Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Prepare your ten pieces, George!—Upon my honour, I was at Barford Abbey a quarter before three, notwithstanding a detention on the road by Lord Michell and Flecher, driving on Jehu for Bath, in his Lordship's phaeton and fix.—You have seen them before this,—and, I suppose, know their errand.—The girl is an egregious fool, that is certain.—I warrant there are a hundred bets depending.—I ask'd what he intended doing with her if he succeeded?—Dowith her! said his Lordship; why, she is not more than eighteen; let her go to school: faith, Flecher, that's my advice.—Let her goto the devil after I am once sure of her, return'd the lover; and, whipping up the horses; drove away like lightning.
Be serious—Answer me one serious question,—Is it not possible,—verypossible, to have a regard, afriendship, for an amiable girl, without endangering her peace or my own?—If I am further involv'd thanfriendship,—the blame is not mine; it will lie at the door of Sir James and Lady Powis.—Talk no more of Lady Elizabeth's smile, or Miss Grevel's hair—Stuff!—meer stuff! nor keep me up after a late evening, to hear your nonsense of Miss Compton's fine neck and shoulders, or Fanny Middleton's eyes.—Come here next week, I will insure you a sight of all those graces in one form. Come, I say, you will be welcome to Sir James and his Lady as myself.—Miss Warley will smile on you.—What other inducement can you want?—Don't be too vain of Miss Warley's smiles;for know, she cannot look without them.
Who is Miss Warley?—What is Miss Warley?—you ask.—To your first question I can only answer, A visitor at Jenkings's.—To the second,—She is what has been so much sought after in every age, perfect harmony of mind and person.—Such a hand, George—
Already have I been here eight days:—was I to measure time, I should call them hours.—My affairs with Sir James will take up longer in settling than I apprehended.—Come therefore this week or the next, I charge you.—Come as you hope to see Miss Warley. What do you think Sir James said to me the other day?—Was Miss Warley a girl of fortune, I should think her born for you, Darcey.—As that is not the case,—take care of your heart, my Lord.—She will never attempt to drag you into scrapes:—your little favourite robin, that us'd to peck from your hand, has not less guile.
No! he will never consent;—I must only think offriendship.
Lady Powis doats on this paragon of beauty: scarce within their walls,—when she was mention'd with such a just profusion of praises, as fill'd me with impatience.—Lady Powis is a heavenly woman.—You do not laugh;—many would, for supposing any of that sexheavenlyafter fifty.—The coach is this moment going for Miss Warley;—it waits only for me;—I am often her conductor.—Wasyoufirst minister of state,—I the humble suitor whose bread depended on your favour,—not one line more, even to express my wants.
Twelve o'clock, at night.
Our fair visitor just gone;—just gone home with Edmund.—What an officious fool, to take him in the carriage, and prevent myself from a pleasure I envy him for.—I am not in spirits;—I can write no more;—perhaps the next post:—but I will promise nothing.
I am,&c. &c.
DARCEY.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.
Bath.
Confound your friendships!—Friendshipindeed!—What! up head and ears in love, and not know it.—So it is necessary for every woman you think capable of friendship, to have fine eyes, fine hair, a bewitching smile, and a neck delicately turn'd.—Have not I the highest opinion of my cousin Dolly's sincerity?—Do I not think her very capable offriendship?—Yet, poor soul, her eyes are planted so deep, it requires good ones to discover she has any.—Such a hand, George!—Such a hand, Darcey!—Why, Lady Dorothy too has hands; I am often enough squeez'd by them:—though hard as a horse's hoof, and the colour of tanned leather, I hold her capable offriendship.—Neck she has none,—smile she has none! yet need I the determination of another, to tell me whether my regard for her proceeds from love orfriendship?—Awake,—Awake, Darcey,—Awake:—Have you any value for your own peace?—have you any for that of Miss Warley's? If so, leave Barford Abbey.—Should you persist in loving her, for love her I know you do?—Should the quiet of such an amiable woman as you describe be at stake? To deal plainly, I will come down and propose the thing myself.—No sword,—no pistol. I mean not formyself, but one whose happiness is dear to me as myown.
