard upon the proofs against her, she 
 shrunk, and seemed to stagger with the deadly blow; 
 writhed under the weight of his minute justice more than 
 at the prospect of a shameful death. 
 
 The jury consulted for a few minutes. The verdict 
 was — 
 ~ "Guilty." 
 
 She heard it with composure. 
 
 But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head and 
 rose to pronounce her sentence, she started with a kind of 
 convulsive motion, retreated a step or two back, and, lifting 
 up her hands, with a scream, exclaimed — 
 
 "Oh, not from you/" 
 
 The piercing shriek which accompanied these words pre- 
 vented their being heard by part of the audience ; and those 
 who heard them thought little of their meaning, more than 
 that they expressed her fear of dying. 
 
 Serene and dignified as if no such exclamation had been 
 uttered, William delivered the fatal speech, ending with 
 "Dead, dead, dead." 
 
 She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back 
 to prison in a swoon ; while he adjourned the court to go to 
 dinner. 
 
528 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 If, unaffected by the scene he had witnessed, William sat 
 down to dinner with an appetite, let not the reader conceive 
 that the most distant suspicion had struck his mind of his ever 
 having seen, much less familiarly known, the poor offender 
 whom he had just condemned. Still, this forgetfulness did 
 not proceed from the want of memory for Agnes. In every 
 peevish or heavy hour passed with his wife, he was sure to 
 think of her. Yet it was self-love, rather than love of her-, 
 that gave rise to these thoughts. He felt the lack of female 
 sympathy and tenderness, to soften the fatigue of studious 
 labour ; to soothe a sullen, a morose disposition — he felt he 
 wanted comfort for himself, but never once considered what 
 were the wants of Agnes. 
 
 In the chagrin of a barren bed, he sometimes thought, 
 too, even on the child that Agnes bore him ; but whether it 
 were male or female, whether a beggar in the streets or dead 
 — various and important public occupations forbade him to 
 v/aste time to inquire. Yet the poor, the widow, and the 
 orphan, frequently shared William's ostentatious bounty. He 
 was the president of many excellent charities, gave largely, 
 and sometimes instituted benevolent societies for the un- 
 happy ; for he delighted to load the poor with obligations 
 and the rich with praise. 
 
 There are persons, like him, who love to do every good 
 but that which their immediate duty requires. There are 
 servants who will serve every one more cheerfully than their 
 
NATURE AND ART. 529 
 
 masters ; there are men who will distribute money liberally 
 to all except their creditors ; and there are wives who will 
 love all mankind better than their husbands. Duty is a 
 familiar word which has little effect upon an ordinary mind ; 
 anH,~asjordinary minds make avast majority, we have acts of 
 generosity, valour, self-denial, and bounty, where smaller 
 pains would constitute greater virtues. Had William fol- 
 lowed the common dictates of charity — had he adopted 
 private pity instead of public munificence — had he cast an 
 eye at home before he sought abroad for objects of com- 
 passion, Agnes had been preserved from an ignominious 
 death, and he had been preserved from — Remorse — the 
 tortures of which he for the first time proved on reading a 
 printed sheet of paper accidentally thrown in his way a few 
 days after he had left the town in which he had condemned 
 Jber to die. 
 
 " March the 12th, 179—. 
 
 The last dying words, speech, and confession ; birth, 
 parentage, and education ; life, character, and behaviour, 
 of Agnes Primrose, who was executed this morning, 
 between the hours of ten and twelve, pursuant to the 
 sentence passed upon her by the Honourable Justice 
 Norwynne. 
 
 "Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the 
 
 village of Anfield, in the county of " [William started 
 
 at the name of the village and county] ; " but being led 
 astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell from 
 the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which instilled 
 into her young heart all their evil ways, and at length 
 brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her death 
 will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex, how 
 they listen to the praises and courtship of young men, es- 
 pecially of those who are their betters ; for they only court 
 
 M M 
 
53° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 to deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all persons 
 who have done her injury, or given her sorrow, from 
 the young man who first won her heart, to the jury who 
 found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her to 
 death. 
 
 "And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not 
 only in respect of the crime for which she suffers, but in 
 regard to many other heinous sins of which she has been 
 guilty, more especially that of once attempting to commit a 
 murder upon her own helpless child, for which guilt she 
 now considers the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to 
 which she is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and 
 charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy 
 on her parting soul." 
 
 " Postcript to the Confession. 
 
