Miss WARLEY to the same.
From Mr. Jenkings's.
Sent for before breakfast!—Nobody in the coach!—Well, I am glad of that, however.—Something very extraordinary must have happen'd.—I hope Lady Powis is not ill.—No other message but to desire I would come immediately.—I go, my dear Lady; soon as I return will acquaint you what has occasion'd me thisearlysummons.
Eight o'clock at Night.
No ill news! quite the reverse:—I am escaped from the house of festivity to make your Ladyship a partaker.
My spirits are in a flutter.—I know not where to begin.—I have run every step of the way, till I am quite out of breath.—Mr. Powis is coming home,—absolutely coming home to settle;—marriedtoo, but I cannot tell all at once.—Letters with an account of it have been this morning receiv'd. He does not saywhohis wife is, only one of the best women in the world.
She will be received with affection;—I know she will.—Lady Powis declares, they shall be folded together in her arms.
It was too much for Sir James, he quite roared again when he held out to me the letter,—I don't believe he has eat a morsel this day.—I never before saw a man so affected with joy.—Thank God! I left him pure and calm.
The servants were like mad creatures, particularly those who lived in the family before Mr. Powis left England.—He seems, in short, to be considered as one risen from the dead.—
I was in such haste on receiving Lady Powis's message, that I ran down to the coach, my hat and cloak in my hand.—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings were talking to the coachman.—I soon perceived by them something pleasing had happen'd.—They caught me in their arms, and I thought would have smother'd me in their embraces; crying out, Mr. Powis is coming home, my dear;—Mr. Powis is coming home:—for God's sake, Madam, make haste up to the Hall.
In getting into the coach, I stepp'd on my apron, and fell against the opposite door.—My right arm was greatly bruis'd, which I did not perceive till I drew on my glove.
The moment I alighted, I ran to the breakfast-parlour; but finding no one there, went directly to her Ladyship's dressing-room.—She open'd the door, when she heard me coming. I flew to her.—I threw my arms about her neck, and all I could say in my hurry was, Joy, Joy, Joy!
I am all joy, my love, she return'd—I am made up of nothing else. I quitted her to run to Sir James, who was sitting in a great chair with a letter held out. I believe I kiss'd him twenty times before I took it;—there could be no harm in that surely.—Such endearments I should have shewn my father, on the like tender occasion. He wept, as I have said, till he quite roared again.—I laid his head on my shoulder, and it was some time before I would mention his son's name.
Lord Darcey held one of Sir James's hands: he was in the room when I enter'd; but I declare I never saw him till he spoke. He is safenow,—after what happened yesterday,—safe from any imputation onmyaccount—
Very kind and very civil, upon my word! O! your Ladyship never heard such a fuss as he made about the scratch on my arm.—I affect to look pleased when he speaks to me, that he might not take it into his head I am mortified.
He must be the happiest creature in the world; I honour him for the grateful affection he shews Sir James and Lady Powis.
Breakfast stood on the table: not a soul had broke their fast.—Her Ladyship was here, there, and every where.—I was sadly afraid they would be all sick; at length I prevailed on them to drink a cup of chocolate.—
Mr. Watson, good man notwithstanding his indisposition, got up at eleven.—I met him coming from his apartment, and had the pleasure of leading him to the happy family.—
His congratulations were delivered with such serene joy,—such warmth of affection,—as if he had cull'd the heart-felt satisfaction of bothparents.
The wordhappyechoed from every mouth; each sentence began and ended with it.—What the heart feels is seldom to be disguised.—Grief will speak,—if not by the tongue, it will out;—it hangs on the features, sallows the skin, withers the sinews, and is a galling weight that pulls towards the ground.—Why should a thought of grief intrude at this time?—Is not my dear Lady Mary's health returning?—Is not felicity restor'd to this family?—Now will my regret at parting be lessened;—now shall I leave every individual with minds perfectly at ease.
Mr. Powis is expected in less than a month, intending to embark in the next ship after the Packet.—How I long to see him!—But it is very unlikely I should; I shall certainly have taken my leave of this place before he arrives.—By your Ladyship's permission, I hope to look in upon them, at our return to England.
What genteel freedoms men give themselves afterdeclaring off, as Miss Winter calls it?—I had never so many fine things said to me before;—I can't tell how many;—quite a superabundance;—and before Sir Jamestoo!—But no notice is taken; he has cleared himself of all suspicion.—He may go to town as soon as he will.—His business is done;—yes, he did it yesterday.
