“You send me away, Madam,” returned he, “with the warmest thanks for the reception you have give me; and this last assurance of your kindness, is beyond any other favour you could have bestowed. Lady Matilda,” added he, “suffer me to take your hand at parting, and let it be a testimony that you acknowledge me for a relation.” She put out her hand—which he knelt to receive, but did not raise it to his lips—he held the boon too sacred—and looking earnestly upon it, as it lay pale and wan in his, he breathed one sigh over it, and withdrew. CHAPTER VII. Sorrowful and affecting as this interview had been, Rushbrook, as he rode home, reflected upon it with the most inordinate delight; and had he not seen decline of health, in the looks and behaviour of Lady Matilda, his felicity had been unbounded. Entranced in the happiness of her society, the thought of his rival never came once to his mind while he was with her; a want of recollection, however, he by no means regretted, as her whole appearance contradicted every suspicion he could possibly entertain, that she favoured the addresses of any man living—and had he remembered, he would not have dared to name the subject. The time ran so swiftly while he was away, that it was beyond the dinner hour at Elmwood House, when he returned. Heated, his dress and his hair disordered, he entered the dining room just as the dessert was put upon the table. He was confounded at his own appearance, and at the falsehoods he should be obliged to fabricate in his excuse: there was yet, that which engaged his attention, beyond any circumstance relating to himself—the features of Lord Elmwood—of which his daughter’s, whom he had just beheld, had the most striking resemblance; though her’s were softened by sorrow, while his were made austere by the self-same cause. “Where have you been?” said his uncle, with a frown. “A hers chase, my Lord—I beg your pardon—but a pack of dogs I unexpectedly met.” For in the hacknied art of lying without injury to any one, Rushbrook, to his shame, was proficient. His excuses were received, and the subject ceased. During his absence that day, Lord Elmwood had called Sandford apart, and said to him,—that as the malevolence which he once observed between him and Rushbrook, had, he perceived, subsided, he advised him, if he was a well-wisher to the young man, to sound his heart, and counsel him not to act against the will of his nearest relation and friend. “I myself am too hasty,” continued Lord Elmwood, “and, unhappily, too much determined upon what I have once (though, perhaps, rashly) said, to speak upon a topic where it is probable I shall meet with opposition. You, Sandford, can reason with moderation. For after all that I have done for my nephew, it would be a pity to forsake him at last; and yet, that is but too likely, if he provokes me.” “Sir,” replied Sandford, “I will speak to him.”