 "So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death, and 
 the awful judgment that was to follow, that when sentence 
 was pronounced upon her, she fell into a swoon, from that 
 into convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, 
 but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that 
 short interval in which she made her confession to the 
 clergyman who attended her. She has left one child, a 
 youth about sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother 
 during all the time of her imprisonment, but waited on her 
 with true filial duty : and no sooner was her fatal sentence 
 passed, than he began to droop, and now lies dangerously 
 ill near the prison from which she is released by death. 
 During the loss of her senses, the said Agnes Primrose 
 raved continually of this child ; and, asking for pen, ink, and 
 paper, wrote an incoherent petition to the judge, recom- 
 mending the youth to his protection and mercy. But, not- 
 withstanding this insanity, she behaved with composure and 
 resignation when the fatal morning arrived in which she 
 
NATURE AND ART. 53 1 
 
 was to be launched into eternity. She prayed devoutly 
 during the last hour, and seemed to have her whole mind 
 ~~~"rixed on the world to which she was going. A crowd of 
 spectators followed her to the fatal spot, most of whom re- 
 turned weeping at the recollection of the fervency with 
 which she prayed, and the impression which her dreadful 
 state seemed to make upon her." 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 No sooner had the name of "Anfield" struck William, 
 than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on 
 his mind to give him full conviction whom it was he had 
 judged and sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of 
 Agnes, such as he once had known her ; and now he won- 
 dered how his thoughts could have been absent from an 
 object so pitiable, so worthy of his attention, as not to give 
 him even a suspicion who she was, either from her name, or 
 from her person, during the whole trial. . 
 
 But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sensa- 
 tion, was absorbed by — Remorse : — it wounded, it stabbed, 
 it rent his hard heart, as it would do a tender one. It made 
 havoc on his firm inflexible mind, as it would on a 
 weak and pliant brain ! — Spirit of Agnes ! look down 
 and behold all your wrongs revenged ! William feels — 
 Remorse / 
 
 
 M M 2 
 
532 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 A few momentary cessations from the pangs of a guilty- 
 conscience were given to William as soon as he had des- 
 patched a messenger to the gaol in which Agnes had been 
 confined, to inquire after the son she had left behind, and 
 to give orders that immediate care should be taken of him. 
 He likewise charged the messenger to bring back the peti- 
 tion she had addressed to him during her supposed insanity; 
 for he now experienced no trivial consolation in the thought, 
 that he might possibly have it in his power to grant her a 
 request. 
 
 The messenger returned with the written paper, which had 
 been considered by the persons to whom she had entrusted 
 it, as the distracted dictates of an insane mind ; but proved 
 to William, beyond a doubt, that she was perfectly in her 
 senses. 
 
 "To My Lord Justice Norwynne. 
 "My Lord, 
 
 " I am Agnes Primrose, the daughter of John and Hannah 
 Primrose, of Anfield. My father and mother lived by the 
 hill at the side of the little brook where you used to fish, and 
 so first saw me. 
 
 " Pray, my Lord, have mercy on my sorrows : pity me for 
 the first time, and spare my life. I know I have done 
 wrong — I know it is presumption in me to dare to apply to 
 
NATURE AND ART. 533 
 
 you, such a wicked and mean wretch as I am ; but, my Lord, 
 you once condescended to take notice of me — and though I 
 have been very wicked since that time, yet, if you would be 
 so merciful as to spare my life, I promise to amend it for 
 the future. But, if you think it proper I should die, I will 
 be resigned : but, then, I hope, I beg, I supplicate, that you 
 will grant my other petition. Pray, pray, my Lord, if you 
 cannot pardon me, be merciful to the child I leave behind. 
 What he will do when I am gone, I don't know — for I hatfe 
 been the only friend he has had ever since he was born., / He 
 was born, my Lord, about sixteen years ago, at Anfield one 
 summers morning, and carried by your cousin, Mr. Henry 
 Xorwynne, to Mr. Rymer's, the curate there — and I swore 
 whose child he was, before the Dean, and I did not take a 
 false oath. Indeed, indeed, my Lord, I did not. 
 
 " I will say no more for fear this should not come safe to 
 your hand, for the people treat me as if I were mad. So I 
 will say no more, only this, that whether I live or die, I 
 forgive everybody, and I hope even-body will forgive me, 
 and I pray that God will take pity on my son if you refuse : 
 but I hope you will not refuse. 
 
 u Agnes Primrose." 
 
 William rejoiced as he laid down the petition, that she 
 had asked a favour he could bestow ; and hoped by his pro- 
 tection of the son to redress, in some degree, the wrongs he 
 had done the mother. He instantly sent for the messenger 
 into his apartment, and impatiently asked, " If he had seen 
 the boy, and given proper directions for his care.' 3 
 
 " I have given directions, Sir, for his funeral." 
 
 J' How ! " cried William. 
 