I wish I may not laugh out in the midst of his fine speeches.—
I wish your Ladyship could see this cool attention I give him.—But I have nettled him to the truth this afternoon:—his pride was alarm'd;—it could certainly proceed fromno othercause, after he hasdeclared off.
I was sitting at the tea-table, a trouble I always take from Lady Powis, who with Sir James was walking just without the windows, when Lord Darcey open'd the door, and said, advancing towards me with affected airs of admiration,—How proud should I be to see my house and table so graced!—Then leaning over the back of my chair, Well, my angel! how is the bad arm? Come, let me see, attempting to draw off my glove.
Oh! quite well, my Lord; withdrawing my hand carelessly.
For heaven's sake, take more care of yourself, Miss Warley; this might have been a sad affair.
Depend on that, my Lord, for my own sake.
For yourown sake!Not in consideration of anyotherperson?
Yes; ofLady Mary Sutton, Sir JamesandLady Powis, good Mr. Jenkingsandhis wife, who I know would be concerned was I to suffer much from any accident.
Then there is nootherperson you would wish to preserve your life for?
Not that I know at present, my Lord,
Not that you know atpresent!so you think you may one day orother?
I pretend not, my Lord, to answer for whatmayhappen; I have never seen thepersonyet. I was going to say something further, I have really forgot what, when he turn'd from me, and walked up and down the room with a seeming discomposure.
Ifyou are sincere in what you have said,Miss Warley;ifyou arereallysincere, I do pronounce—Here he burst open the door, and flew out the instant Sir James and Lady Powis entered.
When the tea was made, a footman was sent to Lord Darcey; but he was no where to be found.
This is very strange, said her Ladyship; Lord Darcey never used to be out of the way at tea-time. I declare I am quite uneasy; perhaps he may be ill.
Oh! cry'd Sir James, don't hurry yourself; I warrant he is got into one of his old reveries, and forgets the time.
I was quite easy. I knew his abrupt departure was nothing but an air:—an air of consequence, I suppose.—However, I was willing to be convinced, so did not move till I saw the Gentleman sauntering up the lawn. As no one perceived him but myself, I slid out to the housekeeper, and told her, if her Lady enquir'd for me, I was gone home to write Letters by to-morrow's post.
You have enough of it now, I believe, my dear Lady; two long letters by the same packet:—but you are the repository of my joy, my grief, the very inmost secrets of my soul.—You, my dear Lady, have the whole heart of
F. WARLEY.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Ruin'd and undone, as I hope for mercy!—undone too by my own egregious folly!—She is quite lost,—quite out of my power.—I wish Lord Allen had been in the bottom of the sea;—he can never make me amends;—no, if he was to die to-morrow and leave me his whole fortune.—
I told you he was to dine here yesterday.—I cannot be circumstantial.—He did dine here;—to my utter sorrow he did.
Oh what a charming morning I spent!—Tho' my angel persisted in going to France, yet it was in a manner that made me love her, if possible, ten thousand times more than ever.—Good God! had you seen how she look'd!—But no matter now;—I must forget her angelical sweetness.—Forget did I say?—No, by heaven and earth—she lives in every corner of my heart.—I wish I had told her my whole soul.—I was going to tell her, if I had not been interrupted.—It is too late now.—She would not hear me: I see by her manners she would not hear me. She has learnt to look with indifference:—even smiles with indifference.—Why does she not frown? That would be joy to what her smiles afford.—I hate such smiles; they are darts dipp'd in poison.—
Lord Allen said he heard I was going to be marry'd:—What was that to him?—Sir James look'd displeased. To quiethisfears I assured him—God! I know not what I assuredhim—something very foreign from my heart.
She blushed when Sir James asked, to whom?—With what raptures did I behold her blushes!—But she shrunk at my answer.—I saw the colour leave her cheek, like a rose-bud fading beneath the hoary frost.
Iwillknow my fate.—Twill be with you in a few days,—if Sir James should consent.—What if he should consent?—She is steeled against my vows—my protestations;—my words affect her not;—the most tender assiduities are disregarded:—she seems to attend to what I say, yet regards it not.