Suppose your estate is but two thousand a-year, are you so fond of shew and equipage, to barter real felicity for baubles?—I am angry,—so angry, that it would not grieve me to see you leading to the altar an old hobbling dowager without a tooth.—Be more yourself,
And I am yours,
MOLESWORTH.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey,
Angry!—You are really angry!—Well, I too am angry with myself.—I do love Miss Warley;—but why this to you?—Your penetration has already discover'd it.—Yet, O Molesworth! such insurmountable obstacles:—no declaration can be made,—at least whilst I continue in this neighbourhood.
Sir James would rave at my imprudence.—Lady Powis, whatever are her sentiments, must give them up to his opinion.—Inevitably I lose the affection of persons I have sacredly—promised to obey,—sacredly.—Was not my promise given to a dying father?—Miss Warley has no tye; yet, by the duty she observes to Sir James and Lady Powis, you would think her bound by the strongest cords of nature.
Scarce a moment from her:—at Jenkings's every morning;—on foot if good weather,—else in the coach for the convenience of bringing her with me.—I am under no constraint:—Sir James and her Ladyship seem not the least suspicious: this I much wonder at, in the former particularly.
In mytête-à-têteswith Miss Warley, what think you are our subjects?—Chiefly divinity, history, and geography.—Of these studies she knows more than half the great men who have wrote for ages past.—On a taste for the two latter I once prided myself.—An eager pursuit for the former springs up in my mind, whilst conversing with her, like a plant long hid in the earth, and called out by the appearance of a summer's sun.—This sun must shine at Faulcon Park;—without it all will be dreary:—yethow can I draw it thither?—Edmund—but why should I fearEdmund?
Will you, or will you not, meet your old friend Finch here next Wednesday?—Be determined in your answer.—I have suspence enough on my hands to be excused from any on your account.—Sir James thinks it unkind you have not called on him since I left England;—hasten therefore to make up matters with the baronet,—Need I say the pleasure I shall have in shaking you by the hand?
DARCEY.
The Hon. GEORGE MOLESWORTH to Lord DARCEY.
Bath.
Wednesday next you shall see me,—positively you shall.—Bridgman will be of the party.
I propose an immensity of satisfaction from this visit.—Forbid it, heaven! Miss Warley's opposite should again give me a meeting at the Abbey.—After the conversation I am made to expect, how should I be mortified to have my ears eternally dinn'd with catgut work,—painting gauze,—weaving fringes,—and finding out enigmas?—Setting a fine face, Miss Winter is out-done by Fletcher's Nancy.—A-propos, I yesterday saw that very wise girl step into a chaise and wheel off for Scotland, begging and praying we would make the best of it to her mamma.—Not the least hand had I in this affair; but, willing to help out people in distress, at the entreaties of Lord Michell, I waited on the old Lady at her lodging.
I found her in a furious plight,—raving at her servants,—packing up her cloaths, and reflecting on her relations who had persuaded her to come to Bath.—When I entered she was kneeling by a huge travelling trunk, stuffing in a green purse at one corner, which I supposed to be full of gold.
Where is Nancy?—riling from the ground, and accosting me with looks of fury;—Where is Nancy, Mr. Molesworth?
Really,Madam, that is a question I cannot positively answer;—but, to be sincere, I believe she is on the road to Scotland.
Believe!—So you would have me think you are not one of Fletcher's clan.—But, tell him from me, running to the trunk after her purse, and shaking it just at my ear,—tell him, he shall never be a penny the better for this.
I took my hat, and looked towards the door, as if going.
Stop, Mr. Molesworth, (her voice somewhat lowered) why in so great a hurry?—I once thought you my friend. Pray inform me if Nancy was forced away;—or, if me went willingly.
You have no right, Madam, after the treatment I have received, to expect an answer; but justice bids me declare her going off seemed a matter of choice.
Poor child!—You was certainly trapann'd (and she put a handkerchief to her eyes).
I solemnly protest, Madam, I have seen your daughter but twice since she came to Bath.—Last night, when coming from the Rooms, I saw her step into a chaise, followed by Mr. Fletcher.—They beckoned me towards them, whispered the expedition they were going upon, and requested me to break the matter to you, and intercede for their pardon.—My visit has not answered its salutary purpose—I perceive ithas not. So saying I turned from her,—knowing, by old acquaintance, how I was to play my cards, me being one of those kind of spirits which are never quell'd but by opposition.
After fetching me from the door, she promised to hear calmly what I had to say;—and, tho' no orator, I succeeded so well as to gain an assurance, she would see them at their return from Scotland.
