A Simple Story
by Mrs. Inchbald · English · Gutenberg #22002 · 622,295 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Simple Story
Author: Mrs. Inchbald
Editor: Lytton Strachey
Release date: July 5, 2007 [eBook #22002]
Most recently updated: October 1, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22002
Credits: David Edwards, Marcia Brooks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SIMPLE STORY ***
A SIMPLE STORY
BY
MRS. INCHBALD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
G. L. STRACHEY
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE
1908
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
Transcriber’s Note: Table of Contents Added.
Left Archaic spellings, but made minor changes to punctuation.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
PREFACE.
Volume I
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
Volume II
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
Volume III
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
Volume IV
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
Plays written by Mrs. Inchbald
INTRODUCTION
_A Simple Story_ is one of those books which, for some reason or other,
have failed to come down to us, as they deserved, along the current of
time, but have drifted into a literary backwater where only the
professional critic or the curious discoverer can find them out. “The
iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy;” and nowhere more
blindly than in the republic of letters. If we were to inquire how it
has happened that the true value of Mrs. Inchbald’s achievement has
passed out of general recognition, perhaps the answer to our question
would be found to lie in the extreme difficulty with which the mass of
readers detect and appreciate mere quality in literature. Their
judgment is swayed by a hundred side-considerations which have nothing
to do with art, but happen easily to impress the imagination, or to fit
in with the fashion of the hour. The reputation of Mrs. Inchbald’s
contemporary, Fanny Burney, is a case in point. Every one has heard of
Fanny Burney’s novels, and _Evelina_ is still widely read. Yet it is
impossible to doubt that, so far as quality alone is concerned,
_Evelina_ deserves to be ranked considerably below _A Simple Story_.
But its writer was the familiar friend of the greatest spirits of her
age; she was the author of one of the best of diaries; and her work was
immediately and immensely popular. Thus it has happened that the name
of Fanny Burney has maintained its place upon the roll of English
novelists, while that of Mrs. Inchbald is forgotten.
But the obscurity of Mrs. Inchbald’s career has not, of course, been
the only reason for the neglect of her work. The merits of _A Simple
Story_ are of a kind peculiarly calculated to escape the notice of a
generation of readers brought up on the fiction of the nineteenth
century. That fiction, infinitely various as it is, possesses at least
one characteristic common to the whole of it—a breadth of outlook upon
life, which can be paralleled by no other body of literature in the
world save that of the Elizabethans. But the comprehensiveness of view
shared by Dickens and Tolstoy, by Balzac and George Eliot, finds no
place in Mrs. Inchbald’s work. Compared with _A Simple Story_ even the
narrow canvases of Jane Austen seem spacious pictures of diversified
life. Mrs. Inchbald’s novel is not concerned with the world at large,
or with any section of society, hardly even with the family; its
subject is a group of two or three individuals whose interaction forms
the whole business of the book. There is no local colour in it, no
complexity of detail nor violence of contrast; the atmosphere is vague
and neutral, the action passes among ill-defined sitting-rooms, and the
most poignant scene in the story takes place upon a staircase which has
never been described. Thus the reader of modern novels is inevitably
struck, in _A Simple Story_, by a sense of emptiness and thinness,
which may well blind him to high intrinsic merits. The spirit of the
eighteenth century is certainly present in the book, but it is the
eighteenth century of France rather than of England. Mrs. Inchbald no
doubt owed much to Richardson; her view of life is the indoor
sentimental view of the great author of _Clarissa_; but her treatment
of it has very little in common with his method of microscopic analysis
and vast accumulation. If she belongs to any school, it is among the
followers of the French classical tradition that she must be placed. _A
Simple Story_ is, in its small way, a descendant of the Tragedies of
Racine; and Miss Milner may claim relationship with Madame de Clèves.
Besides her narrowness of vision, Mrs. Inchbald possesses another
quality, no less characteristic of her French predecessors, and no less
rare among the novelists of England. She is essentially a stylist—a
writer whose whole conception of her art is dominated by stylistic
intention. Her style, it is true, is on the whole poor; it is often
heavy and pompous, sometimes clumsy and indistinct; compared with the
style of such a master as Thackeray it sinks at once into
insignificance. But the interest of her style does not lie in its
intrinsic merit so much as in the use to which she puts it. Thackeray’s
style is mere ornament, existing independently of what he has to say;
Mrs. Inchbald’s is part and parcel of her matter. The result is that
when, in moments of inspiration, she rises to the height of her
opportunity, when, mastering her material, she invests her expression
with the whole intensity of her feeling and her thought, then she
achieves effects of the rarest beauty—effects of a kind for which one
may search through Thackeray in vain. The most triumphant of these
passages is the scene on the staircase of Elmwood House—a passage which
would be spoilt by quotation and which no one who has ever read it
could forget. But the same quality is to be found throughout her work.
“Oh, Miss Woodley!” exclaims Miss Milner, forced at last to confess to
her friend what she feels towards Dorriforth, “I love him with all the
passion of a mistress, and with all the tenderness of a wife.” No young
lady, even in the eighteenth century, ever gave utterance to such a
sentence as that. It is the sentence, not of a speaker, but of a
writer; and yet, for that very reason, it is delightful, and comes to
us charged with a curious sense of emotion, which is none the less real
for its elaboration. In _Nature and Art_, Mrs. Inchbald’s second novel,
the climax of the story is told in a series of short paragraphs, which,
for bitterness and concentration of style, are almost reminiscent of
Stendhal:
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 sentence, she started with a kind of convulsive motion,
retreated a step or two back, and, lifting up her hands with a scream,
exclaimed—
“Oh, not from _you_!”
The piercing shriek which accompanied these words prevented their being
heard by part of the audience; and those who heard them thought little
of their meaning, more than that they expressed her fear of dying.
Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been uttered,
William delivered the fatal speech, ending with “Dead, dead, dead”.
She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back to prison in
a swoon; while he adjourned the court to go to dinner.
Here, no doubt, there is a touch of melodrama; but it is the melodrama
of a rhetorician, and, in that fine “She heard it with composure”,
genius has brushed aside the forced and the obvious, to express, with
supreme directness, the anguish of a soul.
For, in spite of Mrs. Inchbald’s artificialities, in spite of her lack
of that kind of realistic description which seems to modern readers the
very blood and breath of a good story, she has the power of doing what,
after all, only a very few indeed of her fellow craftsmen have ever
been able to do—she can bring into her pages the living pressure of a
human passion, she can invest, if not with realism, with something
greater than realism—with the sense of reality itself—the pains, the
triumphs, and the agitations of the human heart. “The heart,” to use
the old-fashioned phrase—there is Mrs. Inchbald’s empire, there is the
sphere of her glory and her command. Outside of it, her powers are weak
and fluctuating. She has no firm grasp of the masculine elements in
character: she wishes to draw a rough man, Sandford, and she draws a
rude one; she tries her hand at a hero, Rushbrook, and she turns out a
prig. Her humour is not faulty, but it is exceedingly slight. What an
immortal figure the dim Mrs. Horton would have become in the hands of
Jane Austen! In _Nature and Art_, her attempts at social satire are
superficial and overstrained. But weaknesses of this kind—and it would
be easy to prolong the list—are what every reader of the following
pages will notice without difficulty, and what no wise one will regard.
“Il ne faut point juger des hommes par ce qu’ils ignorent, mais par ce
qu’ils savent;” and Mrs. Inchbald’s knowledge was as profound as it was
limited. Her Miss Milner is an original and brilliant creation, compact
of charm and life. She is a flirt, and a flirt not only adorable, but
worthy of adoration. Did Mrs. Inchbald take the suggestion of a heroine
with imperfections from the little masterpiece which, on more sides
than one, closely touches her’s—Manon Lescaut? Perhaps; and yet, if
this was so, the borrowing was of the slightest, for it is only in the
fact that she _is_ imperfect that Miss Milner bears to Manon any
resemblance at all. In every other respect, the English heroine is the
precise contrary of the French one: she is a creature of fiery will, of
high bearing, of noble disposition; and her shortcomings are born, not
of weakness, but of excess of strength. Mrs. Inchbald has taken this
character, she has thrown it under the influence of a violent and
absorbing passion, and, upon that theme, she has written her delicate,
sympathetic, and artificial book.
As one reads it, one cannot but feel that it is, if not directly and
circumstantially, at least in essence, autobiographical. One finds
oneself speculating over the author, wondering what was her history,
and how much of it was Miss Milner’s. Unfortunately the greater part of
what we should most like to know of Mrs. Inchbald’s life has vanished
beyond recovery. She wrote her Memoirs, and she burnt them; and who can
tell whether even there we should have found a self-revelation?
Confessions are sometimes curiously discreet, and, in the case of Mrs.
Inchbald, we may be sure that it is only what was indiscreet that would
really be worth the hearing. Yet her life is not devoid of interest. A
brief sketch of it may be welcome to her readers.
Elizabeth Inchbald was born on the 15th of October, 1753, at
Standingfield, near Bury St. Edmunds in Suffolk;[1] one of the numerous
offspring of John and Mary Simpson. The Simpsons, who were Roman
Catholics, held a moderate farm in Standingfield, and ranked among the
gentry of the neighbourhood. In Elizabeth’s eighth year, her father
died; but the family continued at the farm, the elder daughters
marrying and settling in London, while Elizabeth grew up into a
beautiful and charming girl. One misfortune, however, interfered with
her happiness—a defect of utterance which during her early years
rendered her speech so indistinct as to be unintelligible to strangers.
She devoted herself to reading and to dreams of the great world. At
thirteen, she declared she would rather die than live longer without
seeing the world; she longed to go to London; she longed to go upon the
stage. When, in 1770, one of her brothers became an actor at Norwich,
she wrote secretly to his manager, Mr. Griffith, begging for an
engagement. Mr. Griffith was encouraging, and, though no definite steps
were taken, she was sufficiently charmed with him to write out his name
at length in her diary, with the inscription “Each dear letter of thy
name is harmony.” Was Mr. Griffith the hero of the company as well as
its manager? That, at any rate, was clearly Miss Simpson’s opinion; but
she soon had other distractions. In the following year she paid a visit
to her married sisters in London, where she met another actor, Mr.
Inchbald, who seems immediately to have fallen in love with her, and to
have proposed. She remained cool. “In spite of your eloquent pen,” she
wrote to him, with a touch of that sharp and almost bitter sense that
was always hers, “matrimony still appears to me with less charms than
terrors: the bliss arising from it, I doubt not, is superior to any
other—but best not to be ventured for (in my opinion), till some little
time have proved the emptiness of all other; which it seldom fails to
do.” Nevertheless, the correspondence continued, and, early in 1772,
some entries in her diary give a glimpse of her state of mind:—
_Jan. 22_. Saw Mr. Griffith’s picture.
_Jan. 28_. Stole it.
_Jan. 29_. Rather disappointed at not receiving a letter from Mr.
Inchbald.
A few months later she did the great deed of her life: she stepped
secretly into the Norwich coach, and went to London. The days that
followed were full of hazard and adventure, but the details of them are
uncertain. She was a girl of eighteen, absolutely alone, and
astonishingly attractive—“tall,” we are told, “slender, straight, of
the purest complexion, and most beautiful features; her hair of a
golden auburn, her eyes full at once of spirit and sweetness;” and it
was only to be expected that, in such circumstances, romance and daring
would soon give place to discomfort and alarm. She attempted in vain to
obtain a theatrical engagement; she found herself, more than once,
obliged to shift her lodging; and at last, after ten days of
trepidation, she was reduced to apply for help to her married sisters.
This put an end to her difficulties, but, in spite of her efforts to
avoid notice, her beauty had already attracted attention, and she had
received a letter from a stranger, with whom she immediately entered
into correspondence. She had all the boldness of innocence, and, in
addition, a force of character which brought her safely through the
risks she ran. While she was still in her solitary lodging, a
theatrical manager, named Dodd, attempted to use his position as a
cover for seduction. She had several interviews with him alone, and the
story goes that, in the last, she snatched up a basin of hot water and
dashed it in his face. But she was not to go unprotected for long; for
within two months of her arrival in London she had married Mr.
Inchbald.
