passed; so wearisome that which was still to come; that she flew from the present tedious solitude, to the dangerous society of one, whose mind, depraved by fashionable vices, could not repay her for a moment's loss of him, whose felicity she destroyed, whose dishonour she accomplished. Or, if the delirium gave her a moment's recompense, what were her sufferings, her remorse, when she was awakened from the fleeting joy, by the arrival of her husband! Happy, transporting would have been that arrival but a few months sooner! As it would then have been unbounded happiness, it was now-but language affords no word that can describe Lady Elmwood's sensations, on being told her lord was arrived; and that necessity alone had so long delayed his return.

Guilty, but not hardened in her guilt, her pangs, her shame, were the more excessive. She fled from the place at his approach; fled from his house, never again to return to a habitation where he was the master. She did not, however, elope with her paramour, but escaped to shelter herself in the most dreary retreat; where she partook of no one comfort from society, or from life, but the still unremitting friendship of Miss Woodley. Even her infant daughter she left behind, nor would allow herself the consolation of her innocent, though reproachful smiles--she left her in her father's house, that she might be under his virtuous protection; parted with her, as she thought, for ever, with all the agonies with which mothers part from their infant children: and yet, those agonies were still more poignant, on beholding-the child sent after her, as the perpetual outcast of its father.

Lord Elmwood's love to his wife had been extravagant-the effect of his hate was the same. Beholding himself separated from her by a barrier not ever to be removed, he vowed, in the deep torments of his revenge, never to be reminded of her by one individual object; much less by one so near to her as her child. To bestow upon that child his affections would be, he imagined, still, in some sort, to divide them with the mother. Firm in his resolution, the beautiful Matilda was, at the age of six years, sent out of her father's house; and received by her mother with all the tenderness, but with all the anguish of those parents who behold their offspring visited by the punishment due only to their own offences.

While this rigid act was executing by Lord Elmwood's agents at his command, himself was engaged in an affair of still weightier importance -that of life or death:-he determined upon his own death, or the death of the man who had wounded his honour and destroyed his happiness. A duel with his old antagonist was the result of this determination; nor was the Duke of Avon (who before the decease of his father and eldest brother was Lord Frederick Lawnley) averse from giving him all the satisfaction he required. For it was no other than he, whose passion for Lady Elmwood had still subsisted, and whose ad

dress in gallantry left no means unattempted for the success of his designs,-no other than he (who, next to Lord Elmwood, had been of all her lovers the most favoured), to whom Lady Elmwood sacrificed her own and her husband's future peace, and thus gave to his vanity a prouder triumph than if she had never bestowed her hand in marriage on another. This triumph however was but short-a month only, after the return of Lord Elmwood, the duke was called upon to answer for his guilt, and was left on the ground where they met, so defaced with scars as never again to endanger the honour of a husband. As Lord Elmwood was inexorable to all accommodation, their engagement had continued for a long space of time; nor could any thing but the assurance that his opponent was slain have at last torn him from the field, though himself was dangerously wounded.

Yet even during the period of his danger, while for days he lay in the continual expectation of his own dissolution, not all the entreaties of his dearest, most intimate, and most respected friends, could prevail upon him to pronounce forgiveness of his wife, or to suffer them to bring his daughter to him, for his last blessing.

Lady Elmwood who was made acquainted with the minutest circumstance as it passed, appeared to wait the news of her husband's decease with patience; but upon her brow and in every lineament of her face was marked, that his death was an event she would not for a day survive and she would have left her child an orphan, in such a case, to have followed Lord Elmwood to the tomb. She was prevented the trial; he recovered; and, from the ample vengeance he had obtained upon the irresistible person of the duke, he seemed, in a short time, to regain his tranquillity.

He recovered, but Lady Elmwood fell sick and languished:-possessed of youth to struggle with her woes, she still lingered on, till near ten years' decline had brought her to that period with which the reader is now to be presented.

ner.

CHAPTER XXXI.

IN a lonely country on the borders of Scotland, a single house by the side of a dreary heath was the residence of the once gay, volatile Miss MilIn a large gloomy apartment of this solitary habitation (the windows of which scarcely rendered the light accessible) was laid upon her death-bed the once lovely Lady Elmwood-pale, half suffocated from the loss of breath; yet her senses perfectly clear and collected, which served but to sharpen the anguish of dying.

In one corner of the room, by the side of an old fashioned settee, kneels Miss Woodley, praying most devoutly for her still beloved friend, but in vain endeavouring to pray composedly-floods of

tears pour down her furrowed cheeks, and frequent sobs of sorrow break through each pious ejaculation.

