Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved; and yet so little is it in the power of those we dislike to do any thing to please us, that from this very circumstance, she formed a more unfavourable opinion of Mr. Rushbrook than she had done before. She saw in this little incident the art of dissimulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape; and detested the method by which they had each escaped Lord Elmwood’s suspicion, and perhaps anger, the more, because it was so dexterously managed.
Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns informed of this trait in Mr. Rushbrook’s character; and although Miss Woodley had the best of dispositions, and upon every occasion spoke the strictest truth, yet in relating this occurrence, she did not speak all the truth; for every circumstance that would have told to the young man’s advantage, literally had slipped her memory.
The twenty-ninth of October arrived; on which a dinner, a ball, and supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighbouring gentry—the peasants also dined in the park off a roasted bullock, several casks of ale were distributed, and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who heard and saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired the cause; but even the servant who waited upon her had too much sensibility to tell her, and answered, “He did not know.” Miss Woodley however, soon learned the reason, and groaning with the painful secret, informed her, “Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age.”
“My birth-day was last week,” replied Matilda; but not a word beside.
In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only soberly, but almost silently; for to speak upon any subject that did not engage their thoughts had been difficult, and to speak upon the only one that did, had been afflicting.
Just as they were sitting down to dinner their bell gently rung, and in walked Sandford.
“Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford?” cried Miss Woodley, with an ironical sneer—(the first her features ever wore)—“Pray, were not you invited to dine with the company?”
“Yes,” replied Sandford; “but my head ached; and so I had rather come and take a bit with you.”
Matilda, as if she had seen his heart as he spoke, clung round his neck and sobbed on his bosom: he put her peevishly away, crying “Nonsense, nonsense—eat your dinner.” But he did not eat himself.