 " He pined away ever since his mother was confined, and 
 died two days after her execution/' 
 
 Robbed, by this news, of his only gleam of consolation — 
 
I 
 
 534 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 « 
 in the consciousness of having done a mortal injury for 
 which he never now by any means could atone, he saw 
 all his honours, all his riches, all his proud, selfish triumphs 
 fade before him ! They seemed like airy nothings, which 
 in rapture he would exchange for the peace of a tranquil 
 conscience ! 
 
 *~ He envied Agnes the death to which he first exposed, then 
 condemned her ; he envied her even the life she struggled 
 through from his neglect, and felt that his future days would 
 be far less happy than her former existence. He calculated 
 with precision. 
 
NATURE AND ART. ^35 
 
 X 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 The progressive rise of William, and fall of Agnes, had 
 now occupied nearly the term of eighteen years. Added to 
 these, another year elapsed before the younger Henry com- 
 pleted the errand on which his heart was fixed, and returned 
 to England. Shipwreck, imprisonment, and other ills to 
 Which the poor and unfriended traveller is peculiarly ex- 
 posed, detained the father and son in various remote regions 
 until the present period; and, for the last fifteen years, 
 denied them the means of all correspondence with their own 
 country. 
 
 The elder Henry was now past sixty years of age, and the 
 younger almost beyond the prime of life. Still length of 
 time had not diminished, but rather had increased, their 
 anxious longings for their native home. 
 
 The sorrows, disappointments, and fatigues which 
 throughout these tedious years were endured by the two 
 Henrys are of that dull monotonous kind of suffering, 
 better omitted than described; mere repetitions of the 
 exile's woe, that shall give place to the transporting joy of 
 return from banishment ! Yet, often as the younger had 
 reckoned, with impatient wishes, the hours which were 
 passed distant from her he loved, no sooner was his 
 disastrous voyage at an end — no sooner had his feet trod 
 upon the shore of Britain, than a thousand wounding fears 
 made him almost doubt whether it were happiness or misery 
 
53^ NATURE AND ART. 
 
 he had obtained by his arrival. If Rebecca were living, he 
 knew it must be happiness ; for his heart dwelt with confi- 
 dence on her faith — her unchanging sentiments. "But 
 death might possibly have ravished from his hopes what no 
 mortal power could have done." And thus the lover creates 
 a rival in every ill, rather than suffer his fears to remain in- 
 animate. 
 
 The elder Henry had less to fear or to hope than his son ; 
 yet he both feared and hoped with a sensibility that gave 
 him great anxiety. He hoped his brother would receive 
 him with kindness, after his long absence, and once more 
 take his son cordially to his favour. He longed impatiently 
 to behold his brother ; to see his nephew ; nay, in the ardour 
 of the renewed affection he just now felt, he thought even a 
 distant view of Lady Clementina would be grateful to his 
 sight ! But still, well remembering the pomp, the state, the 
 pride of William, he could not rely on his affection, so much 
 he knew that it depended on external circumstances to ex- 
 cite or to extinguish his love. Not that he feared an abso- 
 lute repulse from his brother; but he feared, what, to a 
 delicate mind, is still worse, reserved manners, cold looks, 
 absent sentences, and all that cruel retinue of forms of in- 
 difference, with which those who are beloved so often wound 
 the bosom that adores them. 
 
 By inquiring of their countrymen (whom they met as 
 they approached the end of their voyage) concerning their 
 relation the Dean, the two Henrys learned that he was well, 
 and had for some years past been exalted to the Bishopric of 
 * * * . This news gave them joy, while it increased 
 their fear of not receiving an affectionate welcome. 
 
 The younger Henry, on his landing, wrote immediately to 
 his uncle, acquainting him with his father's arrival in the 
 most abject state of poverty ; he addressed his letter to the 
 Bishop's country residence, where he knew, as it was the 
 
NATURE AND ART. 537 
 
 summer season, he would certainly be. He and his father 
 then set off on foot, towards that residence — a palace ! 
 
 The Bishop's palace was not situated above fifty miles 
 from the port where they had landed ; and at a small inn 
 about three miles from the Bishop's, they proposed (as the 
 letter to him intimated) to wait for his answer, before they 
 intruded into his presence. 
 
 As they walked on their solitary journey, it was some 
 small consolation that no creature knew them. 
 
 To be poor and ragged, father." the younger smilingly 
 said, " is no disgrace, no shame, thank Heaven, where the 
 I object is not known." 
 
 "True, my son," replied Henry: "and perhaps I feel 
 myself much happier now, unknowing and unknown to all 
 but you, than I shall in the presence of my fortunate brother 
 and his family; for there, confusion at my ill success 
 through life may give me greater pain, than even my mis- 
 fortunes have inflicted." 
 
 After uttering this reflection which had preyed upon his 
 mind, he sat down on the road-side to rest his agitated 
 limbs, before he could proceed farther. His son reasoned 
 with him — gave him courage; and now his hopes pre- 