The next twelve years of Mrs. Inchbald’s life were passed amid the
rough and tumble of the eighteenth-century stage. Her husband was
thirty-seven when she married him, a Roman Catholic like herself, and
an actor who depended for his living upon ill-paid and uncertain
provincial engagements. Mrs. Inchbald conquered her infirmity of speech
and threw herself into her husband’s profession. She accompanied him to
Bristol, to Scotland, to Liverpool, to Birmingham, appearing in a great
variety of rôles, but never with any very conspicuous success. The
record of these journeys throws an interesting light upon the
conditions of the provincial companies of those days. Mrs. Inchbald and
her companions would set out to walk from one Scotch town to another;
they would think themselves lucky if they could climb on to a passing
cart, to arrive at last, drenched with rain perhaps, at some wretched
hostelry. But this kind of barbarism did not stand in the way of an
almost childish gaiety. In Yorkshire, we find the Inchbalds, the
Siddonses, and Kemble retiring to the moors, in the intervals of
business, to play blindman’s buff or puss in the corner. Such were the
pastimes of Mrs. Siddons before the days of her fame. No doubt this
kind of lightheartedness was the best antidote to the experience of
being “saluted with volleys of potatoes and broken bottles”, as the
Siddonses were by the citizens of Liverpool, for having ventured to
appear on their stage without having ever played before the King. On
this occasion, the audience, according to a letter from Kemble to Mrs.
Inchbald, “extinguished all the lights round the house; then jumped
upon the stage; brushed every lamp out with their hats; took back their
money; left the theatre, and determined themselves to repeat this till
they have another company.” These adventures were diversified by a
journey to Paris, undertaken in the hope that Mr. Inchbald, who found
himself without engagements, might pick up a livelihood as a painter of
miniatures. The scheme came to nothing, and the Inchbalds eventually
went to Hull, where they returned to their old profession. Here, in
1779, suddenly and somewhat mysteriously, Mr. Inchbald died. To his
widow the week that followed was one of “grief, horror, and almost
despair”; but soon, with her old pertinacity, she was back at her work,
settling at last in London, and becoming a member of the Covent Garden
company. Here, for the next five years, she earned for herself a meagre
living, until, quite unexpectedly, deliverance came. In her moments of
leisure she had been trying her hand upon dramatic composition; she had
written some farces, and, in 1784, one of them, _A Mogul Tale_, was
accepted, acted, and obtained a great success. This was the
turning-point of her career. She followed up her farce with a series of
plays, either original or adapted, which, almost without exception,
were well received, so that she was soon able to retire from the stage
with a comfortable competence. She had succeeded in life; she was
happy, respected, free.
Mrs. Inchbald’s plays are so bad that it is difficult to believe that
they brought her a fortune. But no doubt it was their faults that made
them popular—their sentimentalities, their melodramatic absurdities,
their strangely false and high-pitched moral tone. They are written in
a jargon which resembles, if it resembles anything, an execrable prose
translation from very flat French verse. “Ah, Manuel!” exclaims one of
her heroines, “I am now amply punished by the Marquis for all my
cruelty to Duke Cordunna—he to whom my father in my infancy betrothed
me, and to whom I willingly pledged my faith, hoping to wed; till
Romono, the Marquis of Romono, came from the field of glory, and with
superior claims of person as of fame, seized on my heart by force, and
perforce made me feel I had never loved till then.” Which is the more
surprising—that actors could be found to utter such speeches, or that
audiences could be collected to applaud them? Perhaps, for us, the most
memorable fact about Mrs. Inchbald’s dramatic work is that one of her
adaptations (from the German of Kotzebue) was no other than that
_Lovers’ Vows_ which, as every one knows, was rehearsed so brilliantly
at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall,
and which, after all, was _not_ performed at Sir Thomas Bertram’s. But
that is an interest _sub specie aeternitatis_; and, from the temporal
point of view, Mrs. Inchbald’s plays must be regarded merely as
means—means towards her own enfranchisement, and that condition of
things which made possible _A Simple Story_. That novel had been
sketched as early as 1777; but it was not completely written until
1790, and not published until the following year. A second edition was
printed immediately, and several more followed; the present reprint is
taken from the fourth, published in 1799—but with the addition of the
characteristic preface, which, after the second edition, was dropped.
The four small volumes of these early editions, with their large type,
their ample spacing, their charming flavour of antiquity, delicacy, and
rest—may be met with often enough in secluded corners of secondhand
bookshops, or on some neglected shelf in the library of a country
house. For their own generation, they represented a distinguished title
to fame. Mrs. Inchbald—to use the expression of her biographer—“was
ascertained to be one of the greatest ornaments of her sex.” She was
painted by Lawrence, she was eulogized by Miss Edgeworth, she was
complimented by Madame de Stael herself. She had, indeed, won for
herself a position which can hardly be paralleled among the women of
the eighteenth century—a position of independence and honour, based
upon talent, and upon talent alone. In 1796 she published _Nature and
Art_, and ten years later appeared her last work—a series of
biographical and critical notices prefixed to a large collection of
acting plays. During the greater part of the intervening period she
lived in lodgings in Leicester Square—or “Leicester Fields” as the
place was still often called—in a house opposite that of Sir Joshua
Reynolds. The œconomy which she had learnt in her early days she
continued to practise; dressing with extraordinary plainness, and often
going without a fire in winter; so that she was able, through her
self-sacrifice, to keep from want a large band of poor relatives and
friends. The society she mixed with was various, but, for the most
part, obscure. There were occasional visits from the now triumphant
Mrs. Siddons; there were incessant propositions—but alas! they were
equivocal—from Sir Charles Bunbury; for the rest, she passed her life
among actor-managers and humble playwrights and unremembered medical
men. One of her friends was William Godwin, who described her to Mrs.
Shelley as a “piquante mixture between a lady and a milkmaid”, and who,
it is said, suggested part of the plot of _A Simple Story_. But she
quarreled with him when he married Mary Wollstonecraft, after whose
death she wrote to him thus—“With the most sincere sympathy in all you
have suffered—with the most perfect forgiveness of all you have said to
me, there must nevertheless be an end to our acquaintance _for ever_. I
respect your prejudices, but I also respect my own.” Far more intimate
were her relations with Dr. Gisborne—a mysterious figure, with whom, in
some tragic manner that we can only just discern, was enacted her final
romance. His name—often in company with that of another physician, Dr.
Warren, for whom, too, she had a passionate affection—occurs frequently
among her papers; and her diary for December 17, 1794, has this
entry:—“Dr. Gisborne drank tea here, and staid very late: he talked
seriously of marrying—but not _me_.” Many years later, one September,
she amused herself by making out a list of all the Septembers since her
marriage, with brief notes as to her state of mind during each. The
list has fortunately survived, and some of the later entries are as
follows:—
1791. London; after my novel, Simple Story ... very happy.
1792. London; in Leicester Square ... cheerful, content, and sometimes
rather happy....
1794. Extremely happy, but for poor Debby’s death.
1795. My brother George’s death, and an intimate acquaintance with Dr.
Gisborne—not happy....
1797. After an alteration in my teeth, and the death of Dr. Warren—yet
far from unhappy.
1798. Happy, but for suspicion amounting almost to certainty of a rapid
appearance of age in my face....
1802. After feeling wholly indifferent about Dr. Gisborne—very happy
but for ill health, ill looks, &c.
1803. After quitting Leicester Square probably for ever—after caring
scarce at all or thinking of Dr. Gisborne ... very happy....
1806.... After the death of Dr. Gisborne, too, often very unhappy, yet
mostly cheerful, and on my return to London nearly happy.
The record, with all its quaintness, produces a curious impression of
stoicism—of a certain grim acceptance of the facts of life. It would
have been a pleasure, certainly, but an alarming pleasure, to have
known Mrs. Inchbald.
In the early years of the century, she gradually withdrew from London,
establishing herself in suburban boarding-houses, often among sisters
of charity, and devoting her days to the practice of her religion. In
her early and middle life she had been an indifferent Catholic:
“Sunday. Rose late, dressed, and read in the Bible about David,
&c.”—this is one of the very few references in her diary to anything
approaching a religious observance during many years. But, in her old
age, her views changed; her devotions increased with her retirement;
and her retirement was at last complete. She died, in an obscure
Kensington boarding-house, on August 1, 1821. She was buried in
Kensington churchyard. But, if her ghost lingers anywhere, it is not in
Kensington: it is in the heart of the London that she had always loved.
Yet, even there, how much now would she find to recognize? Mrs.
Inchbald’s world has passed away from us for ever; and, as we walk
there to-day amid the press of the living, it is hard to believe that
she too was familiar with Leicester Square.
G. L. STRACHEY.
[1] The following account is based upon the _Memoirs of Mrs. Inchbald,
including her familiar correspondence with the most distinguished
persons of her time_, edited by James Boaden, Esq.—a discursive, vague,
and not unamusing book.
A
SIMPLE STORY,
IN FOUR VOLUMES,
BY
MRS. INCHBALD.
VOL. I.
_THE FOURTH EDITION._
LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
Paternoster Row.
1799.
PREFACE.
It is said, _a book should be read with the same spirit with which it
has been written_. In that case, fatal must be the reception of
this—for the writer frankly avows, that during the time she has been
writing it, she has suffered every quality and degree of weariness and
lassitude, into which no other employment could have betrayed her.
It has been the destiny of the writer of this Story to be occupied
throughout her life, in what has the least suited either her
inclination or capacity—with an invincible impediment in her speech, it
was her lot for thirteen years to gain a subsistence by public
speaking—and, with the utmost detestation to the fatigue of inventing,
a constitution suffering under a sedentary life, and an education
confined to the narrow boundaries prescribed her sex, it has been her
fate to devote a tedious seven years to the unremitting labour of
literary productions—whilst a taste for authors of the first rank has
been an additional punishment, forbidding her one moment of those
self-approving reflections, which are assuredly due to the industrious.
But, alas! in the exercise of the arts, industry scarce bears the name
of merit. What then is to be substituted in the place of genius? GOOD
FORTUNE. And if these volumes should be attended by the good fortune
that has accompanied her other writings, to that divinity, and that
alone, she shall attribute their success.
Yet, there is a _first cause_ still, to whom I cannot here forbear to
mention my obligations.
The Muses, I trust, will pardon me, that to them I do not feel myself
obliged—for, in justice to their heavenly inspirations, I believe they
have never yet favoured me with one visitation; but sent in their
disguise NECESSITY, who, being the mother of Invention, gave me all
mine—while FORTUNE kindly smiled, and was accessory to the cheat.
But this important secret I long wished, and endeavoured to conceal;
yet one unlucky moment candidly, though unwittingly, divulged it—I
frankly owned, “That Fortune having chased away Necessity, there
remained no other incitement to stimulate me to a labour I abhorred.”
It happened to be in the power of the person to whom I confided this
secret, to send NECESSITY once more. Once more, then, bowing to its
empire, I submit to the task it enjoins.
This case has something similar to a theatrical anecdote told (I think)
by Colly Cibber:
“A performer of a very mean salary, played the Apothecary in Romeo and
Juliet so exactly to the satisfaction of the audience, that this little
part, independent of the other characters, drew immense houses whenever
the play was performed. The manager in consequence, thought it but
justice to advance the actor’s salary; on which the poor man (who, like
the character he represented, had been half starved before) began to
live so comfortably, he became too plump for the part; and being of no
importance in any thing else, the manager of course now wholly
discharged him—and thus, actually reducing him to the want of a piece
of bread, in a short time he became a proper figure for the part
again.”
Welcome, then, thou all-powerful principle, NECESSITY! THOU, who art
the instigator of so many bad authors and actors—THOU, who from my
infancy seldom hast forsaken me, still abide with me. I will not
complain of any hardship thy commands require, so thou dost not urge my
pen to prostitution. In all thy rigour, oh! do not force my toil to
libels—or what is equally pernicious—panegyric on the unworthy!
A SIMPLE STORY.
CHAPTER I.
Dorriforth, bred at St. Omer’s in all the scholastic rigour of that
college, was, by education, and the solemn vows of his order, a Roman
Catholic priest—but nicely discriminating between the philosophical and
the superstitious part of that character, and adopting the former only,
he possessed qualities not unworthy the first professors of
Christianity. Every virtue which it was his vocation to preach, it was
his care to practise; nor was he in the class of those of the
religious, who, by secluding themselves from the world, fly the merit
they might have in reforming mankind. He refused to shelter himself
from the temptations of the layman by the walls of a cloister, but
sought for, and found that shelter in the centre of London, where he
dwelt, in his own prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance.
He was about thirty, and had lived in the metropolis near five years,
when a gentleman above his own age, but with whom he had from his youth
contracted a most sincere friendship, died, and left him the sole
guardian of his daughter, who was then eighteen.
The deceased Mr. Milner, on his approaching dissolution, perfectly
sensible of his state, thus reasoned with himself before he made the
nomination:—“I have formed no intimate friendship during my whole life,
except one—I can be said to know the heart of no man, except the heart
of Dorriforth. After knowing his, I never sought acquaintance with
another—I did not wish to lessen the exalted estimation of human nature
which he had inspired. In this moment of trembling apprehension for
every thought which darts across my mind, and more for every action
which I must soon be called to answer for; all worldly views here
thrown aside, I act as if that tribunal, before which I every moment
expect to appear, were now sitting in judgment upon my purpose. The
care of an only child is the great charge that in this tremendous
crisis I have to execute. These earthly affections that bind me to her
by custom, sympathy, or what I fondly call parental love, would direct
me to study her present happiness, and leave her to the care of 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 house which they may have themselves built.”