I left the old Lady in tolerable good humour, and was smiling to myself, recollecting the bout I had passed, when, who should come towards me but Lord Michell,—his countenance full-fraught with curiosity.
Well, George!—dear George!—what success in your embassy?—I long to know the fate of honest Fletcher.—Is he to loll in a coach and six?—or, is the coroner's inquest to bring in their verdict Lunacy?
A sweet alternative!—Asyour Lordship's assiduity has shewn the former is the highest pinnacle to which you would wish to lift a friend, I believe your most sanguine hopes are here answered.
Is itso!—Well, if ever Fletcher offers up a prayer, it ought to be for you, Molesworth.
Vastly good, my Lord.—What, before he prays for himself?—Thisshews your Lordship'sveryhigh notions of gratitude.
We have high notions of every thing.—Bucks and bloods, as we are call'd,—you may go to the devil before you will find a set of honester fellows.
To theDevil, my Lord!—That's true, I believe.
He was going to reply when the three choice spirits came up, and hurried him, away to the Tuns.
A word toyou, Darcey.—Surely you are never serious in the ridiculous design.—Not offer yourself to Miss Warley, whilst she continues in that neighbourhood?—the very spot on which you ought to secure her,—unless you think all the young fellows who visit at the Abbey are blind, except yourself.—Why, you are jealousalready;—jealousofEdmund.—Perhapseven Imay become one of your tormentors.—If I like her I shall as certainly tell herso, asthat my name is
MOLESWORTH.
[Here two Letters are omitted, one from Lady MARY to Miss WARLEY,—and one from Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY.]
Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.
From Mr.Jenkings's.
Ah! my dear Lady, how kind,—how inexpressibly kind, to promise I shall one day know what has put an end to the intimacy between the two Ladies Isomuch revere.
To find your Ladyship has still a high opinion of Lady Powis, has filled me with pleasure.—Fear of the reverse often threw a damp on my heart, whilst receiving the most tender caresses.—You bid me love her!—You say I cannot love her too well!—Thisis a command my heart springs forward to obey.
Unhappy family!—What a loss does it sustain by the absence of Mr. Powis?—No, I can never forgive the Lady who has occasioned this source of sorrow.—Why is her name concealed?—But what would it benefit me to come at a knowledge of it?
Pity Sir James should rather see such a songreatthan happy.—Six thousand a year,yetcovet a fortune twice as large!—Love of riches makes strange wreck in the human heart.
Why did Mr. Powis leave his native country?—The refusal of a Lady with whom he only sought an union in obedience to his father, could notgreatlyaffect him.—Was not such an overturewithoutaffection,—withoutinclination,—a blot in his fair character?—Certainly it was.—Your Ladyship seems to think Sir James only to blame.—I dare not have presumed to offer my opinion, had you not often told me, it betray'd a meanness to hide our real sentiments, when call'd upon to declare them.
Lady Powis yesterday obliged me with a sight of several letters from her son.—Iam not mistress of a stile likehis, or your Ladyship would have been spar'd numberless tedious moments.—Such extraordinary deckings are seldom to be met with in common minds.
I told Lady Powis, last evening, that I should devote this day to my pen;—so I shall not be sent for;—a favour I am sure to have conferr'd if I am not at the Abbey soon after breakfast.—Lord Darcey is frequently my escort.—I am pleased to see that young nobleman regard Edmund as if of equal rank with himself.
Heavens! his Lordship is here!—full-dressed, and just alighted from the coach,—to fetch me, I fear.—I shall know in a moment; Mrs. Jenkings is coming up.
Even so.—It vexes me to be thus taken off from my agreeable task;—yet I cannot excuse myself,—her Ladyship is importunate.—She sends me word Imustcome;—that Imustreturn with Lord Darcey.—Mrs. Finch is accidentally dropp'd in with her son.—I knew the latter was expected to meet two gentlemen from Bath,—one of them an intimate friend of Lord Darcey.—Mrs. Finch is an amiable woman;—it is to her Lady Powis wants to introduce me.
Your Servant, my Lord.—A very genteel way to hasten me down—impatient, I suppose, to see his friend from Bath.—Well, Jenny, tell his Lordship it will be needless to have the horses taken out.—I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.—Adieu, my dear Lady.
Eleven o'clock at night.