Where are those looks of preference fled,—those expressive looks?—I saw them not till now:—it is their loss,—it is their sad reverse that tells me what they were. She turns not her head to follow my foot-steps at parting;—or when I return, does not proclaim it by advancing pleasure tip-toe to the windows of her soul.—No anxiety for my health! No, she cares not what becomes of me.—I complain'd of my head, said I was in great pain;—heaven knows how true! My complaints were disregarded.—I attended her home. She sung all the way; or if she talked, it was of music:—not a word ofmy poor head;—no charges to draw the glasses up going back.
There was a time, Molesworth—there was a time, if my finger had but ached, it was, My Lord, you look ill. Does not Lady Powis persuade you to have advice? You are really too careless of your health.
Shall she beanother's?—Yes; when I shrink at sight of what lies yonder,—my sword, George;—that shall prevent her ever beinganother's.
Tell me you believe she will bemine:—it may help to calm my disturbed mind.—Be sure you do not hint she will beanother's.
Have I told you, Mr. Powis is coming home?—I cannot recollect whether I have or not;—neither can I pain myself to look back.
All the world has something to comfort them, but your poor friend.—Every thing wears the face of joy, till I turn my eyes inwards:—there it isI behold the opposite;—there it iswhere Grief has fix'd her abode.—Does the fiend ever sleep? Will she be composed by ushering in the happy prospects of others?—Yes, I will feel, joy.—Joy did I say? Joy I cannot feel.—Satisfaction then?—Satisfaction likewise is forbid to enter.—What then will possess my mind; on recollecting peace is restor'd, where gratitude calls for such large returns?—I'll pray for them;—I'll pray for a continuance of their felicity.—I'll pray, if they have future ills in store, they may light on the head of Darcey.—Yes, he can bear more yet:—let the load be ever so heavy, he will stoop to take up the burthen of his friends;—such friends as Sir James and Lady Powis have been to
DARCEY.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.
London.
Well, give me the first salute of your fair bride;—and for your brideI'll ensure Miss Warley.—Why there is not a symptom but is in your favour.—She is nettled; can't you perceive it?—Once a studied disregard takes place, we are safe:—nothing will hurt younow, my Lord.—
You have been stuttering falsehoods.—From what I can gather, you have been hushing the Baronet at the expence of your own and Miss Warley's quiet.—If you have, never mind it; things may not be the worse.—Come away, I advise you; set out immediately.—See how she looks at parting.—But don't distress her;—I charge you not to distress her.—Should you play back her own cards, I will not answer for the pride of the sex.—
Sir James's consent once gained, and she rejects your proposals, lay all your letters to me on the subject before her.—I have them by me.—These cannot fail of clearing every doubt; she will be convinced then how sincerely you have loved her.—
You surprise me concerning Mr. Powis:—I thought he was settled in his government for life;—or rather, for the life of his father.—However, I am convinced his coming over will be no bad thing for you;—he has suffered too much from avarice, not to assist another so hardly beset.—
Was not his settling abroad an odd affair!—If he determined to remain single till he had an opportunity of pleasing himself, why did he leave England?—The mortification could not be great to have his overtures refused, where they were made with such indifference.—
As he has lived so many years a batchelor, I suppose there will be now an end to that great family.—
What a leveller is avarice! How does it pull down by attempting to raise? How miserable, as Seneca says, in the desire?—how miserable in attaining our ends?—The same great man alledges, that as long as we are solicitous for the increase of wealth, we lose the true use of it; and spend our time in putting out, calling in, and passing our accounts, without any substantial benefit, either to the world, or to ourselves.—
If you had ever any uneasiness on Bridgman's account, it must be now at an end.—Married, and has brought his bride to town.—What a false fellow!—From undoubted authority, I am assured the writings have been drawn six months:—so that every thing must be concluded between him and his wife, at the very time he talked to me of Miss Warley.—I wash my hands from any further acquaintance with concealed minds:—there must be something very bad in a heart which has a dark cloud drawn before it.—Virtue and innocence need no curtain:—they were sent to us naked;—it is their loss, or never possessing them,—that makes caution necessary, to hide from the world their destined place of abode.—Without entering a house, and being conversant with its inhabitants, how is it possible to say, if they are worthy or unworthy:—so if you knock, and are not admitted, you still remain doubtful.—But I am grown wise from experience;—and shall judge, for the future, where a heart is closely shut up, there is nothing in it worth enquiring after.
