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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."

"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."

While Lady Matilda laboured under this variety of sensations, Miss Woodley was occupied in bewailing and endeavouring to calm her sorrows—and Lord Elmwood, with Rushbrook, was ready to set off. The Earl, however, loitered, and did not once seem in haste to be gone. When at last he got up to depart, Sandford thought he pressed his hand, and shook it with more warmth than ever he had done in his life. Encouraged by this supposition, Sandford said, "My Lord, won't you condescend to take your leave of Miss Woodley?"

"Certainly, Sandford," replied he, and seemed glad of an excuse to sit down again.

Impressed with the idea of the state in which she had left his only child, Miss Woodley, when she came before Lord Elmwood to bid him farewell, was pale, trembling, and in tears. Sandford, notwithstanding his patron's apparently kind humour, was shocked at the construction he must put upon her appearance, and cried, "What, Miss Woodley, are you not recovered of your illness yet?" Lord Elmwood, however, took no notice of her looks, but after wishing her her health, walked slowly out of the house; turning back frequently and speaking to Sandford, or to some other person who was behind him, as if part of his thoughts were left behind, and he went with reluctance.

When he had quitted the room where Miss Woodley was, Rushbrook, timid before her, as she had been before her benefactor, went up to her, all humility, and said, "Miss Woodley, we ought to be friends: our concern, our devotion is paid to the same objects, and one common interest should teach us to be friendly."

She made no reply.—"Will you permit me to write to you when I am away?" said he; "You may wish to hear of Lord Elmwood's health, and of what changes may take place in his resolutions.—Will you permit me?" At that moment a servant came and said, "Sir, my Lord is in the carriage, and waiting for you." He hastened away, and Miss Woodley was relieved from the pain of giving him a denial.

No sooner was the chaise, with all its attendants, out of sight, than Lady Matilda was conducted by Miss Woodley from her lonely retreat, into that part of the house from whence her father had just departed—and she visited every spot where he had so long resided, with a pleasing curiosity that for a while diverted her grief. In the breakfast and dining rooms, she leaned over those seats with a kind of filial piety, on which she was told he had been accustomed to sit. And, in the library, she took up with filial delight, the pen with which he had been writing; and looked with the most curious attention into those books that were laid upon his reading desk. But a hat, lying on one of the tables, gave her a sensation beyond any other she experienced on this occasion—in that trifling article of his dress, she thought she saw himself, and held it in her hand with pious reverence.

In the mean time, Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook were proceeding on the road, with hearts not less heavy than those which they had left at Elmwood House; though neither of them could so well define the cause of this oppression, as Matilda could account for the weight which oppressed her's.