Every thing has conspired to make this day more than commonly agreeable.—It requires the pen of a Littelton to paint the different graces which shone in conversation.—As no such pen is at hand, will your Ladyship receive fromminea short description of the company at the Abbey?
Mrs. Finch is about seven and forty;—her person plain,—her mind lovely,—her bosom fraught with happiness.—She dispenses it promiscuously.—Every smile,—every accent,—conveys it to all around her.—A countenance engagingly open.—Her purse too, I am told, when occasions offer, open as her heart.—How largely is she repaid for her balsamic gifts,—by seeing those virtues early planted in the mind of her son, spring up and shoot in a climate where a blight is almost contagious!
Mr. Finch is the most sedate young man I have ever seen;—but his sedateness is temper'd with asweetnessinexpressible;—a certain mildness in the features;—a mildnesswhich, in the countenance of that great commander I saw at Brandon Lodge, appears likemercysent out from the heart to discover the dwelling oftrue courage.—There is certainly a strong likeness between the Marquis and Lord Darcey;—so strong, that when I first beheld his Lordship I was quite struck with surprize.
Mr. Molesworth and Mr. Bridgman, the two gentlemen from Bath, are very opposite to each other in person and manner; yet both in a different degree seem to be worthy members of society.
Mr. Molesworth, a most entertaining companion,—vastly chearful,—smart at repartee; and, from the character Lord Darcey has given me of him, very sincere.
Mr. Bridgman has a good deal the air of a foreigner; attained, I suppose, by his residence some years at the court of ——, in a public character.—Very fit he appears for such an employ.—Sensible,—remarkably polite,—speaks all languages with the same fluency as his own; but then a veil of disagreeable reserve throws a dark shade over those perfections.—PerhapsI am wrong to spy out faults so early;—perhapsto-morrow my opinion may be different.—First prepossessions—Ah! What would I have said offirst prepossessions?—Is it not to them I owe a thousand blessings?—I, who have nothing to recommend me but being unfortunate.
Somthing lies at my heart.—Yet I think I could not sleep in quiet, was I to drop a hint in disfavour of Mr. Jenkings;—it may not be in hisdisfavourneither:—However, my dear Lady, you shall be the judge, after I have repos'd a few hours.
Seven o'clock in the morning.
Why should I blame Mr. Jenkings?—Is not Edmund his only son?—his only child?—Is he less my friend for suspecting?—Yes, my Lady, I perceive he doessuspect.—He is uneasy.—He supposes his son encouraging an improper affection.—I see it in his very looks:—he must think me an artful creature.—This it is that distresses me.—I wish I could hit on a method to set his heart at rest.—If I barely hint a design of leaving the neighbourhood, which I have done once or twice, he bursts into tears, and I am oblig'd to sooth him like a child.
How account for this behaviour?—Why does he look on me with the eye of fatherly affection,—yet think me capable of a meanness Idespise?
I believe it impossible for a human being to havemoregood nature, ormoregood qualities, than Edmund; yet had he the riches of a Mogul, I could never think of a connection with him.—He, worthy young man, has never given his father cause forsuspicion.—I am convinced he has not.—Naturally of an obliging disposition, he is ever on the watch for opportunities to gratify his amiable inclinations:—notonesuch selfish motive as love to push him on.
A summons to breakfast.—Lord Darcey, it seems, is below;—I suppose, slid away from his friends to call on Edmund.—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings areallsmiles,allgood humour, to their son,—I hope it is only I who have beensuspicious.—Lord Darcey is still with Edmund.—They are at this moment under my window,—counselling perhaps, about a commission he wants his father to purchase for him in the Guards.—I should be glad to see this matter accommodated;—yet, I could wish, insotender a point, his Lordship may not betooforward in advising.—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings have such an opinion of him,—they pay such deference to what he says,—his advicemusthave weight;—and theymaybe unhappy by giving up their inclinations.
The praises of Lord Darcey are forever sounding in my ears.—To what a height would the partiality of Mrs. Jenkings lift me?—She would have me think,—I cannot tell your Ladyship what she wouldhave me think.—My hopes dare not takesucha flight.—No!—I can perceive what their fallmustbe;—I can perceiveit, without getting on the top of the precipice to look down.
I shall order every thing for my departure, according to your Ladyship's directions, holding myself in readiness to attend Mr. and Mrs. Smith, at the time proposed.
Oxfordshire I must revisit,—for a few days only;—having some little matters to regulate.