I go on Thursday to meet Risby, and conduct him to town. It would give us great joy, at our return, to shake you by the hand.—What can avail your staying longer in the midst of doubts, perplexities, racks, tortures, and I know-not-what. Have you any more terms to express the deadly disorder?—If you have keep them to yourself; I want not the confounded list compleat:—no; no, not I; faith.—
I go this evening to see the new play, which is at present a general subject of conversation.—Now, was I a vain fellow—a boaster—would I mention four or six of the prettiest women about town, and swear I was to escort them.—Being a lover of truth, I confess I shall steal alone into an upper box, to fix my attention on the performance of the piece.—Perhaps, after all is over, I may step to the box of some sprightly, chatty girl, such as lady ——,—hear all the scandal of the town, ask her opinion of the play, hand her to her chair, and so home, to spend a snug evening with sir Edward Ganges, who has promised to meet me here at ten.
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
Lady MARY SUTTON to Miss WARLEY.
German Spaw.
No, my dear,Lord Darceyis not the man he appears.—What signifies a specious outside, if within there's a narrow heart?—Such must be his, to let a virtuous love sit imprisoned in secret corners, when it delights to dwell in open day.
Perhaps, if he knew my intentions, all concealments would be thrown aside, and he glory to declare what at present he meanly darkly hints.—By my consent, you should never give your hand to one who can hold the treasures of the mind in such low estimation.
When you mention'd your happy situation, the friendly treatment of Sir James and Lady Powis, I was inclined to think formanyreasons, it would be wrong to take you from them;—nowI am convinced, the painthatmust occasion, or the danger in crossing the sea, is not to be compared to what you might suffer in yourpeaceby remaining where you are.—When people of Lord Darcey's rank weigh long a matter of this nature, it is seldom the scale turns of the right side;—therefore, let notHope, my dear child, flatter you out of your affections.
Do not think you rest in security:—tender insinuations from a man such as you describe Lord Darcey, may hurt your quiet.
I speak not from experience;—Nature, by cloathing me in her plainest garb, has put all these hopes and fears far from me.
I have been ask'd, it is true, often, for my fortune;—at least, I look upon asking for my heart to be the same thing.—Sure, I could never be such a fool to part with the latter, when I well knew it was requested only to be put in possession of the former!
Youthink Jenkings suspects his son has atootender regard for you;—youthink he is uneasy on that account.—Perhaps he is uneasy;—but time will convince you his suspicions, his uneasiness, proceed not from thecause you imagine.—He is a good man; you cannot think too well of him.
I hope this letter will find you safe return'd to Hampshire. I am preparing to leave the Spaw with all possible expedition: I should quit it with reluctance, but for the prospect of visiting it again next summer, with my dear Fanny.
At Montpelier the winter will slide on imperceptibly: many agreeable families will there join us from the Spaw, whose good-humour and chearful dispositions, together with plentiful draughts of the Pouhon Spring, have almost made me forget the last ten years I have dragg'd, on in painful sickness.
The family in which I have found most satisfaction, is Lord Hampstead's:—every way calculated to make themselves and others happy;—such harmony is observed through the whole, that the mechanism of the individuals seem to be kept in order by one common wheel.—I rejoice that I shall have an opportunity of introducing you to them.—We have fixed to set out the same day for Montpelier.
Lady Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, has obligingly offer'd to travel in my coach, saying, she thought it would be dull for me to go alone.
It is impossible to say which of the two sisters, was it left to my choice, would be my companion, as both are superlatively pleasing.—They possess, to a degree, what I so much admire in our sex;—a peculiar softness in the voice and manner; yet not quite so sprightly, perhaps, as may be thought necessary for some misses started up in this age; but sufficient, I think, for those who keep within certain bounds.—It requires an uncommon share of understanding, join'd with a great share of wit, to make a very lively disposition agreeable. I allow, if these two ingredients are happily blended, none can chuse but admire, as well as be entertain'd with, such natural fine talents:—on the contrary, where one sees a pert bold girl apeing such rare gifts, it is not only the most painful, but most absurd sight on earth.
Lady Elizabeth, and her amiable sister Sophia strive to hide every perfection they possess;—yet these I have just mention'd, with all others, will on proper occasions, make their appearance through a croud of blushes.—This timidity proceeds partly from nature,—partly from the education they have received under the best of mothers, whose tenderness for them would not suffer her to assign that momentous task to any but herself; fearing, as she has often told me, they would have had a thousand faults overlook'd by another, which her eye was ever on the watch to discover. She well knew the most trivial might be to them of the worst consequence:—when they were call'd to an account for what was pass'd, or warn'd how to avoid the like for the future, her manner was so determin'd and persuasive, as if she was examining her own conscience, to rectify every spot and blemish in it.