Here the excruciating anguish of the father, overcame that of the dying
man.
“In the moment of desertion,” continued he, “which I now picture to
myself, where will my child find comfort? That heavenly aid which
religion gives, and which now, amidst these agonizing tortures, cheers
with humbler 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 now occupied the anxious thoughts of her expiring
father. From him the care of her education had been with-held, 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 religion 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 they
were not wholly preserved from the ravages made by its rival, _Art_.
While her father was in health he beheld, with extreme delight, his
accomplished daughter, without one fault which taste or elegance could
have imputed to her; nor ever enquired 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, escaped his remembrance; or,
not escaping it, were lamented with a sigh of compassion, or a
contemptuous frown, at such frivolous qualifications.
“Something essential,” said he to himself, “must be
considered—something to prepare her for an hour like this. Can I then
leave her to the charge of those who themselves never remember such an
hour will come? Dorriforth is the only person I know, who, uniting the
moral virtues to those of religion, and pious faith to native honour,
will protect, without controlling, instruct, without tyrannizing,
comfort, without flattering; and, perhaps in time, make good by choice,
rather than by constraint, the dear object of his dying friend’s sole
care.”
Dorriforth, who came post from London to visit Mr. Milner in his
illness, received a few moments before his death all his injunctions,
and promised to fulfil them. But, in this last token of his friend’s
esteem, he still was restrained from all authority to direct his ward
in one religious opinion, contrary to those her mother had professed,
and in which she herself had been educated.
“Never perplex her mind with an idea that may disturb, but cannot
reform”—were his latest words; and Dorriforth’s reply gave him entire
satisfaction.
Miss Milner was not with her father at this affecting period—some
delicately nervous friend, with whom she was on a visit at Bath,
thought proper to conceal from her not only the danger of his death,
but even his indisposition, lest it might alarm a mind she thought too
susceptible. This refined tenderness gave poor Miss Milner the almost
insupportable agony of hearing that her father was no more, even before
she was told he was not in health. In the bitterest anguish she flew to
pay her last duty to his remains, and performed it with the truest
filial love, while Dorriforth, upon important business, was obliged to
return to town.
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 admonitions might
possibly meet; and feared he had undertaken a task he was too weak to
execute—the protection of a young woman of fashion.
Mr. Dorriforth was nearly related to one of our first Catholic Peers;
his income was by no means confined, but approaching to affluence; yet
such was his attention to those in poverty, and the moderation of his
own desires, that he lived in all the careful plainness of œconomy. 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 an extreme 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
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
made 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 of happiness that was to come; and the day
was appointed, with her silent acquiescence, when she was to arrive in
London, and there take up her abode, with all the retinue of a rich
heiress.
Mrs. Horton was delighted with the addition this acquisition to her
family was likely to make to her annual income, and style of living.
The good-natured Miss Woodley was overjoyed at the expectation of their
new guest, yet she herself could not tell why—but the reason was, that
her kind heart wanted a more ample field for its benevolence; and now
her thoughts were all pleasingly employed how she should render, not
only the lady herself, but even all her attendants, happy in their new
situation.
The reflections of 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 ward’s disposition before he saw her; for he
was, as yet, a stranger not only to the real propensities of her mind,
but even to her person; a constant round of visits having prevented his
meeting her at her father’s, the very few times he had been at his
house, since her 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 fall in 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 people mistook
his face for handsome, and all were more or less attracted by it—in a
word, the charm, that is here meant to be described, is a
_countenance_—on _his_ you read the feelings of his heart—saw all its
inmost workings—the quick pulses that beat with hope and fear, or the
gentle ones that moved in a more equal course of patience and
resignation. On this countenance his thoughts were 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 a harmonious sound to
all he uttered; it was persuasive, it was perfect eloquence; whilst in
his looks you beheld his thoughts moving with his lips, and ever
coinciding with what he said.
With one of those interesting looks which revealed the anxiety of his
heart, and yet with that graceful restraint of all gesticulation, for
which he was remarkable, even in his most anxious concerns, he
addressed Lady Evans, who had called on Mrs. Horton to hear and to
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 appointed
guardian. Pray,”—
He was earnestly intent upon asking a question, but was prevented by
the person interrogated.
“Dear Mr. Dorriforth, do not ask me any thing about Miss Milner—when I
saw her she was very young: though indeed that is but three months ago,
and she can’t be much older now.”
“She is eighteen,” answered Dorriforth, colouring with regret at the
doubts which this lady had increased, but not inspired.
“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’s young, idle, indiscreet, and giddy, with
half a dozen lovers in her suite; some coxcombs, others men of
gallantry, some single, and others married.”
Dorriforth started. “For the first time of my life,” cried he with a
manly sorrow, “I wish I had never known her father.”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Horton, who expected every thing to happen just as she
wished, (for neither an excellent education, the best company, or long
experience had been able to cultivate or brighten this good lady’s
understanding,) “Nay,” said she, “I am sure, Mr. Dorriforth, you will
soon convert her from all her evil ways.”
“Dear me,” returned Lady Evans, “I am sure I never meant to hint at any
thing evil—and for what I have said, I will give you up my authors if
you please; for they were not observations of my own; all I do is to
mention them again.”
The good-natured Miss Woodley, who sat working at the window, an
humble, but an attentive listener to this discourse, ventured here to
say exactly six words: “Then don’t mention them any more.”
“Let us change the subject,” said Dorriforth.
“With all my heart,” cried Lady Evans; “and I am sure it will be to the
young lady’s advantage.”
“Is Miss Milner tall or short?” asked Mrs. Horton, still wishing for
farther information.
“Oh, tall enough of all conscience,” returned she; “I tell you again
that no fault can be found with her person.”
“But if her mind is defective”—exclaimed Dorriforth, with a sigh——
“That may be improved as well as the person,” cried Miss Woodley.
“No, my dear,” returned Lady Evans, “I never heard of a pad to make
straight an ill-shapen disposition.”
“Oh, yes,” answered Miss Woodley, “good company, good books,
experience, and the misfortunes of others, may have more power to form
the mind to virtue, than”——
Miss Woodley was not permitted to proceed, for Lady Evans rising
hastily from her seat, cried, “I must be gone—I have an hundred people
waiting for me at home—besides, were I inclined to hear a sermon, I
should desire Mr. Dorriforth to preach, and not you.”
Just then Mrs. Hillgrave was announced. “And here is Mrs. Hillgrave,”
continued 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 the tears started in her eyes.
“There!” cried Lady Evans, “I desire you will give your opinion of her,
and I am sorry I cannot stay to hear it.” Saying this, she curtsied 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 her’s were with gratitude.
“My husband, at the commencement of his distresses,” replied Mrs.
Hillgrave, “owed a sum of money to her father, and from repeated
provocations, Mr. Milner was determined to seize upon all our
effects—his daughter, however, by her intercessions, procured us time,
in order to discharge the debt; and when she found _that_ time was
insufficient, and her father no longer to be dissuaded from his
intention, she secretly sold some of her most valuable ornaments to
satisfy his demand, and screen us from its consequences.”
Dorriforth, pleased at this recital, took Mrs. Hillgrave by the hand,
and told her, “she should never want a friend.”
“Is Miss Milner tall, or short?” again asked Mrs. Horton, fearing, from
the sudden pause which had ensued, the subject should be dropped.
“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Hillgrave.
“Is she handsome, or ugly?”
“I really can’t tell.”
“It is very strange you should not take notice!”
“I did take notice, but I cannot depend upon my own judgment—to me she
appeared beautiful as an angel; but perhaps I was deceived by the
beauties of her disposition.”
CHAPTER III.
This gentlewoman’s visit inspired Mr. Dorriforth with some confidence
in the principles and character of his ward. The day arrived on which
she was to leave her late father’s seat, 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
reception.
After many a sigh paid to the memory of her father, Miss Milner, upon
the tenth of November, arrived at the place, half-way on her journey to
town, where Dorriforth and Miss Woodley were expecting her. Besides
attendants, she had with her a gentleman and 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 given to Miss
Milner, were softened by her recent sorrow to a meek sadness—and that
haughty display of charms, imputed to her manners, was changed to a
pensive demeanor. The instant Dorriforth was introduced to her by Miss
Woodley as her “Guardian, and her deceased father’s most beloved
friend,” she burst into 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—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.
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
acquaintance, 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
refreshing sleep, with much of that vivacity, and with all those airy
charms, which for a while had yielded their transcendent power to the
weaker influence of her filial sorrow.
Beautiful as she had appeared to Miss Woodley and to Dorriforth on the
preceding day, when she joined them this morning at breakfast,
re-possessed of her lively 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 if 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 in all her wishes to the extreme
of folly, and started habitually at the unpleasant voice of control.
She was beautiful; she had been too frequently told the high value of
that beauty, and thought every moment passed in wasteful idleness
during which she was not gaining some new conquest. She had a quick
sensibility, which too frequently discovered itself in the immediate
resentment of injuries or neglect. She had, besides, acquired the
dangerous character of a wit; but to which she had no real pretensions,
although the most discerning critic, hearing her converse, might fall
into this mistake. Her replies had all the effect of repartee, not
because she possessed those qualities which can properly be called wit,
but that what she said was delivered with an energy, an instantaneous
and powerful conception of the sentiment, joined with a real or a
well-counterfeited simplicity, a quick turn of the eye, and an arch
smile. Her words were but the words of others, and, like those of
others, put into common sentences; but the delivery made them pass for
wit, as grace in an ill-proportioned figure will often make it pass for
symmetry.
And now—leaving description—the reader must form a judgment of her by
her actions; by all the round of great or trivial circumstances that
shall be related.
At breakfast, which 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 on the part of Mrs. Horton. The discourse at length drew
from Mr. Dorriforth this observation:
“You have a greater resemblance of your father, Miss Milner, than I
imagined you had from report: I did not expect to find you so like
him.”
“Nor did I, Mr. Dorriforth, expect to find you any thing like what you
are.”
“No?—pray what did you expect to find me?”
“I expected to find you an elderly man, and a plain man.”
This was spoken in an artless manner, but in a tone which obviously
declared she thought her guardian 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 compliment in return.
“You, Miss Milner, I should suppose, must be a very bad judge of what
is plain, and what is not.”
“How so?”
“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 question,
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
will never extend itself to any other. Therefore, let not religion be
named between us; for as I have resolved never to persecute you, in
pity be grateful, and do not persecute me.”
Miss Milner looked with surprise that any thing so lightly said, should
be so seriously received. The kind Miss Woodley ejaculated a short
prayer to herself, that heaven would forgive her young friend the
involuntary sin of religious ignorance—while Mrs. Horton, 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 idea 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 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 manners alone express—for Miss Woodley, with her
charitable face and mild accents, saying she would not forgive, implied
only forgiveness—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aspect,
begging heaven to pardon the offender, palpably said, she thought her
unworthy of all pardon.
CHAPTER V.
Six weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been in London
partaking with delight all its pleasures, while Dorriforth has been
sighing with apprehension, attending to her with precaution, and
praying with zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her guardian’s
acquaintance, and, added to them, the new friendships (to use the
unmeaning language of the world) which she was continually forming,
crowded so perpetually to the house, that seldom had Dorriforth even a
moment left 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—sometimes even spoke the language of conviction; but this the
first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or
peevish remonstrance, at being limited in delights her birth and
fortune entitled her to enjoy.
Among the many visitors who attended at her levees, and followed her
wherever she went, there was one who seemed, even when absent from her,
to share her thoughts. This was Lord Frederick Lawnly, the younger son
of a Duke, and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning women of
taste.
He was not more than twenty-three; animated, elegant, extremely
handsome, and possessed of every accomplishment that would captivate a
heart less susceptible of love than Miss Milner’s was supposed to be.
With these allurements, 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 pleasure—he wished to see Miss
Milner married, to see his charge in the protection of another, rather
than of himself; yet under the care of a young nobleman, immersed in
all the vices of the town, without one moral excellence, but such as
might result eventually from the influence of the moment—under such
care he trembled for her happiness—yet trembled more lest her heart
should be purloined without even the authority of matrimonial views.
With sentiments like these, Dorriforth could never disguise his
uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick, nor could the latter help
discerning the suspicion of the guardian, and consequently each was
embarrassed in the presence of the other. Miss Milner observed, but
observed with indifference, the sensations of both—there was but one
passion which then held a place in her bosom, and that was vanity;
vanity defined into all the species of pride, vain-glory,
self-approbation—an inordinate desire of admiration, and an immoderate
enjoyment of the art of pleasing, for her own individual happiness, and
not for the happiness of others. Still had she a heart inclined, and
oftentimes affected by tendencies less unworthy; but those approaches
to what was estimable, were in their first impulse too frequently met
and intercepted by some darling folly.