 ponderated, till after two days' journey, on arriving at the 
 inn where an answer from the Bishop was expected, no 
 -^tetter, no message had been left. 
 
 " He means to renounce us," said Henry, trembling, and 
 \ whispering to his son. 
 
 Without disclosing to the people of the house who they 
 were, or from whom the letter or the message they inquired 
 for was to have come, they retired, and consulted what steps 
 they were now to pursue. 
 
 Previously to writing to the Bishop, the younger Heniy's 
 heart, all his inclinations, had swayed him towards a visit to 
 the village in which was his uncle's former country seat — 
 
53§ NATURE AND ART. 
 
 the beloved village of Anfield ; but respect to him, and duty 
 to his father, had made him check those wishes ; now they 
 revived again ; and with the image of Rebecca before his 
 eyes, he warmly entreated his father to go with him to 
 Anfield, at present only thirty miles distant, and thence write 
 once more — then again wait the will of his uncle. 
 
 The father consented to this proposal, even glad to post- 
 pone the visit to his dignified brother. 
 
 After a scanty repast, such as they had been long inured 
 to, they quitted the inn, and took the road towards Anfield. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 539 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 It was about five in the afternoon of a summer's day, that 
 Henry and his son left the sign of the Mermaid, to pursue 
 their third day's journey : the young man's spirits elated 
 with the prospect of the reception he should meet from 
 Rebecca ; the elder dejected, at not having received a 
 speedy welcome from his brother. 
 
 The road which led to Anfield by the shortest course, of 
 necessity took our travellers within sight of the Bishop's 
 palace. The turrets appeared at a distance ; and on the 
 sudden turn round the corner of a large plantation, the 
 whole magnificent structure was at once exhibited before 
 his brother's astonished eyes ; He was struck with the 
 grandeur of the habitation ; and, totally forgetting all the 
 unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had ever received 
 from its owner (like the same Henry in his earlier years), 
 smiled with a kind of transport, " that William was so great 
 a man." \ 
 
 After this first joyous sensation was over, "Let us go 
 a little nearer, my son," said he ; " no one will see us, I 
 hope : or, if they should, you can run and conceal your- 
 self ; and not a creature will know me; even my brother 
 would not know me thus altered ; and I wish to take a 
 little farther view of his fine house, and all his pleasure- 
 grounds." 
 
 Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not 
 object to his father's desire. They walked forward between 
 
54° NATURE AXD ART. 
 
 a shady grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in odours from 
 the jessamine banks, and listened to the melody of an ad- 
 joining aviary. 
 
 The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the elder 
 Henry, and he at length sauntered to the very avenue of the 
 dwelling ; but just as he had set his daring yet trembling 
 feet upon the turf which led to the palace gates, he suddenly 
 stopped on hearing, as he thought, the village clock strike 
 seven ; which reminded him that evening drew on, and it 
 was time to go. He listened again, when he and his son, 
 both together, said, " It is the toll of the bell before some 
 funeral." 
 
 ^The siruals of death, while they humble the rich, inspire 
 the poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a 
 momentary sense of equality ; and he courageously stepped 
 forward to the first winding of the avenue. 
 
 He started back at the sight which presented itself ! 
 
 A hearse — mourning coaches — mutes — plumed horses — 
 with every- other token of the person's importance who was 
 going to be committed to the earth. 
 
 Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly 
 struck, when a coffin borne by six men issued from the 
 gates, and was deposited in the waiting receptacle : while 
 gentlemen in mourning went into different coaches. 
 
 A standard bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on 
 which the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry, 
 upon this, pathetically exclaimed, " My uncle ! it is my 
 uncle's funeral ! " 
 
 Henry, his father, burst into tears. 
 
 The procession moved along. 
 
 The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, 
 followed at a little distance — in rags, but — in tears. 
 
 The elder Henry's heart was nearly bursting : he longed 
 to clasp the dear remains of his brother, without the dread 
 
NATURE AND ART. 54 1 
 
 of being spurned for his presumption. He now could no 
 longer remember him either as the Dean or Bishop ; but, 
 leaping over that whole interval of pride and arrogance, 
 called only to his memory William, such as he knew him 
 when they lived at home together, — together walked to Lon- 
 don, and there together — almost perished for want. 
 
 They arrived at the church ; and, while the coffin was 
 placing in the dreary vault, the weeping brother crept slowly 
 after to the hideous spot. His reflections now fixed on a 
 different point. "Is this possible?" said he to himself. "Is 
 this the Dean, whom I ever feared? Is this the Bishop, of 
 whom within the present hour I stood in awe? Is this 
 William, whose every glance struck me with his superiority ? 