Though Lady Hampstead's fondness for her daughters must cause her to admire their good qualities, like a fine piece of perspective, whose beauties grow upon the eye,—yet she has the art not only to conceal her admiration, but, by the ascendency her tenderness has gain'd, she keeps even from themselves a knowledge of those perfections.—To this is owing the humility which has fortified their minds from the frequent attacks flattery makes against the unstable bulwarks of title and beauty.
Matchless as these sisters appear, they are to be equalled in their own, as well as the other sex.—I hope you will allow it inone, when you see Lord Hallum: he is their brother as much byvirtueasbirth.—I could find in my heart to say a thousand things of this fine youth;—but that I think such subjects flow easier from a handsome young woman than a plain old one.—Yet don't be surpriz'd;—unaccountable things happen every day;—if Ishouldlend a favourable ear to this Adonis!—Something whispers me I shall receive his proposals.—An excuse, on these occasions, is never wanting; mine will be a good one:—that, at my death, you may be left to the protection of this worthy Lord.—But, first, I must be assured you approve of him in that light;—being so firmly attach'd to my dear Fanny, to your happiness, my Love, that the wish of contributing to it is the warmest of your ever affectionate
M. SUTTON.
Lord DARCEY to the Hon. GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Alley.
Five days more, and I am with you.—Saturday morning!—Oh that I may support the hour of trial with fortitude!—I tremble at the thought;—my blood freezes in my veins, when I behold the object I am to part from.—
I try in vain to keep out of her sight:—if I attempt to leave the room where she is, my resolutions are baffled before I reach the door.—Why do I endeavour to inflict so hard a penance!—Because I foolishly suppose it would wean me.—Wean mefrom what?—From virtue.—No, Molesworth, it is notabsence;—it is nottimeitself can deaden the exalted image;—it neither sickens or dies, it blooms to immortality,
Was I only to be parted from beauty,thatI might meet again in every town and village.—I want you to force me from the house.—Suppose I get up early, and slip away without taking leave.—But that will not do;—Sir James is ceremonious;—Lady Powis may deem it disrespect;—above all, Miss Warley,that dear, dear Miss Warley,—ifsheshould think me wanting in regard, all then must be at an end.
Ha! Sir James yonder on the terrace, and alone! Let me examine his countenance:—I see no clouds;—this is the time, if ever!—Miss Warley not yet come up from Jenkings's!—If successful, with what transports shall I run to fetch her!—Yes, I willventure;—I willhave one trial, as I hope for mercy.—
As I hope for mercy, I see, were my last words.—I do indeed hope for it, but never from Sir James.
Still perplexed;—still miserable!—
I told you Miss Warley was not come from Jenkings's; but how I started, when I saw her going to Lady Powis's dressing-room!
I was hurried about her in a dream, last night.—I thought I had lost her:—I hinted it when we met;—that moment I fancied she eyed me with regard;—she spoketooin a manner very different from what she has done some days past.—Then I'll swear it,—for it was not illusion, George,—her whole face had something of a sweet melancholy spread over it;—a kind of resignation in her look;—a melting softness that droop'd on her cheek:—I felt what it expressed;—it fir'd my whole frame;—it sent me to Sir James with redoubled eagerness.
I found him thoughtful and complaisant: we took several turns, before I could introduce my intended subject; when, talking of my setting out, I said, Now I have an opportunity, Sir James, perhaps I may not have another before I go, I should be glad of your sentiments in regard to my settling in life.—
How do you mean, my Lord; as to the choice of a wife?—
Why, I think, Sir, there's no other way of settling to one's satisfaction.
To be sure, it is very necessary your Lordship should consider on those matters,—especially as you are the last of a noble family:—when, you do fix, I hope it will beprudently.
Prudently, Sir James! you may depend on it I will never settle my affectionsimprudently.
Wall, but, my Lord, what are your notions ofprudence?
Why, Sir, to make choice of a person who is virtuous, sensible, well descended.—Well descended Jenkings has assured me she is.
You say nothing, my Lord, of what ismostessential to happiness;—nothing of themain point.
