Sandford, to relieve Miss Woodley and her lovely charge from the suspence in which he had left them, prepared to set off for their habitation, in order himself to conduct them from thence to Elmwood Castle, and appoint some retired part of it for Lady Matilda, against the annual visit her father should pay there. But before he left London, Giffard, the steward, took an opportunity to wait upon him, and let him know, that his Lord had acquainted him with the consent he had given for his daughter to be admitted at Elmwood Castle, and upon what restrictions: that he had farther uttered the severest threats, should these restrictions ever be infringed. Sandford thanked Giffard for his friendly information. It served him as a second warning of the circumspection that was necessary; and having taken leave of his friend and patron, under the pretence that “He could not live in the smoke of London,” he set out for the North.
It is unnecessary to say with what delight Sandford was received by Miss Woodley, and the hapless daughter of Lady Elmwood, even before he told his errand. They both loved him sincerely; more especially Lady Matilda, whose forlorn state, and innocent sufferings, had ever excited his compassion and caused him to treat her with affection, tenderness, and respect. She knew, too, how much he had been her mother’s friend; for that, she also loved him; and for being honoured with the friendship of her father, she looked up to him with reverence. For Matilda (with an excellent understanding, a sedateness above her years, and early accustomed to the most private converse between Lady Elmwood and Miss Woodley) was perfectly acquainted with the whole fatal history of her mother; and was, by her, taught the respect and admiration of her father’s virtues which they justly merited.
Notwithstanding the joy of Mr. Sandford’s presence, once more to cheer their solitary dwelling; no sooner were the first kind greetings over, than the dread of what he might have to inform them of, possessed poor Matilda and Miss Woodley so powerfully, that all their gladness was changed into affright. Their apprehensions were far more forcible than their curiosity; they dared not ask a question, and even began to wish he would continue silent upon the subject on which they feared to listen. For near two hours he was so.——At length, after a short interval from speaking, (during which they waited with anxiety for what he might next say) he turned to Lady Matilda, and said,
“You don’t ask for your father, my dear.”
“I did not know it was proper:” she replied, timidly.
“It is always proper,” answered Sandford, “for you to think of him, though he should never think on you.”
She burst into tears, and said that she “Did think of him, but she felt an apprehension of mentioning his name”—and she wept bitterly while she spoke.
“Do not think I reproved you,” said Sandford; “I only told you what was right.”
“Nay,” said Miss Woodley, “she does not weep for that—she fears her father has not complied with her mother’s request. Perhaps—not even read her letter?”
“Yes, he has read it,” returned Sandford.