he done?" was the first question
to himself--"He had offended Sandford."--The man, whom reason as well as
prudence had ever taught him to respect, and even to revere. He had
grossly offended the firm friend of Lady Matilda, by the unreserved and
wanton use of her name. All the retorts he had uttered came now to his
memory; with a total forgetfulness of all that Sandford had said to
provoke them.

He once thought to follow him and beg his pardon; but the contempt with
which he had been treated, more than all the anger, with-held him.

As he sat forming plans how to retrieve the opinion, ill as it was,
which Sandford formerly entertained of him, he received a letter from
Lord Elmwood, kindly enquiring after his health, and saying that he
should be down early in the following week. Never were the friendly
expressions of his uncle half so welcome to him; for they served to
sooth his imagination, racked with Sandford's wrath, and his own
displeasure.

CHAPTER XIII.

When Sandford acted deliberately, he always acted up to his duty; it was
his duty to forgive Rushbrook, and he did so--but he had declared he
would never "Be again in his company unless Lord Elmwood was present;"
and with all his forgiveness, he found an unforgiving gratification, in
the duty, of being obliged to keep his word.

The next day Rushbrook dined alone, while Sandford gave his company to
the ladies. Rushbrook was too proud to seek to conciliate Sandford by
abject concessions, but he endeavoured to meet him as by accident, and
meant to try what, in such a case, a submissive apology might effect.
For two days all the schemes he formed on that head proved fruitless; he
could never procure even a sight of him. But on the evening of the third
day, taking a lonely walk, he turned the corner of a grove, and saw in
the very path he was going, Sandford accompanied by Miss Woodley; and,
what agitated him infinitely more, Lady Matilda was with them. He knew
not whether to proceed, or to quit the path and palpably shun them--to
one, who seemed to put an unkind construction upon all he said and did,
he knew that to do either, would be to do wrong. In spite of the
propensity he felt to pass so near to Matilda, could he have known what
conduct would have been deemed the most respectful, whatever painful
denial it had cost him, _that_, he would have adopted. But undetermined
whether to go forward, or to cross to another path, he still walked on
till he