Miss Woodley (who could easily discover a virtue, although of the most
diminutive kind, and scarce through the magnifying glass of calumny
could ever perceive a fault) was Miss Milner’s inseparable companion at
home, and her zealous advocate with Dorriforth, whenever, during her
absence, she became the subject of discourse. He listened 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 her hapless state.
By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Frederick to her as a
lover; the servants whispered it, and some of the public prints had
even fixed the day of marriage;—but as no explanation had taken place
on his part, Dorriforth’s uneasiness was increased, and he seriously
told his ward, he thought it would be indispensably prudent in her to
entreat Lord Frederick to discontinue his visits. She smiled with
ridicule at the caution, but finding it 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 a demand.” Lord
Frederick reddened with anger—he loved Miss Milner; but he doubted
whether, from the frequent proofs he had experienced of his own
inconstancy, he should continue to love—and this interference of her
guardian threatened an explanation or a dismission, before he became
thoroughly acquainted with his own heart.—Alarmed, confounded, and
provoked, he replied,
“By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it is
jealousy 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 idea.
“Nay, shame to him if he is not in love”—answered his Lordship, “for
who but a savage could behold beauty like her’s without owning its
power?”
“Habit,” replied Miss Milner, “is every thing—Mr. Dorriforth sees and
converses with beauty, but from habit he does not fall in love; as you,
my Lord, from habit, so often do.”
“Then you believe that love is not in my nature?”
“No more of it, my Lord, than habit could very soon extinguish.”
“But I would not have it extinguished—I would rather it should mount to
a flame, for I think it a crime to be insensible of the 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 monastick vows,
like those of marriage, were made to be broken—and surely when your
guardian looks at 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’s 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.
“Nay, that is unkind,” cried Miss Woodley; “for if you had been here”——
“—I would not have said what I did,” replied Miss Milner, “but left him
to vindicate himself.”
“Is it possible 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
acquiescence. And then, as if in compliment to her, he changed the
subject;—with an air of ridicule he cried,
“I wish, Mr. Dorriforth, you would give me absolution of all my sins,
for I confess they are many, and manifold.”
“Hold, my Lord,” exclaimed Dorriforth, “do not 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 at the window, to conceal the embarrassment these
lines had occasioned.
The Earl of Elmwood was at that juncture announced—a Catholic nobleman,
just come of age, and on the eve of marriage. His visit was to his
cousin, Mr. Dorriforth, but as all ceremonious visits were alike
received by Dorriforth, Miss Milner, and Mrs. Horton’s family, in one
common apartment, Lord Elmwood was ushered into this, and of course
directed the conversation to a different subject.
CHAPTER VI.
With an anxious desire that the affection, or acquaintance, between
Lord Frederick and Miss Milner might be finally dissolved, her guardian
received with infinite satisfaction, overtures of marriage from Sir
Edward Ashton. Sir 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
Edward would not be rejected—he was resolved, at all events, to try the
force of his own power in the strongest recommendation of him.
Notwithstanding that dissimilarity of opinion which, in almost every
instance, subsisted between Miss Milner and her guardian, there was in
general the most punctilious observance of good manners from each
towards the other—on the part of Dorriforth more especially; for his
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. Whenever 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 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 subdue, she was
perpetually on the verge of treating him with levity; but he would
immediately recall her recollection by a reserve too awful, and a
gentleness too sacred for her to violate. The distinction which both
required, was thus, by his skilful management alone, preserved.
One morning he took an opportunity, before her and Miss Woodley, to
introduce and press the subject of Sir Edward Ashton’s hopes. He first
spoke warmly in his praise, then plainly 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 put an end to it, 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 believe Sir Edward’s to be, taste, or rather reason,
has no power to act.”
“You are in the right, Mr. Dorriforth; this is a proper justification
of Sir Edward—and when I fall in love, I beg that you will make the
same excuse for me.”
“Then,” said he earnestly, “before your heart is in that state which I
have described, exert your reason.”
“I shall,” answered she, “and not consent to marry a man whom I could
never love.”
“Unless your heart is already given away, Miss Milner, what can make
you speak with such a degree of certainty?”
He thought on Lord Frederick when he said this, and he riveted his eyes
upon her as if to penetrate her sentiments, and yet trembled for what
he should 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 given away; and yet I can venture
to declare, Sir Edward will never possess an atom of it.”
“I am sorry, for both your sakes, 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 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 broke off as if he could have said
much more, if the extreme delicacy of the subject had not prevented
him.
When he left the room, and she heard the door shut 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 admonitions, appears rather like a man who has passed his
life in the gay world, experienced all its dangerous allurements, all
its repentant sorrows; than like one who has lived his whole time
secluded in a monastery, 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 telling me he will not be happy with me.”
“I do not know—I cannot speak of marriage from experience,” answered
Miss Woodley, “but I think I can guess what it is.”
“Nor can I speak of love from experience,” replied Miss Milner, “but I
think I can guess what it is.”
“But do not fall in love, my dear,” (cried Miss Woodley, with her
accustomed simplicity of heart, as if she had been asking a favour that
depended upon the will of the person entreated,) “pray do not fall in
love without the approbation of your guardian.”
Her young friend smiled at the inefficacious prayer, but promised to do
all she could to oblige her.
CHAPTER VII.
Sir Edward, not wholly discouraged by the denial with which Dorriforth
had, with delicacy, acquainted him, still hoped for a kind reception,
and was so often at the house of Mrs. Horton, that Lord Frederick’s
jealousy was excited, and the tortures he suffered in consequence,
convinced him, beyond a doubt, of the sincerity of his affection. Every
time he beheld the object of his passion, (for he still 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 compassionate, could not resist wishing him success. He now
unequivocally offered marriage, and entreated that he might lay his
proposals before Mr. Dorriforth, but this was positively forbidden.
Her reluctance he imputed, however, more to the known partiality of her
guardian for the addresses of Sir Edward, than to any motive which
depended upon herself; and to Mr. Dorriforth he conceived a greater
dislike than ever; believing that through his interposition, in spite
of his ward’s attachment, he might yet be deprived of her. But Miss
Milner declared both to him and to her friend, that love had, at
present, gained no influence over her mind. Yet did the watchful Miss
Woodley oftentimes hear a sigh escape from her unknown to herself, till
she was reminded of it, and then a sudden blush would instantly
overspread her face. This seeming struggle with her passion, endeared
her more than ever to Miss Woodley, and she would even risk the
displeasure of Dorriforth by her compliance with every new pursuit that
might amuse the time, which else her friend passed in heaviness of
heart.
Balls, plays, incessant company, at length roused her guardian from
that mildness with which he had been accustomed to treat her. Night
after night his sleep had been disturbed by fears for her 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, the lapse of memory, or some other trifling fault, when
he should know the truth. The truth was earlier divulged than she
expected—for just as dinner was removed, her footman delivered a
message to her from her milliner concerning a new dress for the
evening—the _present evening_ particularly marked. 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?”
“Yes, certainly, if you do.”
“I do.”
“And mean, perhaps, to make it of more consequence than it deserves, by
being offended.”
“Whether or not, I _am_ offended—you shall find I am.” And he looked
so.
She caught his piercing eyes—hers were immediately cast down; and she
trembled—either with shame or with resentment.
Mrs. Horton rose from her seat—moved the decanters and fruit round the
table—stirred the fire—and came back to her seat again, before another
word was uttered. Nor had this good woman’s officious labours taken the
least from the awkwardness of the silence, which, as soon as the bustle
she had made was over, returned in its full force.
At last, Miss Milner rising with alacrity, was preparing to go out of
the room, when Dorriforth raised his voice, and in a tone of authority
said,
“Miss Milner, you shall not leave the house this evening.”
“Sir!” she exclaimed with a kind of doubt of what she had heard—a
surprise, which fixed her hand on the door she had half opened, but
which now she shewed herself irresolute whether to open wide in
defiance, or to shut submissively. Before she could resolve, he rose
from his chair, and said, with a force and warmth she had never heard
him use before,
“I command you to stay at home this evening.” And he walked immediately
out of the apartment by another door.
Her hand fell motionless from that which she held—she appeared
motionless herself—till Mrs. Horton, “Beseeching her not to be uneasy
at the treatment she had received,” made her tears flow as if her heart
was breaking.
Miss Woodley would have said something to comfort her, but she had
caught the infection, and could not utter a word. It was not from any
real cause of grief that she wept; but there was a magnetic quality in
tears, which always attracted hers.
Mrs. Horton secretly enjoyed this scene, though the real well meaning
of her heart, and 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 could 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 contradiction 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 flung 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 detering her—if
she does it may be for the best; it may give Mr. Dorriforth a clearer
knowledge what means are proper to convert her from evil.”
“But, my dear Madam, she must be preserved from the evil of
disobedience; and as you tempted, you will be the most likely to
dissuade her. But if you will not, I must endeavour.”
Miss Woodley was leaving the room to perform this good work, when Mrs.
Horton, in imitation of the example given her by Dorriforth, cried,
“Niece, I command you not to stir out of this room this evening.”
Miss Woodley obediently sat down—and though her thoughts and heart were
in the chamber of her friend, she never marked by one impertinent word,
or by one line of her face, the restraint she suffered.
At the usual hour, Mr. Dorriforth and his ward were summoned to tea:—he
entered with a countenance which evinced the remains of anger; his eye
gave testimony of his absent thoughts; and though he took up a pamphlet
affecting to read, it was plain to discern that he scarcely knew he
held it in his hand.
Mrs. Horton began to make tea with a mind as intent upon something else
as Dorriforth’s—she longed for the event of this misunderstanding; and
though she wished no ill to Miss Milner, yet with an inclination bent
upon seeing something new—without the fatigue of going out of her own
house—she was not over scrupulous what that novelty might be. But for
fear she should have the 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 significant regards might expose her to detection. And for
fear any noise should intercept even the sound of what might happen,
she walked across the room more softly than usual, and more softly
touched every thing she was obliged to lay her hand on.
Miss Woodley thought it her duty to be mute; and now the gingle of a
tea spoon was like a deep-toned bell, all was so quiet.
Mrs. Horton, too, in the self-approving reflection that she was not in
a quarrel or altercation of any kind, felt herself at this moment
remarkably peaceful and charitable. Miss Woodley did not recollect
_herself_ so, but was so in reality—in her, peace and charity were
instinctive virtues, accident could not increase them.
The tea had scarce 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—sometimes 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 delighted friend.
After a few minutes’ pause, and some little embarrassment on the part
of Mrs. Horton, at the disappointment she had to encounter from this
unexpected dutiful conduct, she asked Miss Milner, “if she would now
have any tea?” She replied, “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.
Whatever he might have suffered if he had seen her decorated, and
prepared to bid defiance to his commands, yet even upon that trial, he
would not have endured half the painful sensations he now for a moment
felt—he felt himself to blame.
He feared that he had treated her with too much severity—he admired her
condescension, accused himself for having exacted it—he longed to ask
her pardon—he did not know how.
A cheerful reply from her, to a question of Miss 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 concerned if it robs you of any degree of happiness, as I
myself am.”
What he said, he looked with so much sincerity, that had she been
burning with rage at his late behaviour, she must have forgiven him,
for the regret which he so forcibly exprest. 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 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.
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 he
himself, and his friends termed firmness of mind; but had not religion
and some opposite virtues weighed heavily in the balance, it would
frequently have degenerated into implacable stubbornness.
The child of a sister once beloved, who married a young officer against
her brother’s consent, was at the age of three years left an orphan,
destitute of all support but from his uncle’s generosity: but though
Dorriforth maintained, he would never see him. Miss Milner, whose heart
was a receptacle for the unfortunate, no sooner was told the melancholy
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 bidding him
farewell, he cried most pitiously to go along with her. Unused at any
time to resist temptations, whether to reprehensible, or to laudable
actions, she yielded to his supplications, and having overcome a few
scruples of Miss Woodley’s, determined to take young Rushbrook to town,
and present him to his uncle. This idea was no sooner formed than
executed. By making a present to the nurse, she readily gained her
consent to part with him for a day or two, and the signs of joy denoted
by the child on being put into 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, hereafter, 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 they were now troubling her.
Just, however, as the coach stopped at the door, she had the forecast
and the humility to say, “We will not tell Mr. Dorriforth the child is
his nephew, unless he should appear fond, and pleased with him, and
then I think we may venture without any danger.”
