“The impression, that she has one sincere friend: that upon every occurrence in life, there is a heart so devoted to all she feels, that she never can suffer without the sympathy of another: or can ever command him, and all his fortunes to unite for her welfare, without his ready, his immediate compliance.” “And do you imagine, that any of your professions, or any of her necessities, would ever prevail upon her to put you to the trial?” “Perhaps not.” “What, then, are the motives which induce you to wish her to be told of this?” Rushbrook paused. “Do you think,” continued Sandford, “the intelligence will give her any satisfaction?” “Perhaps not.” “Will it be of any to yourself?” “The highest in the world.” “And so all you have been urging upon this occasion, is, at last, only to please yourself.” “You wrong my meaning—it is her merit which inspires me with the desire of being known to her—it is her sufferings, her innocence, her beauty——” Sandford stared—Rushbrook proceeded: “It is her——” “Nay, stop where you are,” cried Sandford; “you are arrived at the zenith of perfection in a woman, and to add one qualification more, would be an anti-climax.” “Oh!” cried Rushbrook with warmth, “I loved her, before I ever beheld her.” “Loved her!” cried Sandford, with astonishment, “You are talking of what you did not intend.” “I am, indeed:” returned he in confusion, “I fell by accident on the word love.” “And by the same accident stumbled on the word beauty; and thus by accident, am I come to the truth of all your professions.” Rushbrook knew that he loved; and though his affection had sprung from the most laudable motives, yet was he ashamed of it, as of a vice—he rose, he walked about the room, and he did not look Sandford in the face for a quarter of an hour: Sandford, satisfied that he had judged rightly, and yet unwilling to be too hard upon a passion, which he readily believed must have had many noble virtues for its foundation, now got up and went away, without saying a word in censure, though not a word in approbation. It was in the month of October, and just dark, at the time Rushbrook was left alone, yet in the agitation of his mind, arising from the subject on which he had been talking, he found it impossible to remain in the house, and therefore walked into the fields; but there was another instigation, more powerful than the necessity of walking—it was the allurement of passing along that path where he had last seen Lady Matilda, and where, for the only time, she had condescended to speak to him divested of haughtiness; and with a gentleness that dwelt upon his memory beyond all her other endowments.