The silks I have purchas'd for your Ladyship are slight, as you directed, except a white and gold, which is the richest and most beautiful I could procure.
How imperceptibly time slides on?—The clock strikes eleven,—in spight of the desire I have of communicating many things more.—An engagement to be with Lady Powis at twelve hastens me to conclude myself
Your Ladyship's
Most honour'd and affectionate,
F. WARLEY.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.
Bath.
What a sacrifice do you offer up to that old dog Plutus!—I have lostallpatience,—allpatience, I say.—Sucha woman!—suchan angelic woman!—But what has,—what will avail my arguments?—Her peace is gone,—if you persevere in a behaviour soparticular,—absolutely gone.
Bridgman this morning told me, that unless I assured him you hadpretensionsto Miss Warley, he was determined to offer her his hand;—thatnothing prevented him from doing it whilst at the Abbey, but your mysterious conduct, which he was at a loss how to construe. —Not to offendyou, theLadyorfamilyshe is with, he apply'd, he said, tome, as a friend of each party, to set him right.
Surely, Bridgman, returned I, you wish to keep yourself in the dark; or how the duce have you been six days with people whose countenances speak so much sensibility, and not make the discovery you seek after?
Though her behaviour to us; continued I, was politeness itself, was there nothing more thanpolitenessin her address to Lord Darcey?—Her smilestoo, in which Diana and the Graces revel, saw you notthem, how they played from one to another, like sun-beams on the water, until they fixed on him?—Is the nation in debt?—So much is Darcey in love;—and you may as well pay off one, as rival the other with success.
Observe, my friend, in what manner I have answered for you.—Keep her, therefore, no longer in suspence.—Delays of this sort are not only dangerous, but cruel.—Why delight to torture what we most admire?—From a boy you despised such actions.—Often have I known Dick Jones, when at Westminster, threshed by your hand for picking poor little birds alive.—Hiswas an early point;—but forDarcey, accoutred with the breast-plate of honour, even before he could read the word that signifies its intrinsic value,—for himto be falling off,—falling off at a timetoo, when Virtue herself appears in person to support him!
Can you say, you mean not to injure her?—Is a woman only to be injured, but by an attempt on her virtue?—Is itnocrime,nofault, to cheat a young innocent lovely girl out of her affections, and give her nothing in return but regret and disappointment?
Reflect, what a task is mine, thus to lay disagreeable truths plainly before you.—To hear it pronounced, that Lord and Lady Darcey are the happiest couple on earth, is the hope that has pushed me on to this unpleasing office.
Bridgman is just set out for town.—I am charg'd with a profusion of respects, thanks, &c. &c. &c. which, if you have the least oeconomy, will serve for him, and
Your very humble servant,
MOLESWORTH.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Bridgman!—Could Bridgman dare aspire to Miss Warley!—Heoffer her his hand!—hebe connected with a woman whose disposition is diametrically opposite to his own!—No,—that would not have done, though I had never seen her.—Let him seek for one who has a heart shut up by a thousand locks.
After hisownconjectures,—after whatyouhave told him,—should hebutattempt to take her from me, by all that is sacred, he shall repent it dearly.
Molesworth!youare my friend,—I take your admonitions well;—but, surely, you should not press thus hardly on my soul, knowing its uneasy situation.—My state is even more perplexing than when we parted:—I did not then know she was going to France.—Yes, she is absolutely going toFrance.—Why leave her friends here?—Why not wait the arrival of Lady Mary Sutton in England?
I have used every dissuasive argumentbut one.—That shall be my last.—Ifthatfails I go—I positively go with her.—It is your opinion that she loves me.—Would it were mine!—Notthe least partiality can I discover.—Why then be precipitate?—Every moment she is gaining ground in the affections of Sir James and Lady Powis.—Timemay work wonders in the mind of the former.—Without his consent never can I give my hand;—the commands of a dying father forbid me.—Sucha father!—O George! you did not know him;—sorevered,—sohonour'd,—sobelov'd! not more in public than in private life.
My friend, behold your son!—Darcey, behold your father!—Asyou reverence and obey Sir James,asyou consult him on all occasions,asyou are guided by his advice, receive my blessing.—These were his parting words, hugg'd into me in his last cold embrace.—No, George, the promise I made can never be forfeited.—I sealed it on his lifeless hand, before I was borne from him.