This was agreed; and when Dorriforth entered the room just before
dinner, poor Harry Rushbrook was 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
applicable replies, took him on his knee, and kissed him with
affection. Miss Milner could scarce 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 he stood with his
feet upon his knees; and at this reply he did not _throw_ him from
him—but he removed his hands, which had supported him, so suddenly,
that the child, to prevent falling on the floor, threw himself about
his uncle’s neck. Miss Milner and Miss Woodley turned aside to conceal
their tears. “I had like to have been down,” cried Harry, fearing no
other danger. But his uncle took hold of each hand which had twined
around him, and placed him immediately on the ground. The dinner being
that instant served, he gave no greater marks of his resentment than
calling for his hat, and walking instantly out of the house.
Miss Milner cried for anger; yet she did not shew less kindness to the
object of this vexatious circumstance: she held him in her arms while
she sat at table, and repeatedly said to him, (though he had not the
sense to thank her) “That she would always be his friend.”
The first emotions of resentment against Dorriforth being passed, she
returned with her little charge to the farm house, before it was likely
his uncle should come back; another instance of obedience, which Miss
Woodley was impatient her guardian should know; she therefore enquired
where he was, and sent him a note for the sole purpose of acquainting
him with it, offering at the same time an apology for what had
happened. He returned in the evening seemingly reconciled, nor was a
word mentioned of the incident which had occurred in the former part of
the day; yet in his countenance remained a perfect remembrance of it,
without one trait of compassion for his helpless nephew.
CHAPTER IX.
There are few things so mortifying to a proud spirit as to suffer by
immediate comparison—men can 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 provoked 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 continual 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 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 variation in the plain
features of Miss Woodley.
Miss Milner had a heart affectionate to her own sex, even where she saw
them in possession of superior charms; but whether from the spirit of
contradiction, from feeling herself more than ordinarily offended by
her guardian’s praise of this lady, or that there was a reserve in Miss
Fenton that did not accord with her own frank and ingenuous
disposition, so as to engage her esteem, certain it is that she took
infinite satisfaction in hearing her beauty and virtues depreciated or
turned into ridicule, particularly if Mr. Dorriforth was present. This
was painful to him upon 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
himself to question.
This preceptor held with a magisterial power the government of his
pupil’s passions; nay, governed them so entirely, 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 before
his time the order was compelled to take another name. Sandford had
been the tutor of Dorriforth as well as of his cousin, Lord Elmwood,
and by this double tie seemed now entailed upon the family. As a
Jesuit, he was consequently a man of learning; possessed of steadiness
to accomplish the end of any design once meditated, and of sagacity to
direct the conduct of men more powerful, but less ingenious, than
himself. The young Earl, accustomed in his infancy to fear him as his
master, in his youthful manhood received every new indulgence with
gratitude, and at length loved him as a father—nor had Dorriforth as
yet shaken off similar sensations.
Mr. Sandford perfectly knew how to influence the sentiments and
sensations of all human kind, but yet he had the forbearance not to
“draw all hearts towards him.” There were some whose hatred he thought
not unworthy of his pious labours; and in that pursuit he was more
rapid in his success than even in procuring esteem. It was an
enterprise in which he succeeded with Miss Milner even beyond his most
sanguine wish.
She had been educated at an English boarding school, and had no idea of
the superior and subordinate state of characters in a foreign
seminary—besides, as a woman, she was privileged to say any thing she
pleased; and as a beautiful woman, she had a right to expect that
whatever she pleased to say, should be admired.
Sandford knew the hearts of women, as well as those of men, though he
had passed little of his time in their society—he saw Miss Milner’s
heart at the first view of her person; and beholding in that little
circumference a weight of folly 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 her friends, respected, he did not begin
by wasting that reverence 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 think the offence intended, and of course felt the
affront more acutely.
While, with every other person she was the principle, the cause upon
whom a whole party depended for conversation, cards, musick, 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 these 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 even Mr.
Sandford, with all his penetration, did not expect. She determined to
resent his treatment; and, entering the lists as his declared enemy,
give to the world a reason why he did not acknowledge her sovereignty,
as well as the rest of her devoted subjects.
She now commenced hostilities against all his arguments, his learning,
and his favourite axioms; and by a happy talent of ridicule, in want of
other weapons for this 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 interpose with his authority: she would then declare
that she only had acted thus “to try the good man’s temper, and that if
he had combated with his fretfulness a few moments longer, she would
have acknowledged his claim to 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 controversies, felt a degree of sorrow at
every sentence which like the foregoing chagrined and distressed her
friend. Yet as she suffered too for Mr. Sandford, the joy of her
friend’s reply was abated by the uneasiness it gave to _him_. But Mrs.
Horton felt for none but the right reverend priest; and often did she
feel so violently interested in his cause, that she could not refrain
giving an answer herself in his behalf—thus doing the duty of an
adversary with all the zeal of an advocate.
CHAPTER X.
Mr. Sandford finding his friend Dorriforth frequently perplexed in the
management of his ward, and he himself thinking her incorrigible, gave
his counsel, that a suitable match should be immediately sought out for
her, and the care of so dangerous a person given into other hands.
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. “Depend 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 farther 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 determination.”
“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 now.”
It was agreed the attempt should be made. Instead of receiving this
abrupt proposal with uneasiness, Miss Milner, to the surprise of all
present, immediately consented; and gave her guardian an opportunity of
saying several of the kindest and politest things upon her ready
compliance.
“A token of approbation from you, Mr. Dorriforth,” returned she, “I
always considered with high estimation—but your commendations are now
become infinitely superior in value by their scarcity; for I do not
believe that since Miss Fenton and Mr. Sandford came to town, I have
received one testimony of your esteem.”
Had these words been uttered with pleasantry, they might have passed
without observation; but at the conclusion of the period, resentment
flew to Miss Milner’s face, and she darted a piercing look at Mr.
Sandford, which more pointedly expressed that she was angry with him,
than if she had spoken volumes in her usual strain of raillery.
Dorriforth was confused—but the concern which she had so plainly
evinced for his good opinion throughout all that she had been saying,
silenced any rebuke he might else have given her, for this
unwarrantable charge against his friend. Mrs. Horton was shocked at the
irreverent manner in which Mr. Sandford was treated—and Miss Woodley
turned to him with a benevolent smile upon her face, hoping to set him
an example of the manner in which he should receive the reproach. Her
good wishes did not succeed—yet he was perfectly unruffled, and replied
with coolness,
“The air of the country has affected the lady already—but it is a
comfortable thing,” continued he, “that in the variety of humours to
which some women are exposed, they cannot be uniform even in deceit.”
“Deceit!” cried Miss Milner, “in what am I deceitful? did I ever
pretend that I had an esteem for you?”
“That would not have been deceit, Madam, but merely good manners.”
“I never, Mr. Sandford, sacrificed truth to politeness.”
“Except when the country has been proposed, and you thought it
politeness to appear satisfied.”
“And I _was_ satisfied, till I recollected that you might probably be
of the party—then, every grove was changed into a wilderness, every
rivulet into a stagnated pool, and every singing bird into a croaking
raven.”
“A very poetical description,” returned he calmly. “But, Miss Milner,
you need not have had any apprehensions of _my_ company in the country,
for I understand the seat to which your guardian means to go, belongs
to you; and you may depend upon it, Madam, that I shall never enter a
house in which you are the mistress.”
“Nor any house, I am certain, Mr. Sandford, but in which you are
yourself the master.”
“What do you mean, Madam? (and for the first time he elevated his
voice,) am I the master here?”
“Your servants,” replied she, looking at the company, “will not tell
you so; but I do.”
“You condescend, Mr. Sandford,” cried Mrs. Horton, “in talking so much
to a young heedless woman; but I know you do it for her good.”
“Well, Miss Milner,” cried Dorriforth, (and the most cutting thing he
could say,) “since I find my proposal of the country has put you out of
humour, I shall mention it no more.”
With all that quantity of resentment, anger, or rage, which sometimes
boiled in the veins of Miss Milner, she was yet never wanting in that
respect towards her guardian, which with-held her from ever uttering
one angry sentence, directed immediately to him; and a severe word of
his, instead of exasperating, was sure to subdue her. This was the case
at present—his words wounded her to the heart, but she had not the
asperity to reply to them as she thought they merited, and she burst
into tears. Dorriforth, instead of being concerned, as he usually was
at seeing her uneasy, appeared on the present occasion provoked. He
thought her weeping was a new reproach to his friend Mr. Sandford, 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, apologised for her weakness; adding,
“She could never bear with indifference an unjust accusation.”
“To prove that mine was unjust, Madam,” replied Dorriforth; “be
prepared to quit London, without any marks of regret, in 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 her’s
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
resolution of submitting.
Those involuntary sighs, however, that Miss Woodley had long ago
observed, became still more frequent; and a tear half starting in her
eye was an additional subject of her friend’s observation. Yet though
Miss Milner at those times was softened into melancholy, she by no
means appeared unhappy. Her friend was acquainted with love only by
name; yet she was confirmed from these increased symptoms, in what she
before only suspected, that _love_ must be the foundation of her care.
“Her senses have been captivated by the person and accomplishments of
Lord Frederick,” said Miss Woodley to herself, “but her understanding
compels her to see his faults, and reproaches her passion.—And, oh!”
cried she, “could her guardian and Mr. Sandford know of this conflict,
how much would they have to admire; how little to condemn!”
With such friendly thoughts, and with the purest intentions, Miss
Woodley did not fail to give both gentlemen reason to believe, a
contention of this nature was the actual state of Miss Milner’s mind.
Dorriforth was affected at the description, and Sandford urged more
than ever the necessity of leaving town. In a few days they departed;
Mrs. Horton, Miss Woodley, Miss Milner, and Mr. 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 great part of the summer there, with his tutor, Mr. Sandford.
In the neighbourhood was also (as it has been already said) an estate
belonging to an uncle of Lord Frederick’s, and most of the party
suspected they should soon see him on a visit there. To that
expectation they in great measure attributed Miss Milner’s visible
content.
CHAPTER XI.
With this party Miss Milner arrived at her country house, and for near
six weeks, all around was the picture of tranquillity; 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 her’s, 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 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
besides of a most forgiving temper, she frequently felt concerned that
he did not speak to her, although it had been to find fault as
usual—and one morning as they were all, after a long ramble, drawing
towards her house, where Lord Elmwood was invited to dine, she could
not restrain dropping a tear at seeing Sandford turn back and wish them
a “Good day.”
But though she had the generosity to forgive an affront, she had not
the humility to make a concession; and she foresaw that nothing less
than some very humble atonement on her part would prevail upon the
haughty priest to be reconciled. Dorriforth saw her concern upon this
last trifling occasion with a secret pleasure, and an admiration that
she had never before excited. She once insinuated to him to be a
mediator between them; but before any accommodation could take place,
the peace and composure of their abode were disturbed by the arrival of
Sir Edward Ashton at Lord Elmwood’s, where it appeared as if he had
been invited in order to pursue his matrimonial plan.
At a dinner given by Lord Elmwood, Sir Edward was announced as an
unexpected 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 she thought the most mortifying. Sir Edward, in the course
of conversation, enquired “What neighbours were in the country;” and
she, with an appearance of high satisfaction, named Lord Frederick
Lawnly 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?” Sandford asked of
Dorriforth.
To which he replied, “No.”
“But I hope, Mr. Sandford, you will permit _me_ to know?” said Miss
Milner. For as she now meant to torment him by what she said, she no
longer constrained herself to silence—and as he harboured the same kind
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 _any thing_, Sir, I dare say; you would keep me in utter
ignorance.”
“I would.”
“From a self-interested motive, Mr. Sandford—that I might have a
greater respect for you.”
Some of the company laughed—Mrs. Horton coughed—Miss Woodley
blushed—Lord Elmwood sneered—Dorriforth frowned—and Miss Fenton looked
just as she did before.
The conversation was changed as soon as possible, and early in the
evening the party from Milner Lodge returned home.
Miss Milner had scarce left her dressing room, where she had been
taking off some part of her dress, when Dorriforth’s servant came to
acquaint her 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 occasionally in her excuse.
“What you, my dear,” returned Miss Woodley, “who not three hours ago
had the courage to vindicate your own cause before a whole company, of
whom many were your adversaries; do _you_ want an advocate before your
guardian alone, who has ever treated you with tenderness?”
“It is that very tenderness which frightens me; which intimidates, and
strikes me dumb. Is it possible I can return impertinence to the
language and manners which Mr. Dorriforth uses? and as I am debarred
from that resource, what can I do but stand before him like a guilty
creature, acknowledging my faults.”
She again entreated her friend to go with her; but on a positive
refusal, from the impropriety of such an intrusion, she was obliged at
length to go by herself.