Close by her mother's side, one hand supporting her head, the other drying from her face the cold dew of death, behold Lady Elmwood's daughter-Lord Elmwood's daughter too-yet he is far away, neglegent of what either suffers. Lady Elmwood turns to her often and attempts an embrace, but her feeble arms forbid, and they fall motionless. The daughter, perceiving these ineffectual efforts, has her whole face convulsed with grief: she kisses her mother; holds her to her bosom; and hangs upon her neck, as if she wished to cling there, not to be parted even by the grave.

On the other side of the bed sits Sandford—his hairs grown white-his face wrinkled with agehis heart the same as ever-the reprover, the enemy of the vain, the idle, and the wicked; but the friend and comforter of the forlorn and miserable.

Upon those features where sarcasm, reproach, and anger dwelt, to threaten and alarm the sinner; mildness, tenderness, and pity beamed, to support and console the penitent. Compassion changed his language, and softened all those harsh tones that used to denounce perdition.

"In the name of God," said he to Lady Elmwood," of that God, who suffered for you, and, suffering, knew and pitied all our weaknessesby him, who has given his word to take compassion on the sinner's tears, I bid you hope for mercy. By that innocence in which you once lived, be comforted. By the sorrows you have known since your degradation, hope, that in some measure, at least, you have atoned. By the sincerity that shone upon your youthful face, when I joined your hand, and those thousand virtues you have since given proofs of, trust, that you were not born to die the death of the wicked."

As he spoke these words of consolation, her trembling hand clasped his--her dying eyes darted a ray of brightness-but her failing voice endeavoured in vain to articulate. At length, fixing her looks upon her daughter as their last dear object, she was just understood to utter the word, "Father."

"I understand you," replied Sandford, "and by all that influence I ever had over him, by my prayers, my tears" (and they flowed as he spoke), "I will implore him to own his child."

She could now only smile in thanks.

"And if I should fail," continued he, "yet while I live she shall not want a friend or protector-all an old man, like me, can answer forhere his grief interrupted him.

Lady Elmwood was sufficiently sensible of his words and their import, to make a sign as if she wished to embrace him: but finding her life leaving her fast, she reserved this last token of love for her daughter—with a struggle she lifted herself

from her pillow, clung to her child-and died in

her arms.

CHAPTER XXXII.

LORD Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a serious, thinking, and philosophic turn of mind. His religious studies had completely taught him to consider this world but as a passage to another; to enjoy with gratitude what heaven in its bounty should bestow, and to bear with submission whatever in its vengeance it might inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practised this doctrine; and as soon as the shock which he received from Lady Elmwood's infidelity was abated, an entire calmness and resignation ensued; but still of that sensible and feeling kind that could never suffer him to forget the happiness he had lost; and it was this sensibility which urged him to fly from its more keen recollection; and which he avowed as the reason why he would never permit Lady Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this injunction (which all his friends, and even the servants in the house who attended his person had received) was, by many people, suspected rather to proceed from his resentment than his tenderness; nor did he deny, that resentment co-operated with his prudence: for prudence he called it, not to remind himself of happiness he could never taste again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred and prudence he called it, not to form another attachment near to his heart, more especially so near as a parent's, which might again expose him to all the torments of ingratitude, from an object whom he affectionately loved.

Upon these principles he adopted the unshaken resolution, never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child-or acknowledging her as suchnever to see, to hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he been so inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had solemnly and repeatedly made--she was now destitute of the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty, at least, to provide her a guardian, if he did not choose to take that tender title upon himself:-but to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood was an equal offence, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his friends and household; and as he was an excellent good master, a sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his acquaintance or dependents was hardy enough to incur his certain displeasure, which was always violent to excess, by even the official intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death.

Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the austere and morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of late years evinced: Sandford wished,

if possible, that some other would undertake the dangerous task of recalling to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife. He advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him on the subject; but she reminded him, that such a step would be more perilous to her than to any other person, as she was the most destitute being on earth, without the benevolence of Lady Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs. Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lord Elmwood, and now her death had left her totally dependant upon the earl-for Lady Elinwood, though she had separate effects, had long before her demise declared it was not her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the form of a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would wholly submit to Lord Elmwood's; and, if it were even his will that her child should live in poverty, as well as banishment, it should be so. But, perhaps, in this implicit submission to him, there was a distant hope, that the necessitous situation of his daughter might plead more forcibly than his parental love; and that knowing her bereft of every support but through himself, that idea might form some little tie between them, and be at least a token of the relationship.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle upon which she acted should be concealed from his suspicion, she included her friend, Miss Woodley, in the same fate; and thus, the only persons dear to her she left, but at Lord Elmwood's pleasure, to be preserved from perishing in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this subject, her friend too disinterested; and at this moment they were both without the smallest means of subsistence, except through the justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sandford had, indeed, promised his protection to the daughter; but his liberality had no other source than from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except during part of the winter, when the earl resided in town; he then mostly stole a visit to Lady Elmwood-on this last visit he staid to see her buried.

