“But now, perhaps, I may tell you something to please you,” cried Miss Woodley.
“And what is that?” said Matilda, with indifference; for the first intelligence had hurt her spirits too much to suffer her to listen with pleasure to anything.
“Mr. Rushbrook,” continued Miss Woodley, “replied to your father, that his indisposition was but a slight nervous fever, and he would defer a physician’s advice till he went to London”—on which Lord Elmwood said, “And when do you expect to be there?”—he replied, “Within a week or two, I suppose, my Lord.” But your father answered, “I do not mean to go myself till after Christmas.” “No indeed, my Lord!” said Mr. Sandford, with surprise: “you have not passed your Christmas here these many years.” “No,” returned your father; “but I think I feel myself more attached to this house at present, than ever I did in my life.”
“You imagine, then, my father thought of me, when he said this?” cried Matilda eagerly.
“But I may be mistaken,” replied Miss Woodley. “I leave you to judge. Though I am sure Mr. Sandford imagined he thought of you, for I saw a smile over his whole face immediately.”
“Did you, Miss Woodley?”
“Yes; it appeared on every feature except his lips; those he kept fast closed, for fear Lord Elmwood should perceive it.”
Miss Woodley, with all her minute intelligence, did not however acquaint Matilda, that Rushbrook followed her to the window when the Earl was out of the room, and Sandford half asleep at the other end of it, and inquired respectfully but anxiously for her; adding, “It is my concern for Lady Matilda which makes me thus indisposed: I suffer more than she does; but I am not permitted to tell her so, nor can I hope, Miss Woodley, you will.” She replied, “You are right, Sir.” Nor did she reveal this conversation, while not a sentence that passed except that, was omitted.
When Christmas arrived, Lord Elmwood had many convivial days at Elmwood House, but Matilda was never mentioned by one of his guests, and most probably was never thought of. During all those holidays, she was unusually melancholy, but sunk into the deepest dejection when she was told the day was fixed, on which her father was to return to town. On the morning of that day she wept incessantly; and all her consolation was, “She would go to the chamber window that was fronting the door through which he was to pass to his carriage, and for the first time, and most probably for the last time in her life, behold him.”
This design was soon forgot in another:—“She would rush boldly into the apartment where he was, and at his feet take leave of him for ever—she would lay hold of his hands, clasp his knees, provoke him to spurn her, which would be joy in comparison to this cruel indifference.” In the bitterness of her grief, she once called upon her mother, and reproached her memory—but the moment she recollected this offence, (which was almost instantaneously) she became all mildness and resignation. “What have I said?” cried she; “Dear, dear saint, forgive me; and for your sake I will bear all with patience—I will not groan, I will not even sigh again—this task I set myself to atone for what I have dared to utter.”