 Alas, my brother ! and is this horrid abode the reward for 
 all your aspiring efforts ? Are these sepulchral trappings 
 the only testimonies of your greatness, which you exhibit 
 to me on my return? Did you foresee an end like this, 
 while you treated me, and many more of your youthful 
 companions, with haughtiness and contempt ; while you 
 thought it becoming of your dignity to shun and despise 
 us ? Where is the difference now, between my departed 
 wife and you ? or, if there be a difference, she, perchance, 
 has the advantage. Ah, my poor brother! for distinction 
 in the other world, I trust, some of your anxious labours 
 have been employed ; for you are now of less importance 
 in this than when you and I first left our native town, and 
 hoped for nothing greater than to be suffered to exist." 
 
 On their quitting the church, they inquired of the by- 
 standers the immediate cause of the Bishop's death, and 
 heard he had been suddenly carried off by a raging fever. 
 
 Young Henry inquired "if Lady Clementina was at the 
 palace, or Mr. Norwynne ? " 
 
 " The latter is there," he was answered by a poor woman ; 
 "but Lady Clementina has been dead these four years." 
 
5 4 2 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 '•'Dead! dead!" cried young Henry. "That worldly 
 woman ! quitted this world for ever ! ; 
 
 '•'Yes," answered the stranger: "she caught cold by 
 wearing a new-fashioned dress that did not half cover her, 
 wasted all away, and died the miserablest object you ever 
 heard of." 
 
 The person who gave this melancholy intelligence con- 
 cluded it with a hearty laugh ; which would have surprised 
 the two hearers, if they had not before observed, that 
 amongst all the village crowd that attended to see this 
 solemn show, not one afflicted countenance appeared, not 
 one dejected look, not one water}- eye. The pastor was 
 " scarcely known to his nock : it was in London that his 
 meridian lay, at the levee of ministers, at the table of peers, 
 at the drawing-rooms of the great: and now his neglected 
 parishioners paid his indifference in kind. 
 . The ceremony over, and the mourning suite departed, the 
 spectators dispersed with gibes and jeering faces from the 
 sad spot : while the Henrys, with heavy hearts, retraced their 
 steps back towards the palace. In their way, at the 
 crossing of a stile, they met a poor labourer returning from 
 his day's work ; who, looking earnestly at the throng of 
 persons who were leaving the churchyard, said to the elder 
 Henry — 
 
 "Pray, master, what are all them folk all gathered together 
 about ? \\ "hats the matter there ? ;; 
 
 " There has been a funeral," replied Henry. 
 
 " Oh. zooks ! what ! a burying — ay, now I see it is : and 
 I wurrant, of our old Bishop — I heard he was main ill. 
 It is he they have been putting into the ground ! is 
 not it ? ; ' 
 
 "Yes," said Henry. 
 
 " Why, then, so much the better.'' 5 
 
 " The better ! " cried Henry. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 543 
 
 :'s sheep, j 
 stor — the ! 
 
 " Yes, master ; though I should be loath to be where he is 
 now." 
 
 Henry started — " He was your pastor, man ! " 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! I should be sorry that my master' 
 that are feeding yonder, should have no better pastor 
 fox would soon get them all." 
 
 "You surely did not know him ! " 
 
 " Not much, I can't say I did ; for he was above speaking 
 to poor folks, unless they did any mischief — and then he 
 was sure to take notice of them." 
 
 " I believe he meant well," said Henry. 
 
 " As to what he meant, God only knows ; but I know what 
 he did? 
 
 "And what did he?" 
 
 " Nothing at all for the poor." 
 
 " If any of them applied to him, no doubt " 
 
 "Oh, they knew better than all that comes to ; for if 
 
 ^__jthey asked for anything, he was sure to have them sent to 
 
 bridewell, or the workhouse. He used to say, ' The work- 
 
 1 house was a fine place for a poor man— the food good 
 
 enough, and enough of itj ' yet he kept a dainty table him- 
 
 \ self. His dogs, too, fared better than we poor. He was 
 
 -vastly tender and good to all his horses and dogs, I will 
 
 say that for him ; and to all brute beasts : he would not 
 
 suffer them to be either starved or struck — but he had no 
 
 compassion for his fellow-creatures." ,*— — * 
 
 " I am sensible you do him wrong." 
 
 " That he is the best judge of by this time. He has sent 
 many a poor man to the house of correction ; and now 'tis 
 well if he has not got a place there himself. Ha, ha, 
 ha!" 
 
 The man was walking away, when Henry called to him, 
 — " Pray can you tell me if the Bishop's son be at the 
 palace ? " 
 
544 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! you'll find master there, treading in the old 
 man's shoes, as proud as Lucifer." 
 
 " Has he any children ? " 
 
 " No, thank God ! There's been enow of the name ; and, 
 after the son is gone, I hope we shall have no more of the 
 breed." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Norwynne, the son's wife, at the palace ?" 
 
 " What, master ! did not you know what's become of 
 her?" 
 
 "Any accident?" 
 Ha, ha, ha ! yes. I can't help laughing — why, master, 
 she made a mistake, and went to another man's bed — and so 
 her husband and she were parted — and she has married the 
 other man." 
 
 "Indeed !" cried Henry, amazed. 
 
 "Ay, indeed; but if it had been my wife, or yours, the 