Now, are you convinc'd no mean views with-hold me?—You despise not more than I do the knave and coxcomb; for no other, to satiate their own vanity, would sport away the quiet of a fellow-creature.—Well may you call it cruel.—Suchcruelties fall little short of those practised byNeroandCaligula.
Did it depend on myself only, I would tell Miss Warley I love,every timeI behold her enchanting face;every timeI hear the voice of wisdom springing from the seat of innocence.
No shadow of gaining over Sir James!—Effortshas not been wanting:—I meaneffortsto declare my inclination.—I have follow'd him like a ghost for days past, thinking at every step how I should blessthisorthatspot on which he consented to my happiness.—Pleasing phantoms!—How have they fled at sight of his determin'd countenance!—Methought I could tracein itthe same obduracy which nature vainly pleaded to remove.—Inothermatters my heart is resolute;—herean errant coward.—No! I cannot break it to him whilst in Hampshire.—When I get to town, a lettershallspeak for me.—Sometimes I am tempted to trust the secret to Lady Powis.—She is compassionate;—she would even risk her own peace to preserve mine.—Again the thoughts of involving her in fresh perplexities determines me against it.
Had my father been acquainted with that part of Sir James's character which concerned his son, I am convinc'd he would have made some restrictions in regard to the explicit obedience he enjoined.—But all was hushed whilst Mr. Powis continued on his travels; nor, until he settled abroad, did any one suspect there had been a family disagreement:—evenatthistime the whole affair is not generally known.—The name of the lady to whom he was obliged to make proposals, is in particular carefully concealed.—I, who from ten years old have been bred up with them, am an entire stranger to it.—Perhapsno part of the affair would ever have transpired, had not Sir James made some discoveries, in the first agitation of his passion, before a large company, when he received an account of Mr. Powis's being appointed to the government of ——. No secret can be safe in a breast where every passage is not well guarded against an enemy which, like lightning, throws up all before it.
Let me not forget to tell you, amongst a multiplicity of concerns crowding on my mind, that I have positively deny'd Edmund to intercede with his father regarding the commission.—A bare surmise that he is my rival, has silenced me.—Was I ungenerous enough to indulge myself in getting rid of him, an opportunity now offers;—but I amasaverse to such proceedings asheought to be who is the friend of Molesworth, and writes the name of
DARCEY.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to Lord DARCEY.
Bath.
Believe me, my dear Lord, I never suspected you capable of designs you justly hold in abhorrence.—If I expressed myself warmly, it was owing to your keeping from me the knowledge of those particulars which have varied every circumstance.—I saw my friend a poor restless being, irresolute, full of perplexities.—I felt for him.—I rejoice now to find from whence thisirresolution, thoseperplexitiesarose.—She is,—she must,—by heaven! she shall be yours:—A reward fit only forsuchgreat—suchnoble resolutions.
You talk of alastargument—Forbearthatargument.—Youmustnot use it before you have laid your intentions open to Sir James.—Neitherfollow her to France.—What, as you are situated, wouldthatavail?—Prevent her going,ifyou can.—Sucha woman, under the protection of Lady Mary Sutton,musthave many advantageous proposals.
I understandnothingof features,—I knownothingof physiognomy, if you have any uneasiness from Bridgman.—It was not marks of a violent passion he betrayed;—rather, I think, an ambition of having his taste approved by the world;—but we shall know more of the matter when I meet him in town.
Stupidity!—Not see her partiality!—not see that she loves you!—She will some time hence own it as frankly with her lips, as her eyes have told you a thousand times, did you understand their language.—The duce a word couldIget from them.—Very uncivil, I think, not tospeakwhen they werespoketo,—They will be ready enough, I suppose, with theirthanksandapplauses, when I present her hand to be united with her heart. That office shall bemine:—Somethingtells me, there is to be an alteration inyouraffairs, sudden as unexpected.
I go to the rooms this evening for the last time.—To-morrow I set out for Slone Hall, in my way to London.—Here I shall spend two or three days happily with my good-natured cousin Lady Dorothy.—Perhaps we may take an airing together as far as your territories.—I shallnowlook on Faulcon-Park with double pleasure.—Neither that or the agreeable neighbourhood round it will be ever bridled over by a haughty dame.—(Miss Warley, forbid it.)—Some such we see inhighas well aslowlife.—Haughtiness is the reverse of true greatness; therefore it staggers me to behold it in the former.
