“Yet,” added Lord Elmwood, sternly, “do not urge what you say for my sake, but for his—I can part from him with ease—but he may then repent, and, you know, repentance always comes too late with me.” “My Lord, I will exert all the efforts in my power for his welfare. But what is the subject on which he has refused to comply with your desires?” “Matrimony—have not I told you?” “Not a word.” “I wish him to marry, that I may then conclude the deeds in respect to my estate,—and the only child of Sir William Winterton (a rich heiress) was the wife I meant to propose; but from his indifference to all I have said on the occasion, I have not yet mentioned her name to him; you may.” “I will, my Lord, and use all my persuasion to engage his obedience; and you shall have, at least, a faithful account of what he says.” Sandford the next morning sought an opportunity of being alone with Rushbrook—he then plainly repeated to him what Lord Elmwood had said, and saw him listen to it all, and heard him answer with the most tranquil resolution, “That he would do any thing to preserve the friendship and patronage of his uncle—but marry.” “What can be your reason?” asked Sandford—though he guessed. “A reason, I cannot give to Lord Elmwood.” “Then do not give it to me, for I have promised to tell him every thing you say to me.” “And every thing I _have_ said?” asked Rushbrook hastily. “As to what you have said, I don’t know whether it has made impression enough on my memory, to enable me to repeat it.” “I am glad it has not.” “And my answer to your uncle, is to be simply, that you will not obey him?” “I should hope, Mr. Sandford, that you would express it in better terms.” “Tell me the terms, and I will be exact.” Rushbrook struck his forehead, and walked about the room. “Am I to give him any reason for your disobeying him?” “I tell you again, that I dare not name the cause.” “Then why do you submit to a power you are ashamed to own?” “I am not ashamed—I glory in it.—Are you ashamed of your esteem for Lady Matilda?” “Oh! if she is the cause of your disobedience, be assured I shall not mention it, for I am forbid to name her.” “And surely, as that is the case, I need not fear to speak plainly to you. I love Lady Matilda—or, perhaps, unacquainted with love, what I feel may be only pity—and if so, pity is the most pleasing passion that ever possessed a human heart, and I would not change it for all her father’s estates.” “Pity, then, gives rise to very different sensations—for I pity you, and that sensation I would gladly exchange for approbation.”