 Bishop would have made her do penance in a white sheet : 
 but, as it was a lady, why, it was all very well — and any 
 one of us that had been known to talk about it would have 
 been sent to bridewell straight. But we did talk, notwith- 
 standing." 
 
 The malicious joy with which the peasant told this story 
 made Henry believe (more than all the complaints the man 
 uttered) that there had been want of charity and Christian 
 deportment in the whole conduct of the Bishop's family. 
 
 tie almost wished himself back on his savage island, where 
 >rotherly love could not be less than it appeared to be in 
 his civilized country. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 545 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 As Henry and his son, after parting from the poor la- 
 bourer, approached the late Bishop's palace, all the charms 
 of its magnificence, its situation, which but a few hours 
 before had captivated the elder Henry's mind, were 
 vanished ; and, from the mournful ceremony he had since 
 been witness of, he now viewed this noble edifice but as a 
 heap of rubbish piled together, to fascinate weak under- 
 standings and to make even the wise and religious man at 
 times forget why he was sent into this world. 
 
 Instead of presenting themselves to their nephew and 
 cousin, they both felt an uncomfortable reluctance to enter 
 under the superb, the melancholy roof. A bank, a hedge, a 
 tree, a hill, seemed, at this juncture, a pleasanter shelter ; 
 and each felt himself happy in being a harmless wanderer 
 on the face of the earth, rather than living in splendour, 
 while the wants of the hungry and the naked were crying to 
 Heaven for vengeance. 
 
 They gave a heart-felt sigh to the vanity of the rich and 
 the powerful ; and pursued a path where they hoped to meet 
 with virtue and happiness. 
 
 They arrived at Anfield. 
 
 Possessed by apprehensions, which his uncle's funeral had 
 served to increase, young Henry, as he entered the well- 
 known village, feared every sound he heard would convey 
 information of Rebecca's death. He saw the parsonage- 
 house at a distance, but dreaded to approach it, lest Re- 
 becca should no longer be an inhabitant. His father 
 N N 
 
546 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 indulged him in the wish to take a short survey of the 
 'village, and rather learn by indirect means — by observation — 
 his fate, than hear it all at once from the lips of some blunt 
 relater. 
 
 Anfield had undergone great changes since Henry left it. 
 He found some cottages built where formerly there were 
 none; and some were no more where he had frequently 
 called and held short conversations with the poor who dwelt 
 in them. Amongst the latter number was the house of the 
 parents of Agnes — fallen to the ground ! He wondered to 
 himself where that poor family had taken up their abode. 
 Henry ! in a kinder world ! 
 
 He once again cast a look at the old parsonage-house. 
 His inquisitive eye informed him there no alteration had 
 taken place externally ; but he feared what change might be 
 within. 
 
 At length he obtained the courage to enter the church- 
 yard in his way to it. As he slowly and tremblingly moved 
 along, he stopped to read here and there a grave- stone ; as 
 mild, instructive, conveyers of intelligence, to which he 
 could attend with more resignation than to any other re- 
 porter. 
 
 The second stone he came to he found was erected To the 
 memory of the Reverend Tho7nas Rymer, Rebecca's father. 
 He instantly called to mind all that poor Curate's quick 
 sensibility of wrong towards himself: his unbridled rage in 
 consequence ; and smiled to think how trivial now appeared 
 all for which he gave way to such excess of passion ! 
 
 But, shocked at the death of one so near to her he loved, 
 he now feared to read on, and cast his eyes from the tombs 
 accidentally to the church. Through the window of the 
 chancel his sight was struck with a tall monument of large 
 dimensions, raised since his departure, and adorned with the 
 finest sculpture. His curiosity was excited — he drew near, 
 
NATURE AND ART. 547 
 
 and could distinguish (followed by elegant poetic praise) 
 "-To the memory of John Lord Viscount Bendham." 
 
 Notwithstanding the solemn, melancholy, anxious bent of 
 Henry's mind, he could not read these words and behold 
 this costly fabric without indulging a momentary fit of in- 
 dignant laughter. 
 
 " Are sculpture and poetry thus debased," he cried " to 
 perpetuate the memory of a man whose best advantage is to 
 be forgotten ; whose no one action merits record, but as an 
 example to be shunned ? " 
 
 An elderly woman, leaning on her staff, now passed along 
 the lane by the side of the church. The younger Henry 
 accosted her, and ventured to inquire " where the daughters 
 of Mr. Rymer, since his death, were gone to live ? " 
 
 " We live," she returned, " in that small cottage across the 
 clover-field." 
 
 Henry looked again, and thought he had mistaken the 
 word we j for he felt assured that he had no knowledge of 
 the person to whom he spoke. 
 
 rBut she knew him, and, after a pause, cried, " Ah, Mr. 
 Henry, you are welcome back. I am heartily glad to see 
 you — and my poor sister Rebecca will go out of her wits 
 with joy." 
 
 "Is Rebecca living, and will be glad to see me?" he 
 eagerly asked, while tears of rapture trickled down his face. 
 " Father," he continued, in his ecstacy, " we are now come 
