When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had met her father, she started back, and scarce knew how to pass it. When she had—“There he held me in his arms,” said she, “and I thought I felt him press me to his heart, but I now find I was mistaken.”
As Sandford came forward, to hand her into the coach, “Now you behave well;” said he, “by this behaviour, you do not entirely close all prospect of reconciliation with your father.”
“Do you think it is not yet impossible?” cried she, clasping his hand. “Giffard says he loves me,” continued she, “and do you think he might yet be brought to forgive me?”
“Forgive you!” cried Sandford.
“Suppose I was to write to him, and entreat his forgiveness?”
“Do not write yet,” said Sandford, with no cheering accent.
The carriage drove off—and as it went, Matilda leaned her head from the window, to survey Elmwood House from the roof to the bottom. She cast her eyes upon the gardens too—upon the fish ponds—even the coach houses, and all the offices adjoining—which, as objects that she should never see again—she contemplated, as objects of importance.
CHAPTER II.
Rushbrook, who, at twenty miles distance, could have no conjecture what had passed at Elmwood House, during the short visit Lord Elmwood made there, went that way with his dogs and gun in order to meet him on his return, and accompany him in the chaise back—he did so—and getting into the carriage, told him eagerly the sport he had had during the day; laughed at an accident that had befallen one of his dogs; and for some time did not perceive but that his uncle was perfectly attentive. At length, observing he answered more negligently than usual to what he said, Rushbrook turned his eyes quickly upon him, and cried,