How much does the difference of exterior circumstances influence not
only the manners, but even the persons of some people! Miss Milner in
Lord Elmwood’s drawing room, surrounded by listeners, by admirers, (for
even her enemies could not look at her without admiration) animated
with approbation and applause—and Miss Milner, with no giddy observer
to give her actions a false éclat, 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. 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 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 embarrassment, beyond
any she had ever yet betrayed, and faintly replied,
“No, he is not.”
“Your words tell me one thing,” answered Dorriforth, “but your looks
declare another—which am I to believe?”
“Which you please,” was her answer, while she discovered 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 then promote the hopes of Lord Frederick without one serious
intention of completing them? This is a conduct against which it is my
duty to guard you, and you shall no longer deceive either him or
yourself. The moment he 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 stedfastly taken the resolution which
he had just communicated, he found that resolution a certain relief to
his mind.
CHAPTER XII.
Sir Edward Ashton, though not invited by Miss Milner, yet frequently
did himself the honour to visit her at her house; sometimes he
accompanied Lord Elmwood, at other times he came to see Dorriforth
alone, who generally 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 pleasing, had the most
awkward effect upon the manners of the worthy Baronet; and his
endeavours to insinuate himself into the affections of the woman he
loved, merely by 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 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 perceived that she was, and he
looked at her with a most serious face;—she immediately called to mind
the assurance he had given her, “That her acquaintance with Lord
Frederick in its then improper state should not continue,” and between
chagrin and confusion, she was at a loss how to behave.
Though the ladies were all present, Dorriforth said, without the
smallest reserve, “Perhaps, Miss Milner, you may think I have taken an
unwarrantable liberty, in giving orders to your servants to deny you to
Lord Frederick; but until his Lordship and I have had a private
conference, or you condescend to declare your sentiments more fully in
regard to his visits, I think it my duty to put an end to them.”
“You will always perform your duty, Mr. Dorriforth, I have no doubt,
whether I concur or not.”
“Yet believe me, madam, I should 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.
“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 called 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, dear creature.” And Miss Woodley went out of the
room. She soon returned and said, apart, “He is now getting into his
chariot; I saw him pass in violent haste through the hall; he seemed to
fly.”
“Ladies, the dinner is waiting,” cried Mrs. Horton, and they repaired
to the dining room, where Dorriforth soon after came, and engrossed
their whole attention by his disturbed looks, and unusual silence.
Before dinner was over, he was, however, more himself, but still he
appeared thoughtful and dissatisfied. At the time of their evening walk
he excused himself from accompanying them, and they saw him in a
distant field with Mr. Sandford in earnest conversation; for Sandford
and he often stopped on one spot for a quarter of an hour, as if the
interest of the subject had so engaged them, they stood still without
knowing it. Lord Elmwood, who had joined the ladies, walked home with
them; Dorriforth entered soon after, in a much less gloomy humour than
when he went out, and told his 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 immediate cause was
concealed till the day following, when, about an hour before the
company’s departure from the Castle, Miss Milner and Miss Woodley were
desired, by a servant, to walk into a separate apartment, in which they
found Mr. Dorriforth with Mr. Sandford waiting for them. Her guardian
made an apology to Miss Milner for the form, the ceremony, of which he
was going to make use; but he trusted, the extreme weight which
oppressed his mind, lest he should mistake the real sentiments of a
person whose happiness depended upon his correct knowledge of them,
would plead his excuse.
“I know, Miss Milner,” continued he, “the world in general allows to
unmarried women great latitude in disguising their mind with respect to
the man they love. I too, am willing to pardon any little dissimulation
that is but consistent with 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 remain 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 _sorrowful_, the epithet would have
suited as well.”
“Miss Milner,” said her guardian, “I did not bring you here to contend
with Mr. Sandford.”
“Then why, Sir, bring him hither? for where he and I are, there must be
contention.”
“I brought him hither, Madam, or I should rather say, brought you to
this house, merely that he might be present on this occasion, and with
his discernment relieve me from a suspicion, that my own judgment is
neither able to suppress nor to confirm.”
“Are there any more witnesses you may wish to call in, Sir, to remove
your doubts of my veracity? if there are, pray send for them before you
begin your interrogations.”
He shook his head—she continued.
“The whole world is welcome to hear what I say, and every different
person is welcome to judge me 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-approving air, “to
comply with any request that you have seriously made? Have I ever
refused obedience to your commands whenever you thought proper to lay
them upon me? If not, you have no right to suppose that I will do so
now.”
He was going to reply, when Mr. Sandford sullenly interrupted him, and
making towards the door, cried, “When you come to the point for which
you brought me here, send for me again.”
“Stay now,” said Dorriforth. “And Miss Milner,” continued he, “I not
only entreat, but command you to tell me—have you given your word, or
your affections to Lord Frederick Lawnly?”
The colour spread over her face, and she replied—“I thought confessions
were always to be 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 silent. At length
Dorriforth said, “And it is your firm intention never to become his
wife?”
To which she answered—“At present it is.”
“At present! do you suspect you shall change your sentiments?”
“Women sometimes do.”
“But before that change can take place, your acquaintance will be at an
end: for it is that which I shall next insist upon, and to which you
can have no objection.”
She replied, “I had rather it should continue.”
“On what account?” cried Dorriforth.
“Because it entertains me.”
“For shame, for shame!” returned he; “it endangers your character and
your happiness. Yet again, do not suffer me to interfere, if the
breaking with Lord Frederick can militate against your felicity.”
“By no means,” she answered; “Lord Frederick makes part of my
amusement, but could never constitute my felicity.”
“Miss Woodley,” said Dorriforth, “do you comprehend your friend in the
same literal and unequivocal sense 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.
“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 unembarrassed
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 perfectly composed, he cried out,
“Why then not write his dismission herself, and save you, Mr.
Dorriforth, the trouble of any farther contest with him?”
“Indeed, Miss Milner,” said Dorriforth, “that would oblige me; for it
is with great reluctance that I meet him upon this subject—he was
extremely impatient and importunate 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
consideration than a compliance with my duty.”
“Dictate what you please, Mr. Dorriforth, and I will write it,” said
she, with a warmth like the most unaffected inclination. “And while
you, Sir,” she continued, “are so indulgent as not to distress me with
the importunities of 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 objection to my
Lord Frederick, except from that dilemma, in which your acquaintance
with him has involved us all; and I should conceive the same against
any other man, where the same circumstance occurred. As you have now,
however, freely and politely consented to the manner in which it has
been proposed that you shall break with him, I will not trouble you a
moment longer upon a subject on which I have so frequently explained my
wishes, but 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.
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 comprehend.
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 give
little suspicion of the truth of what he said) “I am overjoyed at the
happiness of seeing you, even though it is but an accidental meeting.”
She was evidently glad to see _him_; but the earnestness with which he
spoke, put her upon her guard not to express the like, and she said, in
a cool constrained manner, she “Was glad to see his Lordship.”
The reserve with which she spoke, gave Lord Frederick immediate
suspicion who was in the coach with her, and turning his head quickly,
he met the stern eye of Dorriforth; upon which, without the smallest
salutation, he turned from him again abruptly and rudely. Miss Milner
was confused, and Miss Woodley in torture, at 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 is 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 on
at the instant with such rapidity, that Lord Frederick was in a moment
left many yards behind. As soon, however, as he recovered from the
surprise into which this sudden command had thrown him, he rode with
speed after the carriage, and followed it, till it arrived at the door
of Miss Milner’s house; there, giving himself up to the rage of love,
or to rage against Dorriforth for the contempt he had 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.
Miss Milner struggled to loose her hand, saying, “Excuse me from
replying to you now, my Lord.”
In return, he lifted her hand eagerly to his lips, and began to devour
it with kisses; when Dorriforth, with an instantaneous impulse, rushed
forward, and struck him a violent blow in the face. Under the force of
this assault, and the astonishment it excited, Lord Frederick
staggered, and letting fall the hand of Miss Milner, her guardian
immediately laid hold of it, and led her into the house.
She was terrified beyond description; and with extreme difficulty Mr.
Dorriforth conveyed her to her own chamber, without taking her in his
arms. When, by the assistance of her maid, he had placed her upon a
sofa—covered with shame and confusion for what he had done, he fell
upon his knees before her, and earnestly “Entreated her forgiveness for
the indelicacy he had been guilty of in her presence.” And that he had
alarmed her, and had forgot 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 condescended 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. All agitation and
emotion, she implored 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 employed upon the
unfortunate, Lord Frederick had been the object of it: she had waited
by his side, and, with every 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) of
the punishment he had received. But, in the certainty of an _amende
honorable_, which must hereafter be made, he overcame the many
temptations which the moment offered, and re-mounting 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 enquiring, and being told that he was gone,
Dorriforth returned to his own apartment; and with a bosom torn by more
excruciating sensations than those which he had given to his adversary.
The reflection that struck him first with remorse, as he shut the door
upon himself, was:—“I have departed from my character—from the sacred
character, and 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 satisfaction for his wounded feelings, it is his
due. Alas! that I could have laid it down this morning, unsullied with
a cause for which it will make but inadequate atonement.”
His next reproach was—“I have offended and filled with horror, a
beautiful young woman, whom it was my duty to have protected from those
brutal manners, to which I myself have exposed her.”
Again—“I have drawn upon myself the just upbraidings of my faithful
preceptor and friend; of the man in whose judgment it was my delight to
be approved—above all, I have drawn upon myself the stings of my
conscience.”
“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 forgiveness? 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. And the confidence
in which I now address myself to Thee, encouraged by that long
intercourse which religion has effected, repays me amply in this one
moment, for the many years of my past life devoted with my best, though
imperfect, efforts to thy service.”
CHAPTER XIV.
Although Miss Milner had not foreseen any fatal event resulting from
the indignity offered to Lord Frederick, yet she passed a night very
different from those to which she had been accustomed. No sooner was
she falling into a sleep, than a thousand vague, but distressing, ideas
darted across her imagination. Her heart would sometimes whisper to her
when she was half asleep, “Lord Frederick is banished from you for
ever.” She shakes off the uneasiness this idea brings along with it—she
then starts, and 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 sueing 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
ruminating, nor why she dwells upon that, more than upon all the rest,
but it will give place to none.
She rises languid and disordered, and at breakfast, adds fresh pain to
Dorriforth by her altered appearance.
He had scarce left the room, when an officer waited upon him with a
challenge from Lord Frederick. To the message delivered by this
gentleman, he replied,
“Sir, as a clergyman, more especially of the church of Rome, I know not
whether I am not exempt from 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, was become painful to him; and even as he rode the
short way to Lord Elmwood’s immediately after, he found his own
thoughts were so insufferable, that he was obliged to enter into
conversation with his servant. Solitude, that formerly charmed him,
would, at those moments, have been worse than death.
At Lord Elmwood’s, he met Sandford in the hall, and the sight of him
was no longer welcome—he knew how different the principles which he had
just adopted were to those of that reverend friend, and without his
complaining, or even suspecting what had happened, his presence was a
sufficient reproach. He passed him as hastily as he could, and
enquiring for Lord Elmwood, disclosed to him his errand. It was to ask
him to be his second;—the young Earl started, and wished to consult his
tutor, but that, his kinsman strictly forbade; and having urged his
reasons with arguments, which at least _he_ could not refute, he was at
length prevailed upon to promise that he would accompany him to the
field, which was at the distance only of a few miles, and the parties
were to be there at seven on the same evening.
As soon as his business with Lord Elmwood was settled, Dorriforth
returned home, to make preparations for the event which might ensue
from this meeting. He wrote letters to several of his friends, and one
to his ward, in writing which, he could with difficulty preserve the
usual firmness of his mind. Sandford going into Lord Elmwood’s library
soon after his relation had left him, expressed his surprise at finding
he was gone; upon which that nobleman having answered a few questions,
and given a few significant hints that he was entrusted with a secret,
frankly confessed, what he had promised to conceal.
Sandford, as much as a holy man could be, was enraged at Dorriforth for
the cause of the challenge, but was still more enraged at his
wickedness in accepting it. He applauded his pupil’s virtue in making
the discovery, and congratulated himself that he should be the
instrument of saving not only 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 aggravated bad terms with its owner.
He asked for Dorriforth, went hastily into his apartment, and poured
upon him a torrent of rebukes. Dorriforth bore all he said with the
patience of a devotee, but with the firmness of a man. He owned his
fault, but no eloquence could make him recall the promise he had given
to repair the injury. Unshaken by the arguments, persuasions, and
menaces of Sandford, he gave an additional proof of that inflexibility
for which he had been long distinguished—and after a dispute of two
hours, they parted, neither of them the better for what either had
advanced, but Dorriforth something the worse; his conscience gave
testimony to Sandford’s opinion, “that he was bound by ties more sacred
than worldly honour.” But while he owned, he would not yield to the
duty.