A servant with a white favour!—What can this mean?—
Upon my word, Mr. Flecher, you return with your fair bride sooner than I expected.—A card too.—Things must befinelyaccommodated with the old Lady.—Your Lordship being at too great a distance to partake of the feast, pray regale on what calls me to it.
"Mrs. Moor and Mr. and Mrs. Flecher's compliments to Mr. Molesworth.—My son and daughter are just return'd from Scotland, and hope for the pleasure of Mr. Molesworth's company with eight or ten other friends, to congratulate them this evening on their arrival.—Both the Ladies and Mr. Flecher will be much disappointed, if you do not accept our invitation."
True as I live,neither addedordiminisheda tittle,—and wrote by the hand of Flecher's Desdemona.—Does not a man richly deserve thirty thousand pounds with a wifelike this?—Not fortwicethat sum would I see such nonsense come from her I was to spend my life with.
Pity Nature and Fortune has such frequent bickerings! When one smiles the other frowns.—I wish the gipsies would make up matters, and send us down their favours wrapp'd up together.
Considering the friendship you have honour'd Edmund with, I have no idea he can presume to think of Miss Warley,seeingwhat he mustsee.
I shall expect to find a letter on my arrival in St. James's Street.—Omit not those respects which are due at Barford Abbey.
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
I should be in a fine plight, truly, to let her go to France without me!—Why, I am almost besides myself at the thoughts of an eight days separation.—Was ever any thing so forgetful!—To bring no other cloaths here but mourning!—Did she always intend to encircle the sun with a sable cloud?—Or, why not dispatch a servant?—A journey into Oxfordshire is absolutely necessary.—Someotherbusiness, I suppose; but I am not enough in her confidence to know of what nature.—Poh! love!—Impossible, and refuse me so small a boon as to attend her!—requested too in a manner that spoke my whole soul.—Yes; I had near broke through all my resolutions.—This I did say, If Miss Warley refuses her dear hand, pressing it to my lips, in the same peremptory manner,—what will become of him who without it is lost to the whole world?—The reply ventur'd no further than her cheek;—there sat enthron'd in robes of crimson.—I scarce dar'd to look up:—her eyes darted forth a ray so powerful, that I not only quitted her hand, but suffered her to leave the room without my saying another word.—This happened at Jenkings's last evening; in the morning she was to set out with the old gentleman for Oxfordshire.—I did not attempt seeing her again 'till that time, fearing my presence might be unpleasing, after the confusion I had occasion'd.
Sick of my bed I got up at five; and taking a gun, directed my course to the only spot on earth capable of affording me delight.—The outer gate barr'd:—no appearance of any living creature, except poor Caesar.—He, hearing my voice, crept from his wooden-house, and, instead of barking, saluted me in a whining tone:—stretching himself, he jumped towards the gate, licking my hand that lay between the bars.—I said many kind things to this faithful beast, in hopes my voice would awaken some of the family.—The scheme succeeded.—A bell was sounded from one of the apartments; that opposite to which I stood.—A servant opening the window-shutters, I was tempted to keep my stand.—A white beaver with a green feather, and a riding-dress of the same colour, plainly told me this was the room where rested all my treasure, and caused in my mind such conflicts as can no more be described bymethan felt byanother.—Unwilling to encrease my tortures I reeled to an old tree, which lay on a bank near;—there sat down to recover my trembling.—The next thing which alarmed me was an empty chaise, driving full speed down the hill.—I knew onwhatoccasion, yet could not forbear asking the post-boy.—He answered, To carry some company from yonder house.—My situation was really deplorable,—when I beheld my dear lovely girl walking in a pensive mood, attir'd in that very dress which I espied through the window.—Heavy was the load I dragged from head to heel; yet, like a Mercury, I flew to meet her.—She saw me,—started,—and cry'd, Bless me! my Lord! what brings you hither at this early hour?—The real truth was springing to my lips, when, recollecting her happiness might be the sacrifice, I said, examining the lock of my gun,—I am waiting, Miss Warley, for that lazy fellow Edmund:—he promised to shew me an eye of pheasants.—If you are not a very keen sportsman, returned she, what says your Lordship to a cup of chocolate?—It will not detain you long;—Mrs. Jenkings has some ready prepared for the travellers.
