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Lord Elmwood was by nature, and more from education, of a serious, thinking, and philosophic turn of mind. His religious studies had completely taught him to consider this world but as a passage to another; to enjoy with gratitude what Heaven in its bounty should bestow, and to bear with submission, whatever in its vengeance it might inflict. In a greater degree than most people he practised this doctrine; and as soon as the shock he received from Lady Elmwood's conduct was abated, an entire calmness and resignation ensued; but still of that sensible and feeling kind, that could never suffer him to forget the happiness he had lost; and it was this sensibility, which urged him to fly from its more keen recollection as much as possible—this, he alleged as the reason why he would never permit Lady Elmwood, or even her child, to be named in his hearing. But this injunction (which all his friends, and even the servants in the house who attended his person, had received) was, by many people, suspected rather to proceed from his resentment, than his tenderness; nor did he deny, that resentment co-operated with his prudence: for prudence he called it, not to remind himself of happiness he could never taste again, and of ingratitude that might impel him to hatred: and prudence he called it, not to form another attachment near to his heart, more especially so near as a parent's which might again expose him to all the torments of ingratitude, from an object whom he affectionately loved.

Upon these principles he formed the unshaken resolution, never to acknowledge Lady Matilda as his child—or acknowledging her as such—never to see, to hear of, or take one concern whatever in her fate and fortune. The death of her mother appeared a favourable time, had he been so inclined, to have recalled this declaration which he had solemnly and repeatedly made—she was now destitute of the protection of her other parent, and it became his duty, at least, to provide her a guardian, if he did not chuse to take that tender title upon himself—but to mention either the mother or child to Lord Elmwood, was an equal offence, and prohibited in the strongest terms to all his friends and household; and as he was an excellent good master, a sincere friend, and a most generous patron, not one of his acquaintance or dependants, were hardy enough to draw upon themselves his certain displeasure, which was always violent in the extreme, by even the official intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death.

Sandford himself, intimidated through age, or by the austere, and morose manners which Lord Elmwood had of late years adopted; Sandford wished, if possible, that some other would undertake the dangerous task of recalling to his memory there ever was such a person as his wife. He advised Miss Woodley to write a proper letter to him on the subject; but she reminded him that such a step would be more perilous to her, than to any other person, as she was the most destitute being on earth, without the benevolence of Lord Elmwood. The death of her aunt, Mrs. Horton, had left her solely relying on the bounty of Lady Elmwood, and now her death, had left her totally dependant upon the Earl—for Lady Elmwood though she had separate effects, had long before her death declared it was not her intention to leave a sentence behind her in the form of a will. She had no will, she said, but what she would wholly submit to Lord Elmwood's; and, if it were even his will, that her child should live in poverty, as well as banishment, it should be so. But, perhaps, in this implicit submission to him, there was a distant hope, that the necessitous situation of his daughter, might plead more forcibly than his parental love; and that knowing her bereft of every support but through himself, that idea might form some little tie between them, and be at least a token of the relationship.

But as Lady Elmwood anxiously wished this principle upon which she acted, should be concealed from his suspicion, she included her friend, Miss Woodley, in the same fate; and thus, the only persons dear to her, she left, but at Lord Elmwood's pleasure, to be preserved from perishing in want. Her child was too young to advise her on this subject, her friend too disinterested; and at this moment they were both without the smallest means of subsistence, except through the justice or compassion of Lord Elmwood. Sandford had indeed promised his protection to the daughter; but his liberality had no other source than from his patron, with whom he still lived as usual, except during part of the winter, when the Earl resided in town; he then mostly stole a visit to Lady Elmwood.—On this last visit he staid to see her buried.

After some mature deliberations, Sandford was now preparing to go to Lord Elmwood at his house in town, and there, to deliver himself the news that must sooner or later be told; and he meant also to venture, at the same time, to keep the promise he had made to his dying Lady—but the news reached his Lordship before Sandford arrived; it was announced in the public papers, and by that means first came to his knowledge.

He was breakfasting by himself, when the newspaper that first gave the intelligence of Lady Elmwood's death, was laid before him—the paragraph contained these words:

"On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland, the right honourable Countess Elmwood.—This lady, who has not been heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress, and of extreme beauty; but although she received overtures from many men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all—and it is said, their marriage was followed by an uncommon share of felicity, till his Lordship going abroad, and remaining there some time, the consequences (to a most captivating young woman left without a protector) were such as to cause a separation on his return. Her Ladyship has left one child by the Earl, a daughter, about fifteen."

Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for several minutes—nor did he taste his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up—walked two or three times across the room—sat down again—took up the paper—and read as usual.—Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here complain of his want of sensibility—but let them remember that Lord Elmwood was a man—a man of understanding—of courage—of fortitude—above all, a man of the nicest feelings—and who shall say, but that at the time he leaned his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her last moments.

Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected by any one—yet he passed that day the same as usual; the next day too, and the day after. On the morning of the fourth, he sent for his steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him;

"Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?"

"It is, my Lord."

His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply, fetched an involuntary sigh.

"Mr. Sandford, my lord," continued the steward, "sent me word of the news, but left it to my own discretion, whether I would make your Lordship acquainted with it or not: I let him know I declined."

"Where is Sandford?" asked Lord Elmwood.

"He was with my Lady," replied the steward.