Sandford left him, determined, however, that Lord Elmwood should not be
accessory in 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. Surprised at the sight of Mr. Sandford in
her house, Miss Milner would not express that surprise, but going up to
him with all the friendly benevolence which in general played about her
heart, she took hold of one of his hands, and pressed it with a
kindness which told him more forcibly that he was welcome, than if she
had made the most elaborate speech to convince him of it. He, however,
seemed little touched with her behaviour, and as an excuse for breaking
his word, cried,
“I beg your pardon, madam, but I was brought hither in my anxiety to
prevent murder.”
“Murder!” exclaimed all the ladies.
“Yes,” answered he, addressing himself to Miss Fenton, “your betrothed
husband is a party concerned; he is going to be second to Mr.
Dorriforth, who means this very evening to be killed by my Lord
Frederick, or to kill him, in addition to the blow 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 rouzed, in spite of her weakness,
to endeavour to ward off the impending disaster. In vain, however, she
attempted to walk to her guardian’s apartment—she sunk as before, and
was taken to a settee, while Miss Woodley was 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 endangered it. On his entering the room Sandford
beheld the inquietude of his mind, and cried, “Here is your
_Guardian_,” with a cruel emphasis on the word.
He was too much engaged by the 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 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.
“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 forfeited to the offended laws of the land.
Honour, is the law of the polite part of the land; we know it; and when
we transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punishment.
However, Miss Milner, this affair will not be settled immediately, and
I have no doubt, but that 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, discovered to her, her
own sentiments—which, till that moment, she had doubted—and she
continued,
“I no longer pretend to conceal my passion—I love Lord Frederick
Lawnly.”
Her guardian started.
“Yes, to my shame I love him:” (cried she, all emotion) “I meant to
have struggled with the weakness, because I supposed it would be
displeasing to you—but apprehension for his safety has taken away every
power of restraint, and I beseech you to spare his life.”
“This is exactly what I thought,” cried Sandford, with an air of
triumph.
“Good heaven!” cried Miss Woodley.
“But it is very natural,” said Mrs. Horton.
“I own,” said Dorriforth, (struck with amaze, and now taking her from
his feet with a force that she could not resist) “I own, Miss Milner, I
am greatly affected and wounded at this contradiction in your
character.”—
“But did not I say so?” cried Sandford, interrupting him.
“However,” continued he, “you may take my word, though you have
deceived me in your’s, that Lord Frederick’s life is secure. For your
sake, I would not endanger it for the universe. But let this be a
warning to you”——
He was proceeding with the most 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.”
The conversation appearing now to become of a nature in which the rest
of the company could have no share whatever, they were all, except Mr.
Sandford, retiring; when Miss Milner called Miss Woodley back, saying,
“Stay you with me; I was never so unfit to be left without your
friendship.”
“Perhaps at present you can dispense with mine?” said Dorriforth. She
made no answer. He then, once more assured her Lord Frederick’s life
was safe, and was quitting the room—but when he recollected in what
humiliation he had left her, turning towards her as he opened the door,
he added,
“And be assured, Madam, that my esteem for you, shall be _the same as
ever_.”
Sandford, as he followed him, bowed, and repeated the same words—“And,
Madam, be assured that my esteem for you, shall be the same as ever.”
CHAPTER XV.
This taunting reproof from Sandford made little impression upon Miss
Milner, whose thoughts were all fixed on a subject of much more
importance than the opinion which he entertained of her. She threw her
arms about her friend the moment they were left alone, and asked, with
anxiety, “What she thought of her behaviour?” Miss Woodley, who could
not approve of the duplicity she had betrayed, still wished to
reconcile her as much as possible to her own conduct, and replied, she
“Highly commended the frankness with which she had, at last,
acknowledged her sentiments.”
“Frankness!” cried Miss Milner, starting. “Frankness, my dear Miss
Woodley! What you have just now heard me say, is all a falsehood.”
“How, Miss Milner!”
“Oh, Miss Woodley,” returned she, sobbing upon her bosom, “pity the
agonies of my heart, my heart, by 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 protest you terrify me.”
For this inconsistency in the behaviour of Miss Milner, appeared as if
her senses had been deranged.
“Fly,” she resumed, “and prevent the inevitable ill consequence which
will ensue, if Lord Frederick should be told this falsehood. It will
involve us all in greater disquiet than we suffer at present.”
“Then what has influenced you, my dear Miss Milner?”
“That which impels all my actions—an unsurmountable 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 no 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 you do not
care for Lord Frederick?”
“But are you so blind,” returned Miss Milner with a degree of madness
in her looks, “as to believe I do not care for Mr. Dorriforth? Oh! Miss
Woodley! I love him with all the passion of a mistress, and with all
the tenderness of a wife.”
Miss Woodley at this sentence sat down—it was on a chair that was close
to her—her feet could not have taken her to any other. She trembled—she
was white as ashes, and deprived of speech. Miss Milner, taking her by
the hand, said,
“I know what you feel—I know what you think of me—and how much you hate
and despise me. But Heaven is witness to all my struggles—nor would I,
even to myself, acknowledge the shameless prepossession, till forced by
a sense of his danger”——
“Silence,” cried Miss Woodley, struck with horror.
“And even now,” resumed Miss Milner, “have I not concealed it from all
but you, by plunging myself into a new difficulty, from 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 existence; 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, venerated those of his religion.
Yet that passion, which had unhappily taken possession of her whole
soul, would not have been inspired, had there not subsisted an early
difference, in their systems of divine faith. Had she been early taught
what were the sacred functions of a Roman ecclesiastic, though all her
esteem, all her admiration, had been attracted by the qualities and
accomplishments of her guardian, yet education, would have given such a
prohibition to her love, that she would have been precluded from it, as
by that barrier which divides a sister from a brother.
This, unfortunately, was not the case; and Miss Milner loved Dorriforth
without one conscious check to tell her she was wrong, except that
which convinced her—her love would be avoided by him with detestation,
and with horror.
Miss Woodley, something recovered from her first surprise, 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
enquired if Mr. Dorriforth was still at home?—the answer was—“He had
rode out. You remember,” said Miss Woodley, “he told you he should dine
from home.” This did not, however, dismiss her fears, and she
dispatched two servants different ways in pursuit of him, acquainting
them with her suspicions, and charging them to prevent the duel.
Sandford had also taken his precautions; but though he knew the time,
he did not know the exact place of their appointment, for that Lord
Elmwood had forgot to enquire.
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 impatient to see this poor frail being whom
they were loading with their censure. They longed to see if she would
have the confidence to look them in the face: them, to whom she had so
often protested, that she had not the smallest attachment to Lord
Frederick, but from motives of vanity.
These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner had been
served, but met Miss Milner at the table with a less degree of pleasure
than they had expected; for her mind was so totally abstracted from any
consideration of _them_, that they could not discern a single blush, or
confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No, she had before
them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed; she was only ashamed
that what she had said was not true. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone
was that secret entrusted which could call a blush into her face, and
before her, she _did_ feel confusion—before the gentle friend, to whom
she had till this time communicated all her faults without
embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in shame.
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 accompany 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.”
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 her with intelligence. He therefore stood while
he repeated all that had happened in his interview with Lord Frederick.
But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, she had forgot to
enquire of the safety of his antagonist; of the man whom she had
pretended to love so passionately—even smiles of rapture were upon her
face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death.
This incongruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was
confounded—but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion either of her
love for him, or indifference for Lord Frederick, had no place, easily
reconciled this inconsistency, and said,
“You see by my countenance that all is well, and 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 sunk upon the sofa. Instead
of that affectionate sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her
slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an unpitying
tone, and said, “Miss Milner, you have heard Lord Frederick is safe,
you have therefore nothing to alarm you.” Nor did she run to hold a
smelling bottle, or to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near
fainting, and without any assistance from her friend, was going 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 accustomed: that she would ring for her maid, who knew how to
relieve her instantly with a few drops.” Satisfied with this,
Dorriforth left the room; and a surgeon being come to examine his
wound, he retired into his own chamber.
CHAPTER XVI.
The power delegated by the confidential to those entrusted with their
secrets, Miss Woodley was the last person 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
examples of divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this
world, (as well as eternal punishment in the other) as served to
exaggerate the wickedness.
She, who could, and who did pardon Miss Milner, was the person who saw
her passion in the severest light, and resolved upon every method,
however harsh, to root it from her heart—nor did she fear success,
resting on the certain assurance, that however deep her love might be
fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did not prevent
her taking every precaution, lest Dorriforth should come to the
knowledge of it. She would not have his composed mind disturbed with
such a thought—his steadfast principles so much as shaken by the
imagination—nor overwhelm him with those self-reproaches which his
fatal attraction, unpremeditated as it was, would still have drawn upon
him.
With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modesty of Miss
Milner acquiesced, there was but one effort for which this unhappy ward
was not prepared; and that was an entire separation from her guardian.
She had, from the first, cherished her passion without the most remote
prospect of a return—she was prepared to see Dorriforth, without ever
seeing him more nearly connected to her than as her guardian and
friend; but not to see him at all—for _that_, she was not prepared.
But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable 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 proposed plan of separation, the
most intricate incoherence appeared in the character of Miss Milner—and
in order to evade a marriage with him, and conceal, at the same time,
the shameful propensity which lurked in her breast, she was once even
on the point of declaring a passion for Sir Edward Ashton.
In the duel which had taken place between Lord Frederick and
Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his antagonist, but
positively refused to return it; by which he had kept his promise not
to endanger his Lordship’s life, and had reconciled Sandford, in great
measure, to his behaviour—and Sandford now (his resolution once broken)
no longer refused entering Miss Milner’s house, but came whenever it
was convenient, though he yet avoided the mistress of it as much as
possible; or showed by every word and look, when she was present, that
she was still less in his favour than she had ever been.
He visited Dorriforth on the evening of his engagement with Lord
Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted with him in his own
chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her guardian after his first return
from that engagement before the following noon. She enquired, however,
of his servant how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his wound was
but slight—yet this enquiry she durst not make before Miss Woodley.
When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it was evident that
he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left
a languor upon his face, content was in his voice, in his manners, in
every word and action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment
against his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had led him,
he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to wish to soothe the
perturbation which the recollection of her own conduct had evidently
raised in her mind. His endeavours were successful—she was soothed
every time he spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss
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 retiring
after dinner, he said to her in a low voice, but such as it was meant
the company should hear, “Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at my
study some time in the evening; I have to speak with you upon
business.”
She answered, “I will, Sir.” And her eyes swam with delight, in
expectation of the interview.
Let not the reader, nevertheless, imagine, there was in that ardent
expectation, one idea which the most spotless mind, in love, might not
have indulged without reproach. Sincere love (at least among the
delicate of the female sex) is often gratified by that degree of
enjoyment, or rather forbearance, which would be torture in the pursuit
of any other passion. Real, delicate, and restrained love, such as Miss
Milner’s, was indulged in the sight of the object only; and having
bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happiness was
limited to a conversation, in which no other but themselves took a
part.
Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appointment, but the only
one who conceived with what sensation it was received.
While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorriforth, Miss Milner
thought of little, except of him. As soon as they withdrew into another
apartment, she remembered Miss Woodley; and turning her head suddenly,
saw her friend’s face imprinted with suspicion and displeasure: this at
first was painful to her—but recollecting that in a couple of hours she
was to meet her guardian alone—to speak to him, and hear him speak to
her only—every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she
considered with indifference, the uneasiness, or the anger of her
friend.
Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to beguile
Dorriforth into the snares of love: could any 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
enquiring what she proposed, she never saw him, without 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
enchanting.
Time stole away, and the time of going to her guardian arrived. In his
presence, unsupported by the presence of any other, every grace that
she had practised, every look that she had borrowed to set off her
charms, were annihilated; and she became a native beauty, with the
artless arguments of reason only for her aid. Awed thus by his power,
from every thing but what she really was, she never was perhaps half so
bewitching, as in those timid, respectful, and embarrassed moments she
passed alone with him. He caught at those times her respect, her
diffidence, nay, even her embarrassment; and never would one word of
anger pass on either side.
On the present occasion, he first expressed the high satisfaction that
she had given him, by at length revealing to him the real state of her
mind.
“And when I take every thing into consideration, Miss Milner,” added
he, “I rejoice that your sentiments happen to be such as you have
owned. For, although my Lord Frederick is not the very man I could have
wished for your perfect happiness; yet, in the state of human
perfection and human happiness, you might have fixed your affections
with perhaps less propriety; and still, where my unwillingness to
thwart your inclinations might not have permitted me to contend with
them.”
Not a word of reply did this demand; or if it had, not a word could she
have given.