Good-nature, I suppose you mean:—I would not marry an ill-natur'd woman, Sir James, for the world. And is good-nature, with those you have mention'd, the only requisites?
I think they are the chief, Sir.
You and I differ much, my Lord.—Your father left his estate encumbered; it is not yet clear; you are of age, my Lord: pray, spare yourself the trouble of consulting me, if you do not think offortune.
Duty to the memory of my rever'd father, the affection and gratitude I owe you, Sir James, calls for my obedience:—withoutyoursanction, Sir, never shall my hand be given.
He seem'd pleas'd: I saw tears starting to his eyes; but still he was resolv'd to distress me.
Look about you, my child; look about you, Darcey;—there's Lady Jane Marshly, Miss Beaden, or—and was going on.
Pardon me, Sir James, for interrupting you; but really, I cannot take any Lady on recommendation: I am very difficult, perhapsperversein this point; my first attachment must be merely accidental.
Ah! these are the notions that ruin half the young fellows of this age.—Accidental likings—First love,—and the devil knows what, runs away with half the old family estates.—Why, the least thing men ought to expect, even if they marry forlove, is six-pence for a shilling.—Once for all, my Lord, I must tell you, yourinterestis to be consulted before yourinclinations.
Don'tbe ruffled, Sir James;don'tlet us talk warmly of a matter which perhaps is at a great distance.
I wish it may be at agreat distance, my Lord.—If what I conjecture is true—Here he paus'd, and look'd so sternly, that I expected all would out.
What do youconjecture, Sir?—Yes, I ask'd him what.—
Your Lordship must excuse my answering that question.I hopeI am wrong;—I hopesuch a thing never enter'd your thoughts:—if it has—and he mutter'd something I could not understand; only I heard distinctly the wordsunlucky,—imprudent,—unforeseen.—I knew enough of their meaning to silence me.—Shaking him by the hand, I said, Well, Sir James, if you please, we will drop this subject for the present.—On which the conversation ended.
What a deal of patience and philosophy am I master of, to be here at my pen, whilst two old men are sucking in the honey which I should lay up for a winter's store?—Like Time, nothing can stand before her:—she mows down all ages.—Even Morgan, that man who us'd to look on a fine woman with more indifference than a horse or dog,—is now new-moulded;—not one oath in the space where I have known twenty escape him:—instead of following his dogs the whole morning, he is eternally with the ladies.
If he rides out with my angel, for he's determin'd, he says, to make her a complete horsewoman, I must not presume to give the least direction, oreventouch the bridle.
I honour him for the tender regard he shews her:—yes, I go further;heandMr. Watsonmayloveher;—they doloveher, and glory in declaring it.—Ilovethem in return;—but they are the only two, of all the race of batchelors within my knowledge, that should makesucha declaration with impunity.
Let me see: I shall be in London Saturday evening;—Sunday, no post;—Monday,thenI determine to write to Sir James;—Wednesday, I may have an answer;—Thursday,—who knows butThursday!—nothing is impossible; who knows butThursdayI may return to all my hopes?—How much I resemble a shuttlecock! how am I thrown from side to side by hope and fear; now up, now down; no sooner mounted by one hand than lower'd by another!
This moment a gleam of comfort steals sweetly through my heart;—but it is gone even before I could bid it welcome.—Why so fast!—to what spot is it fled?—Can there be a wretch more in need, who calls louder for its charitable ray than
DARCEY.
Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON
From Mr. Jenkings's
Now, my dear Lady, the time is absolutely fix'd for our embarkation; the 22d, without fail.—Mr. Smith intends coming himself, to accompany me to London.—How very good and obliging this!—I shall say nothing of it to Lady Powis, till Lord Darcey is gone, which will be Saturday:—hemay go to France, if he pleases, but not withme.—
When I received Mrs. Smith's letter, he was mighty curious to know who it was from:—I found him examining the seal, as it lay on the table in Mr. Jenkings's parlour.—Here is a letter for you, Miss Warley, a good deal confus'd.—So I see, my Lord: I suppose from Lady Mary Sutton.
I fancy not;—it does not appear to be directed in the same hand with that my servant brought you last from the post-office.—I broke the seal; it was easy to perceive the contents gave me pleasure.
There is something, Miss Warley, which gives you particular satisfaction.
You are right, my Lord, I never was better pleas'd.
Then it is from Lady Mary?
