“And yet, after going,” said Sandford, “in defiance to your commands, I should suppose she dared.”
“She is in good company, at least, my Lord,” said Mrs. Horton.
“She does not know herself what company she is in,” replied he.
“How should she,” cried Sandford, “where every one hides his face?”
Till five o’clock in the morning, in conversation such as this, the hours passed away. Mrs. Horton, indeed, retired to her chamber at two, and left the gentlemen to a more serious discourse; but a discourse still less advantageous to poor Miss Milner.
She, during this time, was at the scene of pleasure she had painted to herself, and all the pleasure it gave her was, that she was sure she should never desire to go to a masquerade again. Its crowd and bustle fatigued her—its freedom offended her delicacy—and though she perceived that she was the first object of admiration in the place, yet there was one person still wanting to admire; and the remorse at having transgressed his injunctions for so trivial an entertainment, weighed upon her spirits, and added to its weariness. She would have come away sooner than she did, but she could not, with any degree of good manners, leave the company with whom she went; and not till half after four, were they prevailed on to return.
Daylight just peeped through the shutters of the room in which Lord Elmwood and Sandford were sitting, when the sound of her carriage, and the sudden stop it made at the door, caused Lord Elmwood to start from his chair. He trembled extremely, and looked pale. Sandford was ashamed to seem to notice it, yet he could not help asking him, “To take a glass of wine.” He took it—and for once, evinced he was reduced so low, as to be glad of such a resource.
What passion thus agitated Lord Elmwood at this crisis, it is hard to define—perhaps it was indignation at Miss Milner’s imprudence, and exultation at being on the point of revenge—perhaps it was emotion arising from joy, to find that she was safe—perhaps it was perturbation at the regret he felt that he must upbraid her—perhaps it was not one alone of these sensations, but all of them combined.
She, wearied out with the tedious night’s dissipation, and far less joyous than melancholy, had fallen asleep as she rode home, and came half asleep out of her carriage. “Light me to my bed-chamber instantly,” said she to her maid, who waited in the hall to receive her. But one of Lord Elmwood’s valets went up to her, and answered, “Madam, my Lord desires to see you before you retire.”
“Your Lord!” she cried, “Is he not out of town?”