CHAPTER X.
After this incident, Miss Woodley left her apartments less frequently than before—she was afraid, though till now mistrust had been a stranger to her heart, she was afraid that duplicity might be concealed under the apparent friendship of Rushbrook; it did not indeed appear so from any part of his behaviour, but she was apprehensive for the fate of Matilda; she disliked him too, and therefore she suspected him. Near three weeks she had not now paid a visit to Lord Elmwood, and though to herself every visit was a pain, yet as Matilda took a delight in hearing of her father, what he said, what he did, what his attention seemed most employed on, and a thousand other circumstantial informations, in which Sandford would scorn to be half so particular, it was a deprivation to her, that Miss Woodley did not go oftener. Now too, the middle of November was come, and it was expected her father would soon quit the country.
Partly therefore to indulge her hapless companion, and partly because it was a duty, Miss Woodley once again paid Lord Elmwood a morning visit, and staid dinner. Rushbrook was officiously polite, (for that was the epithet she gave his attention in relating it to Lady Matilda) yet she owned he had not that forward impertinence she had formerly discovered in him, but appeared much more grave and sedate.
“But tell me of my father,” said Matilda.
“I was going, my dear—but don’t be concerned—don’t let it vex you.”
“What? what?” cried Matilda, frightened by the preface.
“Why, on my observing that I thought Mr. Rushbrook looked paler than usual, and appeared not to be in perfect health, (which was really the case) your father expressed the greatest anxiety imaginable; he said he could not bear to see him look so ill, begged him, with all the tenderness of a parent, to take the advice of a physician, and added a thousand other affectionate things.”
“I detest Mr. Rushbrook,” said Matilda, with her eyes flashing indignation.
“Nay, for shame,” returned Miss Woodley; “do you suppose I told you this, to make you hate him?”
“No, there was no occasion for that,” replied Matilda; “my sentiments (though I have never before avowed them) were long ago formed; he was always an object which added to my unhappiness; but since his daring intrusion into my apartments, he has been an object of my hatred.”