"When she died?" asked he.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I am glad of it—he will see that every thing she desired is done—Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body."

"He is a very good man indeed, my Lord."

There was now a silence.——Mr. Giffard then bowing, said, "Has your Lordship any further commands?"

"Write to Sandford," said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke, "and tell him to have every thing performed as she desired. And whoever she may have selected for the guardian of her child, has my consent to act as such.—Nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I oppose her will." The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and caused them to start in the steward's—observing which, he sternly resumed,

"Do not suppose from this conversation, that any of those resolutions I have long since taken, are, or will be changed—they are the same; and shall continue inflexible."

"I understand you, my Lord," replied Mr. Giffard, "your express orders, to me, as well as to every other person, remain just the same as formerly, never to mention this subject to you again."

"They do, Sir."

"My Lord, I always obeyed you, and hope I always shall."

"I hope so too," he replied in a threatening accent—"Write to Sandford," continued he, "to let him know my pleasure, and that is all you have to do."

The steward bowed and withdrew.

But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford arrived in town; and Mr. Giffard related, word for word, what had passed between him and his Lord. Upon every occasion, and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord Elmwood as he had ever been; and as usual (after his interview with the steward) went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings; and yet, whether his fear suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more cool and reserved with him than formerly.

During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiously avoided—and not till the evening, (after Sandford had risen to retire, and had wished Lord Elmwood good night) did he dare to mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and going to the door—turned back and said, "My Lord,"—

It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak—his voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no farther.

"I thought," said Lord Elmwood, angrily, "I thought I had given my orders upon the subject—did not my steward write them to you?"

"He did, my Lord," said Sandford, humbly, "but I was set out before they arrived."

"Has he not told you my mind then?" cried he, more angrily still.

"He has;" replied Sandford,—"But"——

"But what, Sir?" cried Lord Elmwood.

"Your Lordship," continued Sandford, "was mistaken in supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will, she left none."

"No will? no will at all?" returned he, surprised.

"No, my Lord," answered Sandford, "she wished every thing to be as you willed."

"She left me all the trouble, then, you mean?"

"No great trouble, Sir; for there are but two persons whom she has left behind her, to hope for your protection."

"And who are those two?" cried he hastily.

"One, my Lord, I need not name—the other is Miss Woodley."

There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sandford delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could not resent, and he only returned,

"Miss Woodley—is she yet living?"

"She is—I left her at the house I came from."

"Well then," answered he, "you must see that my steward provides for those two persons. That care I leave to you—and should there be any complaints, on you they fall."

Sandford bowed and was going.

"And now," resumed Lord Elmwood, in a more stern voice, "let me never hear again on this subject. You have power to act in regard to the persons you have mentioned; and upon you their situation, the care, the whole management of them depends—but be sure you never let them be named before me, from this moment."

"Then," said Sandford, "as this must be the last time they are mentioned, I must now take the opportunity to disburden my mind of a charge"—

"What charge?" cried Lord Elmwood, morosely interrupting him.

"Though Lady Elmwood, my Lord, left no will behind her, she left a request."

"A request!" said he, starting, "If it is for me to see her daughter, I tell you now before you ask, that I will not grant it—for by heaven (and he spoke and looked most solemnly) though I have no resentment against the innocent child, and wish her happy, yet I will never see her. Never, for her mother's sake, suffer my heart again to be softened by an object I might dote upon. Therefore, Sir, if that is the request, it is already answered; my will is fixed."

"The request, my Lord," replied Sandford, (and he took out a pocket-book from whence he drew several papers) "is contained in this letter; nor do I rightly know what its contents are." And he held it out to him.

"Is it Lady Elmwood's writing?" asked Lord Elmwood, extremely discomposed.

"It is, my Lord.—She wrote it a few days before she died, and enjoined me to deliver it to you, with my own hands."

"I refuse to read it:" cried he, putting it from him—and trembling while he did so.

"She desired me," said Sandford, (still presenting the letter) "to conjure you to read it, for her father's sake."

Lord Elmwood took it instantly. But as soon as it was in his hand, he seemed distressed to know what he should do with it—in what place to go and read it—or how to fortify himself against its contents. He appeared ashamed too, that he had been so far prevailed upon, and said, by way of excuse,

"For Mr. Milner's sake I would do much—nay, any thing, but that to which I have just now sworn never to consent. For his sake I have borne a great deal—for his sake alone, his daughter died my wife. You know, no other motive than respect for him, prevented my divorcing her. Pray (and he hesitated) was she buried with him?"

"No, my Lord—she expressed no such desire; and as that was the case, I did not think it necessary to carry the corpse so far."

At the word corpse, Lord Elmwood shrunk, and looked shocked beyond measure—but recovering himself, said, "I am sorry for it; for he loved her sincerely, if she did not love him—and I wish they had been buried together."

"It is not then too late," said Sandford, and was going on—but the other interrupted him.

"No, no—we will have no disturbing the dead."

"Read her letter then," said Sandford, "and bid her rest in peace."

"If it is in my power," returned he, "to grant what she asks, I will—but if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not, bid her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you are seeking to befriend—the very maintenance I mean to allow her daughter I can withdraw."

Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy, "My Lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it again."

"I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that alone, we are friends. Good night, Sir."

Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate bedchambers.