 home to be completely happy ; and I feel as if all the years 
 Ihave been away were but a short week; and as if all the 
 dangers I have passed had been light as air. But is it pos- 
 sible," he cried, to his kind informer, " that you are one of 
 Rebecca's sisters ? " 
 
 "Well might he ask; for, instead of the blooming woman 
 of seven-and-twenty he had left her, her colour was gone, 
 her teeth impaired, her voice broken. She was near fifty. 
 
 N N 2 
 
54-8 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 " Yes, I am one of Mr. Rymer's daughters," she replied. 
 
 " But which ? " said Henry. 
 
 " The eldest, and once called the prettiest," she returned, 
 " though people now tell me I am altered ; yet I cannot say 
 I see it myself." 
 
 " And are you all living ? " Henry inquired. 
 
 "All but one. She married and died. The other three, 
 on my father's death, agreed to live together, and knit or 
 spin for our support. So we took that small cottage, and 
 furnished it with some of the parsonage furniture, as you 
 shall see ; and kindly welcome I am sure you will be to all it 
 affords, though that is but little." 
 
 As she was saying this she led him through the clover- 
 field towards the cottage. His heart rebounded with joy 
 that Rebecca was there ; yet, as he walked, he shuddered at 
 the impression which he feared the first sight of her would 
 make. He feared, what he imagined (till he had seen this 
 change in her sister) he should never heed. He feared 
 Rebecca would look no longer young. He was not yet so 
 far master over all his sensual propensities as, when the 
 trial came, to think he could behold her look like her sister 
 and not give some evidence of his disappointment. 
 
 His fears were vain. On entering the gate of their little 
 garden, Rebecca rushed from the house to meet them, just 
 the same Rebecca as ever. 
 
 It was her mind which, beaming on her face and actuating 
 her every motion, had ever constituted all her charms — it 
 was her mind which had gained her Henry's affection. That 
 mind had undergone no change ; and she was the self-same 
 woman he had left her. 
 
 He was entranced with joy. 
 
NATURE AND ART. 549 
 
 CHAPTER XLVL 
 
 The fare which the Henrys partook at the cottage of the 
 female Rymers was such as the sisters had described — 
 mean, and even scanty; but this did not in the least di- 
 minish the happiness they received in meeting, for the first 
 time since their arrival in England, human beings who were 
 glad to see them. 
 
 At a stinted repast of milk and vegetables, by the glim- v 
 mering light of a little brushwood on the hearth, they yet 
 could feel themselves comparatively blessed while they 
 listened to the recital of afflictions which had befallen 
 persons around that very neighbourhood, for whom every 
 delicious viand had been procured to gratify the taste, every 
 art devised to delight the other senses. 
 
 It was by the side of this glimmering fire that Rebecca 
 and her sisters told the story of poor Agnes's fate, and of 
 the thorn it had for ever planted in William's bosom — of his- 
 reported sleepless, perturbed nights, and his gloomy, or half- 
 distracted days; when, in the fulness of remorse, he has 
 complained "of a guilty conscience! of the weariness 
 attached to continual prosperity! the misery of wanting an 
 object of affection ! " 
 
 They told of Lord Bendham's death from the effects of 
 intemperance; from a mass of blood infected by high- 
 seasoned dishes, mixed with copious draughts of wine — 
 repletion of food and liquor, not less fatal to the existence 
 of the rich, than the want of common sustenance to the lives 
 of the poor. 
 
£ 
 
 S$° NATURE AND ART. 
 
 They told of Lady Bendham's ruin, since her Lord's 
 death, by gaming. They told "that now she suffered 
 beyond the pain of common indigence, by the cutting 
 triumph of those whom she formerly despised." 
 
 They related (what has been told before) the divorce of 
 William, and the marriage of his wife with a libertine ; the 
 decease of Lady Clementina, occasioned by that incorrigible 
 vanity which even old age could not subdue. 
 
 After numerous other examples had been recited of the 
 dangers — the evils that riches draw upon their owner, the 
 elder Henry rose from his chair, and, embracing Rebecca 
 and his son, said, " How much indebted are we to Provi- 
 dence, my children, who, while it inflicts poverty, bestows 
 peace of mind ; and, in return for the trivial grief we meet 
 in this world, holds out to our longing hopes the reward of 
 the next ! " 
 
 Not only resigned, but happy in their station, with hearts 
 made cheerful rather than dejected by attentive meditation, 
 Henry and his son planned the means of their future sup- 
 port, independent of their kinsman William — nor only of 
 him, but of every person and thing, but their own industry. 
 
 "While I have health and strength," cried the old man, 
 and his son's looks acquiesced in all the father said, " I will 
 not take from any one in affluence what only belongs to the 
 widow, the fatherless, and the infirm ; for to such alone, by 
 Christian laws: — however custom may subvert them — the 
 overplus of the rich is due." 
 
NATURE AND ART. 55 1 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 By forming an humble scheme for their remaining life — a 
 scheme depending upon their own exertions alone — on no 
 light promises of pretended friends, and on no sanguine 