After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now preparing to go to Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and there to deliver himself the news that must sooner or later be told ;--and he meant also to venture, at the same time, to keep the promise he had made to his dying lady: but the news reached his lordship before Sandford arrived; it was announced in the public papers, and by that means first came to his knowledge.

He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that first gave the intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death was laid before him--the paragraph contained these words:

"On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland, the right honourable Countess Elmwood-this lady, who has not been heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress, and of extreme beauty; but

although she received overtures from many men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all-and it is said their marriage was followed by an uncommon share of felicity, till his lordship going abroad, and remaining there some time, the consequences (to a most captivating young woman left without a protector) were such as to cause a separation on his return. Her ladyship has left one child by the earl, a daughter, aged fifteen."

Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for several minutes-nor did he taste his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up-walked two or three times across the room-sat down again-took up the paper-and read as usual.Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here complain of his want of sensibility—but let them remember that Lord Elmwood was a man-a man of understanding--of courage-of fortitude--above all, a man of the nicest feelings-and who shall say, but that at the time he leaned his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her last moments ?

Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected by any one-yet he passed that day the same as usual; the next day too, and the day after. On the morning of the fourth, he sent for his steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him,

"Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?" "It is, my lord."

His lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply fetched an involuntary sigh.

"Mr. Sandford, my lord," continued the steward, "sent me word of the news, but left it to my own discretion, whether I would make your lordship acquainted with it or not: I let him know I declined."

"Where is Sandford ?" asked Lord Elmwood. "He was with my lady," replied the steward. "When she died ?" asked he.

"Yes, my lord."

"I am glad of it-he will see that every thing she desired is done-Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body."

"He is a very good man indeed, my lord."

There was now a silence.-Mr. Gifford then bowing, said, "Has your lordship any further commands?"

"Write to Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke," and tell him to have every thing performed as she desired. And whoever she may have selected for the guardian of her child has my consent to act as such-nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I oppose her will." The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and caused them to start in

the steward's-observing which, he sternly resumed,

"Do not suppose, from this conversation, that any of those resolutions I have long since taken are, or will be changed-they are the same; and shall continue inflexible."

"I understand you, my lord," replied Mr. Giffard, "and that your express orders to me, as well as to every other person, remain just the same as formerly, never to mention this subject to you again."

"They do, sir."

"My lord, I always obeyed you, and I hope I always shall."

"I hope so too,” he replied in a threatening accent--" Write to Sandford," continued he, "to let him know my pleasure, and that is all you have to do."

The steward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford arrived in town; and Mr. Giffard related, word for word, what had passed between him and his lord. Upon every occasion, and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord Elmwood as he had ever been; and as usual (after his interview with the steward) went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings; and yet, whether his fear suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more cool and reserved with him than formerly.

During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or her child, was cautiously avoided-and not till the evening, (after Sandford had risen to retire, and had wished Lord Elmwood good night) did he dare to mention the subject.He then, after taking leave, and going to the door-turned back and said, "My Lord,"-

It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak-his voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no farther.

"I thought," said Lord Elmwood, angrily, "I thought I had given my orders upon the subjectdid not my steward write them to you?"

"He did, my lord," said Sandford, humbly, "but I was set out before they arrived."

"Has he not told you my mind then ?" cried he, more angrily still.

"He has ;” replied Sandford,-" But”

"But what, sir?"-cried Lord Elmwood. "Your lordship," continued Sandford," was mistaken in supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will, she left none."

"No will? no will at all?" returned he, surprised.

"No, my lord," answered Sandford," she wished every thing to be as you willed."

"She left me all the trouble, then, you mean ?" No great trouble, sir; for there are but two VOL. III-11

persons whom she has left behind her, to hope for your protection."

"And who are those two?" cried he, hastily. "One, my lord, I need not name--the other is Miss Woodley."

There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sandford delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could not resent, and he only returned,

"Miss Woodley-is she yet living?"

"She is--I left her at the house I came from." "Well then," answered he, "you must see that my steward provides for those two persons. That care I leave to you-and should there be any complaints, on you they fall."

Sandford bowed, and was going.

"And now," resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern voice, "let me never hear again on this subject. You have here the power to act in regard to the persons you have mentioned; and upon you their situation, the care, the whole management of them depends-but be sure you never let them be named before me, from this moment.”

"Then," said Sandford, "as this must be the last time they are mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to disburden my mind of a charge”— "What charge?" cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him.

