The moment she looked up, the first withdrew, but Charles and the stranger advanced; they did not, however, find it very easy to approach her, guarded as she was by the officious Sir Theodore; but as Charles was not easily balked in any intention he had formed, he succeeded in inquiring after her health, and introducing his friend Mr. Belmont to her.
“I am very glad—I mean I did not know you were here,” said Matilda confusedly.
“Mr. Belmont introduced us. We only arrived from Oxford yesterday, and Ellen, being very anxious that Mr. Belmont should see you, proposed our coming hither.”
A little relieved from observing that Edmund still did not join them, under whose eye she felt that she should have shrunk, Matilda ventured to look at Mr. Belmont, recollecting that she had frequently heard him mentioned as the friend of both the brothers, during their residence at Oxford, and that he had been the visitant of the family the preceding winter, when she was on an excursion to Bath; she knew that he was highly esteemed by the family, and, aware in what a favourable point of view their affection for her would lead them to represent her, the idea that her first introduction had taken place at a moment which, of all others, she most regretted, was really insupportable to her.
Lady Araminta endeavoured, by her praise, to remove the chagrin which her ingenuous countenance (ever the faithful harbinger of her thoughts) betrayed so plainly—“I assure you, my dear,” said she, “that for some time you performed very prettily; didn’t you think so, Mr. Harewood?”
“Pardon me, my lady, from differing with you—I have seen a country actress do it much better: indeed I said so at the moment—Belmont knows I did; and my brother observed that——”
At this moment the country-dance was recommenced, and Matilda was hurried away, although her solicitude to hear what Edmund said amounted to misery; but as Charles was addressing Lady Araminta, not her, it was impossible to ask; besides, no small portion of anger at Edmund mingled with her anxiety—he had never yet approached her. She knew indeed that his ideas of feminine decorum were rigid; but still he had no right to resent her conduct, or he might have told her as a friend, as he used to do, wherein she erred. As these thoughts struck upon her mind, he passed her in the dance, and made her a profound bow of recognition; she watched to the bottom, and perceived him engaged in earnest conversation with a very lovely young person, whom she remembered as one of those who refused to waltz; again her heart smote her, yet her anger was the most predominant emotion, and she felt as if Edmund Harewood had injured her beyond forgiveness.
The waltzing recommenced, but the very name of it was now hateful to Matilda, and she hastily entreated Lady Araminta to order her carriage. Charles was near; accustomed to read her thoughts, he advanced to offer his hand to lead her down stairs—“You are not well, Matilda,” said he, tenderly—“at least not comfortable—I am sure you are not.”
Matilda replied only by a smothered sigh.
“They tell me,” continued Charles, “that you are about to marry Sir Theodore Branson?”