rite, when he asked her the permission, he passed one whole
morning, in the gratification of forming and writing a letter to her,
which he thought might possibly be shewn to Matilda. As he dared not
touch upon any of those circumstances in which he was the most
interested, this, joined to the respect he wished to pay the lady to
whom he wrote, limited his letter to about twenty lines; yet the
studious manner with which these lines were dictated, the hope that they
might, and the fear that they might not, be seen and regarded by Lady
Matilda, rendered the task an anxiety so pleasing, that he could have
wished it might have lasted for a year; and in this tendency to magnify
trifles, was discoverable, the never-failing symptom of ardent love.

A reply to this formal address, was a reward he wished for with
impatience, but he wished in vain; and in the midst of his chagrin at
the disappointment, a sorrow, little thought of, occurred, and gave him
a perturbation of mind he had never before experienced. Lord Elmwood
proposed a wife to him; and in a way so assured of his acquiescence,
that if Rushbrook's life had depended upon his daring to dispute his
benefactor's will, he would not have had the courage to have done so.
There was, however, in his reply, and his embarrassment, something which
his uncle distinguished from a free concurrence; and looking stedfastly
at him, he said, in that stern manner which he now almost invariably
adopted,

"You have no engagements, I suppose! Have made no previous promises!"

"None on earth, my Lord," replied Rushbrook candidly.

"Nor have you disposed of your heart?"

"No, my Lord," replied he; but not candidly--nor with any appearance of
candour: for though he spoke hastily, it was rather like a man
frightened than assured. He hurried to tell the falsehood he thought
himself obliged to tell, that the pain and shame might be over; but
there he was deceived--the lie once told was as troublesome as in the
conception, and added another confusion to the first.

Lord Elmwood now fixed his eyes upon him with a sullen contempt, and
rising from his chair, said, "Rushbrook, if you have been so
inconsiderate as to give away your heart, tell me so at once, and tell
me the object."

Rushbrook shuddered at the thought.

"I here," continued the Earl, "tolerate the first untruth you ever told
me, as the false assertion of a lover; and give you an opportunity of
recalling it--but after this moment,