"Though Lady Elmwood, my lord, left no will behind her, she left a request."

"A request!"-said he, starting-"If it is for me to see her daughter, I tell you now before you ask, that I will not grant it-for by Heaven (and he spoke and looked most solemnly) though I have no resentment against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see her. Never, for her mother's sake, suffer my heart again to be softened by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if that is the request, it is already answered; my will is fixed."

"The request, my lord," replied Sandford, (and he took out a pocket-book from whence he drew several papers) "is contained in this letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are." And he held it, timorously, out to him.

"Is it Lady Elmwood's writing?" asked Lord Elmwood, extremely discomposed.

"It is, my lord-she wrote it a few days before she died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you, with my own hands."

"I refuse to read it :" cried he, putting it from him-and trembling while he did so.

"She desired me," said Sandford, (still presenting the letter) "to conjure you to read it, for her father's sake."

Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he seemed distressed to know what he should do with it-in what place to go and read it or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way of excuse,

321

"For Mr. Milner's sake I would do much nay, any thing, but that to which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne a great deal-for his sake alone, his daughter died my wife. You know no other motive than respect for him prevented my divorce. Pray (and he hesitated) was she buried by him?”

"No, my lord, she expressed no such desire; and as that was the case, I did not think it necessary to carry the corpse so far."

At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked shocked beyond measure-but recovering himself, said, “I am sorry for it; for he loved her sincerely, if she did not love him--and I wish they had been buried together."

"It is not then too late," said Sandford, and was going on-but the other interrupted him.

"No, no-we will have no disturbing of the dead."

"Read her letter then," said Sandford, "and bid her rest in peace."

"If it is in my power," returned he, "to grant what she asks, I will-but if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not bid her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you are seeking to befriend--the very maintenance I mean to allow her daughter I can withdraw."

Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy, "My lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it again."

"I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that alone, we are friends. Good night, sir."

Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate bed-chambers.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AFTER Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was some time before he read the letter Sandford had given him. He first walked backwards and forwards in the room-he then began to take off some part of his dress, but he did it slowly. At length, he dismissed his valet, and sitting down, took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the seal, but not at the direction; for he seemed to dread seeing Lady Elmwood's handwriting-He then laid it on the table, and began again to undress. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly (with a kind of effort in making the resolution) broke it open. These were its contents:

"MY LORD,

"Who writes this letter I well know-I well know to whom it is addressed-1 feel with the most powerful force both our situations; nor

should I dare to offer you even this humble petition, but that at the time you receive it, there will be no such person as I am in existence.

"For myself then, all concern will be over-but there is a care that pursues me to the grave, and threatens my want of repose even there.

"I leave a child-I will not call her mine; that has undone her-I will not call her yours; that will be of no avail--I present her before you as the grandaughter of Mr. Milner. Oh! do not refuse an asylum even in your own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend; the last, and only remaining branch of his family.

"Receive her into your household, be her condition there ever so abject. I cannot write distinctly what I would--my senses are not impaired, but the powers of expression are. The complaint of the unfortunate child in the scriptures (a lesson I have studied) has made this wish cling so fast to my heart that, without the distant hope of its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors than my weak mind could support.

"I will go to my father; how many servants live in my father's house, and are fed with plenty, while I starve in a foreign land?"

"I do not ask a parent's festive rejoicing at her approach-I do not even ask her father to behold her; but let her live under his protection. For her grandfather's sake do not refuse this-to the child of his child, whom he entrusted to your care, do not refuse it.

"Be her host; I remit the tie of being her parent. Never see her-but let her sometimes live under the same roof with you.

"It is Miss Milner your ward, to whom you never refused a request, who supplicates you—not now for your nephew, Rushbrook, but for one so much more dear, that a denial- -she dares not suffer her thoughts to glance that way-she will hope-and, in that hope bids you farewell, with all the love she ever bore you.

"Farewell, Dorriforth-Farewell, Lord Elm wood-and, before you throw this letter from you with contempt or anger, cast your imagination into the grave where I am lying. Reflect upon all the days of my past life-the anxious moments I have known, and what has been their end. Behold me, also-in my altered face there is no anxiety-no joy or sorrow-all is over. My whole frame

is motionless-my heart beats no more. Look at my horrid habitation too,-and ask yourself— whether I am an object of resentment?"

While Lord Elmwood read this letter, it trembled in his hand: he once or twice wiped the tears from his eyes as he read, and once laid the letter down for a few minutes. At its conclusion, the tears flowed fast down his face; but he seemed both ashamed and angry they did, and was going to throw the paper upon the fire--he however suddenly checked his hand, and putting it hastily into his pocket, went to bed.