“And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you—is, to know
the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint Lord
Frederick, that notwithstanding 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 on gratifying him. And indeed, the delicacy of the declaration,
after the many denials which you have no doubt given him, should be
considered. I therefore consult your 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, sanguine.”
“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 have betrayed inconsistency.”
“You then assert again, that you have no affection for my Lord
Frederick?”
“Not enough to become his wife.”
“You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you should be so; it
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 your’s, her personal attractions are
less”——
Here the powerful glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion so
negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew to Miss Milner’s
face, neck, and even to her hands and fingers; the blood mounted to
every part of her skin that was visible, for not a fibre but felt the
secret transport, that Dorriforth thought her more beautiful than the
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 more_, you would have judged otherwise.”
“I submit to the merit of your reply; but without allowing me a judge
at all, I will appeal to those who were present with me.”
“Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the connoisseurs?”
“No; I’ll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley.”
“And yet, I believe,” replied she with a smile, “I believe theory must
only be the judge even there.”
“Then from all you have said, Madam, on this occasion, I am to conclude
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 persuasion, 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 acknowledged yesterday?”
“Do you call that miraculous?” cried Sandford; “the miracle had been if
she had _not_ done so—for did she not yesterday contradict what she
acknowledged the day before? and will she not to-morrow disavow what
she says to-day?”
“I wish that she may—” replied Dorriforth mildly, for he saw the tears
flowing down her face at the rough and severe manner in which Sandford
had spoken, and he began to feel for her uneasiness.
“I beg pardon,” cried Sandford, “for speaking so rudely to the mistress
of the house—I have no business here, I know; but where _you_ are, Mr.
Dorriforth, unless I am turned out, I shall always think it my duty to
come.”
Miss Milner curtsied, as much as to say, he was welcome to come. He
continued,
“I was to blame, that upon a nice punctilio, I left you so long without
my visits, and without my counsel; in that time, you have run the
hazard of being murdered, and what is worse, of being excommunicated;
for had you been so rash as to have returned your opponent’s fire, not
all my 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 which that
lady is preparing for you, I am rewarded.”
Sandford spoke this with great fervour, and the offence of her love
never appeared to her in so tremendous a point of view, as when thus,
unknowingly, alluded to by him.
“_The miseries that lady is preparing for you_,” hung upon her ears
like the notes of a raven, and sounded equally ominous. The words
“_murder_” and “_excommunication_” he had likewise uttered; all the
fatal effects of sacrilegious love. Frightful superstitions struck her
to the heart, and she could scarcely prevent falling down under their
oppression.
Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining herself, and
with the utmost tenderness went towards her, and supporting her, said,
“I beg your pardon—I invited you hither with a far different intention
than your uneasiness, and be assured——”
Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth resumed,—“Hold, Mr.
Sandford, the lady is under my protection, 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.”
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 heart.
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
_you_ will not contrive the means, that duty falls on me, and without
any invention I see the measure at once.”
“What is it?” cried Miss Milner eagerly.
“I will reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the real state of
your heart; which your present inconsistency of conduct will but too
readily confirm.”
“You would not plunge me into so much shame, into so much anguish!”
cried she, distractedly.
“No,” replied Miss Woodley, “not for the world, if you will separate
from him by any mode of your own—but that you _shall_ separate is my
determination; and in spite of all your sufferings, this shall be the
expedient, unless you instantly agree to some other.”
“Good Heaven, Miss Woodley! is this your friendship?”
“Yes—and the truest friendship I have to bestow. Think what a task I
undertake for your sake and his, when I condemn myself to explain to
him your weakness. What astonishment! what confusion! what remorse, do
I foresee painted upon his face! I hear him call you by the harshest
names, and behold him fly from your sight for ever, as an object of his
detestation.”
“Oh spare the dreadful picture.—Fly from my sight for ever! Detest my
name! Oh! my dear Miss Woodley, let 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 burthen indeed.”
Miss Woodley immediately began to contrive schemes for their
separation; and, with all her invention alive on the subject, the
following was the only natural one that she could form.
Miss Milner, in a letter to her distant relation at Bath, was to
complain of the melancholy of a country life, which she was to say her
guardian imposed upon her; and she was to entreat the lady to send a
pressing invitation that she would pass a month or two at her house;
this invitation was to be laid before Dorriforth for his approbation,
and the two ladies were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest
wishes for his consent. This plan having been properly regulated, the
necessary letter was sent to Bath, and Miss Woodley waited with
patience, but with a watchful guard upon the conduct of her friend,
till the answer should arrive.
During this interim a tender and complaining epistle from Lord
Frederick was delivered to Miss Milner; to which, as he received no
answer, he prevailed upon his uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon
her, and obtain a verbal reply; for he still flattered himself, that
fear of her guardian’s anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter
which he had sent, was the sole cause of her apparent indifference.
The old gentleman was introduced both to Miss Milner and to Mr.
Dorriforth, but received from each an answer so explicit, that left his
nephew no longer in doubt but that all farther pursuit was vain.
Sir Edward Ashton about this time also submitted to a formal
dismission; and had 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 her behaviour in this respect was
ambiguous, but since her confession of a passion for that nobleman, he
had no doubt but in the end she would become his wife. He lamented to
find himself mistaken, and thought it proper now to condemn her
caprice, not merely in words, but in the general tenor of his
behaviour. He consequently became 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 protection.
Notwithstanding the severity he now assumed, his ward, in the prospect
of parting from him, grew melancholy; Miss Woodley’s love to her friend
rendered her little otherwise; and Dorriforth’s peculiar gravity,
frequently rigour, could not but make their whole party less cheerful
than it had been. Lord Elmwood too, at this time was lying 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 in
extreme concern upon his Lordship’s account.
In this posture of affairs, the letter of invitation arrives from Lady
Luneham at Bath; it was 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 for 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 attention than ever. It was the
first time he had parted from Miss Milner since he became her guardian,
and he felt upon the occasion, a reluctance. He had been angry with
her, he had shewn her that he was, and he now began to wish that he had
not. She is not happy, (he considered within himself) every word and
action declares she is not; I may have been too severe, and added
perhaps to her uneasiness. “At least we will part on good terms,” said
he—“Indeed, my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise.”
She soon discerned his returning kindness, and it was a gentle tie that
would have fastened her to that spot for ever, but for the firm
resistance of Miss Woodley.
“What will the absence of a few months effect?” said she, pleading her
own cause; “At the end of a few months at farthest, he will expect me
back, and where then will be the merit of this separation?”
“In that time,” replied Miss Woodley, “we may find some method to make
it longer.” To this she listened with a kind of despair, but uttered,
she “Was resigned,”—and she prepared for her departure.
Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her journey
should be commodious; he was eager she should be happy; and he was
eager she should see that he entirely forgave her. He would have gone
part of the way with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood,
in whose chamber he passed most of the day, and slept in Elmwood House
every night.
On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and
conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could
not restrain her tears; which increased, as he parted from her, to
convulsive sobs. He was affected by her grief; and though he had
previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said,
with the tenderest concern,
“My dear Miss Milner, we part friends?—I hope we do?—On my side, depend
upon it, that I regret nothing so much at our separation, as having
ever given you a 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 her’s. He once more
kindly bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.
Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part of the journey, about
thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Harry and Lady Luneham. Here
was a parting nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian.
Miss Woodley, who for several weeks had treated her friend with a
rigidness she herself hardly supposed was in her nature, now bewailed
that she had done so; implored her forgiveness; promised to correspond
with her punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every
consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion—but in that, and that
only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
A
SIMPLE STORY,
IN FOUR VOLUMES,
BY
MRS. INCHBALD.
VOL. II.
_THE FOURTH EDITION._
LONDON:
Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON,
Paternoster Row.
1799.
A SIMPLE STORY
CHAPTER I.
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 libertine looks upon annihilation; the one would rather
live hereafter, though in all the tortures described as constituting
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 mentioned, and
in whatever terms, it would still be the means of delight.
A letter arrived—she devoured it with her eyes. The post mark denoting
from whence it came, the name of “Milner Lodge” written on the top,
were all sources of pleasure—and she read slowly every line it
contained, to procrastinate the pleasing expectation she enjoyed, till
she should arrive at the name of Dorriforth. At last, her 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 of Dorriforth; saying only, “He was extremely concerned, and
even dejected, at the little hope there was of his cousin, Lord
Elmwood’s, recovery.” Short and trivial as this passage was, it was
still more important to Miss Milner than any other in the letter—she
read it again and again, considered, and 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 once. 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 his Lordship would go thither. The forlorn state of Miss
Fenton ought to have been a subject for 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 Elmwood: in a word, she saw no one’s misfortunes equal to
her own, because she saw no one so little able to bear misfortune.
She replied to Miss Woodley’s letter, and dwelt very long on that
subject which her friend had passed over lightly; this was another
indulgence; and this epistolary intercourse was now the only enjoyment
she possessed. From Bath she paid several visits with Lady Luneham—all
were alike tedious and melancholy.
But her guardian wrote to her, and though it was on a topic of sorrow,
the letter gave her joy—the sentiments it expressed were merely
common-place, yet she valued them as the dearest effusions of
friendship and affection; and her hands trembled, and her heart beat
with rapture while she wrote the answer, though she knew it would not
be received by him with one emotion like those which she experienced.
In her second letter to Miss Woodley, she prayed like a person insane
to be taken home from confinement, and like a lunatic protested, in
sensible language, she “Had no disorder.” 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.
In a short time after this, her health became impaired from the
indisposition of her mind; she languished, and was once in imminent
danger. During a slight delirium of her fever, Miss Woodley’s name and
her guardian’s were incessantly repeated; Lady Luneham sent them
immediate word of this, and they both hastened to Bath, and arrived
there just as the violence and danger of her disorder had ceased. As
soon as she became perfectly recollected, her first care, knowing the
frailty of her heart, was to enquire what she had uttered while
delirious. Miss Woodley, who was by her bedside, begged her not to be
alarmed on that account, and assured her she knew, from all her
attendants, that she had only spoken with a friendly remembrance (as
was really the case) of those persons who were dear to her.
She wished to know whether her guardian was come to see her, but she
had not the courage to ask before her friend; and she in her turn was
afraid by the too sudden mention of his name, to discompose her. Her
maid, however, after some little time, entered the chamber, and
whispered Miss Woodley. Miss Milner asked inquisitively “What she
said?”
The maid replied softly, “Lord 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 present Lord Elmwood
who wishes to see you; he whom you left ill when you came hither, _is_
dead.”
“And who is the present Lord Elmwood?” she asked.
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?”
“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 _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.
“You have prayed for me, my Lord, I make no doubt?” said she, and
smiled, as if thanking him for those prayers.
“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 means to go there himself.”
To keep her guardian with her, Miss Milner seemed inclined to converse;
but her solicitous friend gave Lord Elmwood a look, which implied that
it might be injurious to her, and he retired.
They had only one more interview before he left the place; at which
Miss Milner was capable of sitting up—he was with her, however, but a
very short time, some necessary concerns relative to his late kinsman’s
affairs, calling him in haste to London. Miss Woodley continued with
her friend till she saw her entirely reinstated in her health: during
which time her guardian was frequently the subject of their private
conversation; and upon those occasions Miss Milner has sometimes
brought Miss Woodley to acknowledge, “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.”
CHAPTER II.
When the time for Miss Woodley’s departure arrived, Miss Milner
entreated earnestly to accompany her home, and made the most solemn
promises that she would guard not only her behaviour, but her very
thoughts, within the limitation her friend should prescribe. Miss
Woodley at length yielded thus far, “That as soon as Lord Elmwood was
set out on his journey to Italy, where she had heard 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 was the happy result, she would then take
her word, and risk the danger of seeing them once more reside
together.”
This concession having been obtained, they parted; and as winter was
now far advanced, Miss Woodley returned to her aunt’s house in town,
from whence Mrs. Horton was, however, preparing to remove, in order to
superintend Lord 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 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 increased even to aversion. Upon this account, he once thought of
advising Mr. Sandford to take up his abode elsewhere; but the great
pleasure he took in his society, joined to the bitter mortification he
knew such a proposal would be to his friend, would not suffer him to
make it.
Miss Milner all this time was not thinking upon those she hated, but on
those she loved. Sandford never came into her thoughts, while the image
of Lord Elmwood never left them. One morning, as she sat talking to
Lady 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, during the present Lord
Elmwood’s youth, that he should ever inherit the title and estate which
had now fallen to him—and, said Mr. Fleetmond, “Independent of rank and
fortune, it must be matter of infinite joy to Mr. Dorriforth.”
“No,” answered Sir Harry, “independent 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 his title, at his death, will be lost.”
“By no means,” replied Mr. Fleetmond; “he may yet have an
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