She pronouncedtravellerswith uncommon glee;—at least I thought so,—and, nettled at her indifference, could not help replying,Youareveryhappy, madam;—youpart with your friendsveryunreluctantly, I perceive.
If any thing ever appeared in my favour, it was now.—Her confusion was visible;—even Edmund observed it, who just then strolled towards us, and said, looking at both attentively, What is the matter with Miss Warley?
With me, Edmund? she retorted,—nothing ails me.—I suppose you think I am enough of the fine lady to complain the whole day, because I have got up an hour before my usual time.
His tongue wasnowsilent;—his eyesfullof enquiries.—He fixed them on us alternately,—wanting to discover the situation of our hearts.—Why so curious, Edmund?—Things cannot go on long at this rate.—Yourheart must undergo a strict scrutiny before I shall know what terms we are upon.
No words can paint my gratitude for worthy Jenkings.—He went to the Abbey, on foot, before breakfast was ended, to give me an opportunity of supplying his place in the chaise.—At parting he actually took one of my hands, joined it with Miss Warley's, and I could perceive petitions ascending from the seat of purity.—I know to what they tended.—Ifelt, Isawthem.—The chaise drove off. I could have blessed him.—May my blessings overtake him!—May they light where virtue sits enshrin'd by locks of silver.
Yes, if his son was to wound me in the tenderest part, for the sake ofsucha father, I think,—I know not what to think.—Living in such suspence is next to madness.
She treats him with the freedom of a sister.—She calls him Edmund,—leans on his arm, and suffers him to take her hand.—The least favour conferred on me is with an airsoreserved,sodistant, as if she would say, I have not for you the least sentiment of tenderness.
Lady Powis sends to desire I will walk with her.—A sweet companion am I for a person in low spirits!—That her's are not high is evident.—She has shed many tears this morning at parting with Miss Warley.
Instead of eight days mortification we might have suffer'd twenty, had not her Ladyship insisted on an absolute promise of returning at that time.—Farewel till then.
Yours,
DARCEY.
Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.
From the Crown, at ——.
Here am I, ever-honour'd lady, forty miles on the road to that beloved spot, where, for nineteen years, my tranquility was uninterrupted.—Will a serene sky always hang over me?—It will be presumption to suppose it,—when thousands, perhaps, endowed with virtues the most god-like, have nothing on which they can lookbackbut dark clouds,—nothing to which they can lookforwardbut gathering storms.—Am I a bark only fit to sail in fair weather?—Shall I not prepare to meet the waves of disappointment?
How does my heart bear,—how throb,—to give up follies which dare not hide themselves where a passage is madebygenerosity,byaffection unbounded.—Yes, my dear Lady, this is the only moment I do not regret being absent from you;—for could my tongue relate what my pen trembles to discover?—No!
Beholdmeat your Ladyship's feet!—beholdmea supplicant suing for my returning peace!—Youonly, can restore it.—Command that I give up my preference for Lord Darcey, and the intruder is banished from my heart:—thenshall I no more labour to deceive myself:—thenshall I no more blindly exchange certain peace for doubtful happiness,—aquietfor arestlessmind.—Humility has not fled me;—my heart has not fallen a sacrifice to title, pomp, or splendor.—Yet, has it not foolishly, unasked, given itself up?—Ah! my Lady, not entirely unask'd neither; or, why, from the first moment, have I seen him shewsuchtender,suchrespectful assiduities?—whysoardently solicit to attend me into Oxfordshire?—why ask, if I refused my hand in the same peremptory manner, what would become of the man who without it was lost to the whole world?—But am I not too vain?—Why should this man be Lord Darcey?—Rather one rising to his imagination, who he might possibly suppose was entrapped by my girlish years.—A few, a veryfewweeks, and I am gone from him forever.—If your Ladyship's goodness can pardon the confession I have made, no errors will I again commit of the kind which now lies blushing before you.
Next to your Ladyship Mr. Jenkings is the best friend I have on earth.—Heneverhas suspected, ornowquite forgets his suspicions.—Not all my entreaties could prevent him from taking this long journey with me.—His age, his connections, his business, every thing is made subservient to my convenience—Whilst I write he is below, and has just sent up to know if I will permit a gentleman of his acquaintance, whom he has met accidentally at this inn, to dine with us.—Why does he use this ceremony?—I can have no objection to any friend ofhis.—Dinner is served up.—I shall write again at our last stage this evening.