 hopes of certain success, but with prudent apprehension, 
 with fortitude against disappointment, Henry, his son, and 
 Rebecca (now his daughter) found themselves, at the end of 
 one year, in the enjoyment of every comfort which such dis- 
 tinguished minds know how to taste. 
 
 Exempt both from patronage and from control, healthy, 
 alive to every fruition with which nature blesses the world, 
 dead to all out of their power to attain — the works of art, 
 susceptible of those passions which endear human creatures 
 one to another, insensible to those which separate man from 
 man, they found themselves the thankful inhabitants of a 
 small house or hut, placed on the borders of the sea. 
 
 Each morning wakes the father and the son to cheerful 
 labour in fishing, or the tending of a garden, the produce of 
 which they carry to the next market town. The evening 
 sends them back to their home in joy, where Rebecca meets 
 them at the door, affectionately boasts of the warm meal 
 that is ready, and heightens the charm of conversation with 
 her taste and judgment. 
 
 It was after a supper of roots from their garden, poultry 
 
552 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 that Rebecca's hand had reared, and a jug brewed by young 
 Henry, that the following discourse took place : — 
 
 " My son," said the elder Henry, " where, under heaven, 
 shall three persons be met together happy as we three are ? 
 It is the want of industry, or the want of reflection, which 
 makes the poor dissatisfied. Labour gives a value to rest 
 which the idle can never taste ; and reflection gives to the 
 mind a degree of content which the unthinking never can 
 know." 
 
 " I once," replied the younger Henry, " considered poverty 
 a curse ; but after my thoughts became enlarged, and I had 
 associated for years with the rich, and now mix with the 
 poor, my opinion has undergone a total change — for I have 
 seen, and have enjoyed, more real pleasure at work with my 
 fellow-labourers, and in this cottage, than ever I beheld, or 
 experienced, during my abode at my uncle's ; during all my 
 intercourse with the fashionable and the powerful of this 
 world." 
 
 " The worst is," said Rebecca, " the poor have not always 
 enough." 
 
 " Who has enough ? " asked her husband. " Had my 
 uncle? No; he hoped for more, and in all his writings 
 sacrificed his duty to his avarice. Had his son enough, 
 when he yielded up his honour, his domestic peace, to 
 gratify his ambition ? Had Lady Bendham enough, when 
 she staked all she had, in the hope of becoming richer ? 
 Were we, my Rebecca, of discontented minds, we have now 
 too little ; but, conscious from observation and experience 
 that the rich are not so happy as ourselves, we rejoice in 
 our lot." 
 
 The tear of joy which stole from her eye expressed, more 
 than his words, — a state of happiness. 
 
 He continued : — " I remember, when I first came a boy to 
 England, the poor excited my compassion ; but now that my 
 
NATURE AND ART. 553 
 
 judgment is matured, I pity the rich. I know that in this 
 opulent kingdom there are nearly as many persons perishing 
 through intemperance as starving with hunger ; there are as 
 many miserable in the lassitude of having nothing to do as 
 there are of those bowed down to the earth with hard 
 labour ; there are more persons who draw upon themselves 
 calamity by following their own will than there are who ex- 
 perience it by obeying the will of another. Add to this that 
 the rich are so much afraid of dying, they have no comfort 
 in living." 
 
 " There the poor have another advantage,"' said Rebecca : 
 " for they may defy not only death, but every- loss by sea or 
 land, as they have nothing to lose." 
 
 "Besides," added the elder Henry, "there is a certain joy, 
 of the most gratifying kind that the human mind is capable 
 of tasting, peculiar to the poor, and of which the rich can 
 but seldom experience the delight." 
 
 " What can that be ? " cried Rebecca. 
 
 "A kind word, a benevolent smile, one token of esteem 
 from the person whom we consider as our superior." 
 
 To which Rebecca replied, " And the rarity of obtaining 
 such a token is what increases the honour." 
 
 "Certainly," returned young Henry; "and yet those in 
 poverty, ungrateful as they are, murmur against that govern- 
 ment from which they receive the blessing." 
 
 " But this is the fault of education — of early prejudice," 
 said the elder Henry. " Our children observe us pay re- 
 spect, even reverence, to the wealthy, while we slight or 
 despise the poor. The impression thus made on their minds 
 in youth is indelible during the more advanced periods of 
 life; and they continue to pine after riches, and lament 
 under poverty. Nor is the seeming folly wholly destitute of 
 reason; for human beings are not yet so deeply sunk in 
 voluptuous gratification, or childish vanity, as to place 
 
554 NATURE AND ART. 
 
 delight in any attainment which has not for its end the love 
 or admiration of their fellow-beings." 
 
 " Let the poor, then," cried the younger Henry, " no more 
 be their own persecutors — no longer pay homage to wealth 
 f — instantaneously the whole idolatrous worship will cease — 
 the idol will be broken." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 THOS. DE LA RUE AND CO., PRINTERS, BUNHILL ROW, LONDON. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
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