"Of you, my Lord."

He started.

Sandford went on----"I know no tie--no bond--no innocence, that is a protection when you feel resentment."

"You are right," he replied, significantly.

"Then how, my Lord, can you encourage me to _speak on_, when that which I perhaps would say, might offend you to hear?"

"To what, and whither are you changing our subject?" cried Lord Elmwood.

"But, Sir, if you know my resentful and relentless temper, you surely know how to shun it."

"Not, and speak plainly."

"Then dissemble."

"No, I'll not do that--but I'll be silent."

"A new parade of submission. You are more tormenting to me than any one I have about me. Constantly on the verge of disobeying my commands, that you may recede, and gain my good will by your forbearance. But know, Mr.

Sandford, that I will not suffer this much longer. If you chuse in every conversation we have together (though the most remote from such a subject) to think of my daughter, you must either banish your thoughts, or conceal them--nor by one sign, one item, remind me of her."

"Your daughter did you call her? Can you call yourself her father?"

"I do, Sir--but I was likewise the husband of her mother. And, as that husband, I solemnly swear."----He was proceeding with violence.

"Oh! my Lord," cried Sandford, interrupting him, with his hands clasped in the most fervent supplication--"Oh! do not let me draw upon her one oath more of your eternal displeasure--I'll kneel to beg that you will drop the subject."

The inclination he made with his knees bent towards the ground, stopped Lord Elmwood instantly. But though it broke in upon his words, it did not alter one angry look--his eyes darted, and his lips trembled with, indignation.

Sandford, in order to appease him, bowed and offered to withdraw, hoping to be recalled. He wished in vain--Lord Elmwood's eyes followed him to the door, expressive of rejoicing at his absence.

CHAPTER VIII.

The companions and counsellors of Lord Margrave, who had so prudently advised gentle methods in the pursuit of his pa.s.sion, while there was left any hope of their success; now, convinced there was none, as strenuously commended open violence;--and sheltered under the consideration, that their depredations were to be practised upon a defenceless woman, who had not one protector, except an old priest, the subject of their ridicule;--a.s.sured likewise from the influence of Lord Margrave's wealth, that all inferior consequences could be overborne, they saw no room for fears on any side, and what they wished to execute, with care and skill premeditated.

When their scheme was mature for performance, three of his chosen companions, and three servants, trained in all the villainous exploits of their masters, set off for the habitation of poor Matilda, and arrived there about the twilight of the evening.

Near four hours after that time (just as the family were going to bed) they came up to the doors of the house, and rapping violently, gave the alarm of fire, conjuring all the inhabitants to make their way out immediately, as they would save their lives.

The family consisted of few persons, all of whom ran instantly to the doors and opened them; on which two men rushed in, and with the plea of saving Lady Matilda from the pretended flames, caught her in their arms, and carried her off; while all the deceived people of the house, running eagerly to save themselves, paid no regard to her, till looking for the cause for which they had been terrified, they perceived the stratagem, and the fatal consequences.

Amidst the complaints, the sorrow, and the affright of the people of the farm, Miss Woodley's sensations wanted a name--terror and anguish give but a faint description of what she suffered--something like the approach of death stole over her senses, and she sat like one petrified with horror. She had no doubt who was the perpetrator of this wickedness; but how was she to follow? how effect a rescue?

The circ.u.mstances of this event, as soon as the people had time to call up their recollection, were sent to a neighbouring magistrate; but little could be hoped from that. Who was to swear to the robber? Who, undertake to find him out! Miss Woodley thought of Rushbrook, of Sandford, of Lord Elmwood--but what could she hope from the want of power in the two former?--what from the latter, for the want of will? Now stupified, and now distracted, she walked about the house incessantly, begging for instructions how to act, or how to forget her misery.

A tenant of Lord Elmwood's, who occupied a little farm near to that where Lady Matilda lived, and who was well acquainted with the whole history of her's and her mother's misfortunes, was returning from a neighbouring fair, just as this inhuman plan was put in execution. He heard the cries of a woman in distress, and followed the sound, till he arrived at a chaise in waiting, and saw Matilda placed in it, by the side of two men, who presented pistols to him, as he offered to approach and expostulate.

The farmer, uncertain who this female was, yet went to the house she had been taken from (as the nearest) with the tale of what he had seen; and there, being informed it was Lady Matilda whom he had beheld, this intelligence, joined to the powerful effect her screams had on him, made him resolve to take horse immediately, and with some friends, follow the carriage till they should trace the place to which she was conveyed.

The anxiety, the firmness discovered in determining on this understanding, somewhat alleviated the agony Miss Woodley endured, and she began to hope, timely a.s.sistance might yet be given to her beloved charge.

The man set out, meaning at all events to attempt her release; but before he had proceeded far, the few friends that accompanied him, began to reflect on the improbability of their success, against a n.o.bleman, surrounded by servants, with other attendants likewise, and, perhaps, even countenanced by the father of the lady, whom they presumed to take from him; or if not, while Lord Elmwood beheld the offence with indifference, that indifference gave it a sanction, they might in vain oppose. These cool reflections tending to their safety, had their weight with the companions of the farmer; they all rode back, rejoicing at their second thoughts, and left him to pursue his journey and prove his valour by himself.

CHAPTER IX.

It was not with Sandford, as it had lately been with Rushbrook under the displeasure of Lord Elmwood--to the latter he behaved, as soon as their dissension was past, as if it had never happened--but to Sandford it was otherwise--the resentment which he had repressed at the time of the offence, lurked in his heart, and dwelt upon his mind for several days; during which, he carefully avoided exchanging a word with him, and gave every other demonstration of his anger.

Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingrat.i.tude of the world, yet could not without difficulty brook this severity, this contumely, from a man, for whose welfare, ever since his infancy, he had laboured; and whose happiness was more dear to him, in spite of all his faults, than that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was not so dear to Sandford as her father--and he loved her more that she was Lord Elmwood's child, than for any other cause.

Sometimes the old Priest, incensed beyond bearing, was on the point of saying to his patron, "How, in my age, dare you thus treat the man, whom in his youth you respected and revered?"

Sometimes instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was ashamed to own, steal to his eye, and even fall down his cheek. Sometimes he left the room half determined to leave the house--but these were all half determinations; for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well, not to know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger; and that should he once rashly quit his house, the doors most probably would be shut against him for ever.

In this humiliating state (for even many of the domestics could not but observe their Lord's displeasure) Sandford pa.s.sed three days, and was beginning the fourth, when sitting with Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook just after breakfast, a servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to somebody who followed, "You must wait till you have my Lord's permission."

This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly dressed, walked in, following close to the servant.

The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the person to retire, but in vain; he rushed forward regardless of his opposer, and in great agitation, cried,

"My Lord, if you please, I have business with you, provided you will chuse to be alone."

Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder's earnestness, bade the servant leave the room; and then said to the stranger,

"You may speak before these gentlemen."

The man instantly turned pale, and trembled--then, to prolong the time before he spoke, went to the door to see if it was shut--returned--yet still trembling, seemed unwilling to say his errand.

"What have you done," cried Lord Elmwood, "that you are in this terror?

What have you done, man?"

"Nothing, my Lord," replied he, "but I am afraid I am going to offend you."

"Well, no matter;" (he answered carelessly) "only go on, and let me know your business."

The man's distress increased--and he cried in a voice of grief and affright--"Your child, my Lord!"----

Rushbrook and Sandford started; and looking at Lord Elmwood, saw him turn white as death. In a tremulous voice he instantly cried,

"What of her?" and rose from his seat.