No, not from Lady Mary.
From Mrs. Smith,then?—Do I guessnow?—You say nothing; oh, there it is.—I could not forbear smiling.
Pray tell me, onlytell me, and he caught one of my hands, if this letter does not fix theveryday of your setting out for France?
I thought him possest with the spirit of divination.—What could I do, in this case?—Falshoods I despise;—evasions are low,verylow, indeed:—yet I knew he ought not to be trusted with the contents, even at the expence of my veracity—I recollected myself, and looked grave.
My Lord, you must excuse me; this affair concerns only myself; even Lady Powis will not be acquainted with it yet.
I have done, if Lady Powis is not to be acquainted with it.—I have no right—I sayright.—Don't look so, Miss Warley—believe I did flare a little—Time will unfold,—will cast a different light on things from that in which you now see them.
I was confus'd;—I put up my letter, went to the window, took a book from thence, and open'd it, without knowing what I did.
Complete Pocket-Farrier; or, A Cure for all Disorders in Horses, read his Lordship aloud, looking over my shoulder; for such was the title of the book.
What have you here, my love?
My love, indeed! Mighty free, mighty free, was it not, my Lady? I could not avoid laughing at the drollery of this accident, or I should have given him the look he deserved.—I thank God I am come to a state ofindifference; and my time here is so short, I would willingly appear as little reserv'd as possible, that he might not think I have chang'd my sentiments since hisdeclaring off: though I must own I have; but my pride will not suffer me to betray it to him.
If he has distress'd me,—if he has led my heart a little astray,—I am recovered now:—I have found out my mistake.—Should I suffer my eye to drop a tear, on looking back, for the future it will be more watchful;—it will guard, it will protect the poor wanderer.
He is very busy settling his affairs with Sir James:—three hours were they together with Mr. Jenkings in the library;—his books all pack'd up and sent away, to be sure he does not intend returninghereagain soon.
I suppose he will settle;—he talks of new furnishing his house;—has consulted Lady Powis upon it.—If he did not intend marrying, if he had no Lady in his eye—
But what is all this to me? Can he or his house be of any consequence to my repose?—I enjoy the thoughts of going to France without him:—I suppose he will think me very sly, but no matter.—
That good-natur'd creature Edmund would match me to a prince, was it in his power.—He told me, yesterday, that he'd give the whole world, if I was not to go to France.—Why so, Edmund?—I shall see you again, said I, at my return to England.
Ay, but what willsomebody do, in the mean time?
Who issomebody?
Can't you guess, Miss Warley?
I do guess, Edmund. But you was never more mistaken; the person you mean is not to be distress'd bymyabsence.
He is, upon my honour;—I knowhe is.—Lord Darcey loves you to distraction.
Poh! Edmund; don't take such things into your head: I knowyouwish me well; but don't be so sanguine!—Lord Darcey stoop to think ofme!
Stoop to think ofyou, Miss Warley!—I am out of all patience: stoop to think ofyou!—I shall never forgetthat.—Greatly as I honour his Lordship, if he conceals his sentiments, if he trifles in an affair of such importance,—was he the first duke in the kingdom, I hold him below the regard even of such a one asIam.—Pardon my curiosity, madam, I mean no ill; but surely he has made proposals to you.
Well, then, I will tell you, Edmund;—I'll tell you frankly, he neverhasmade proposals:—and further, I can answer for him, he neverwill.—His belief was stagger'd;—he stood still, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Are youreallyin earnest, Miss Warley?
Really, Edmund.
Then, for heaven's sake, go to France.—But how can you tell, madam, he never intends to make proposals?
On which I related what passed at table, the day Lord Allen dined at the Abbey.—Nothing could equal his astonishment; yet would he fain have persuaded me that I did not understand him;—call'd it misapprehension, and I know not what.
Hewilloffer you his hand, Miss Warley; he certainlywill.—I've known him from a school-boy;—I'm acquainted with every turn of his mind;—I know his very looks;—I have observ'd them when they have been directed to you:—he will, I repeat,—he will offer you his hand.
No! Edmund:—but if hedid, his overtures should be disregarded.
Say not so, Miss Warley; for God's sake, say not so again;—it kills me to think youhateLord Darcey.
I speak to you, Edmund, as a friend, as a brother:—never let what has pass'd escape your lips.
If I do, madam, what must I deserve?—To be shut out from your confidence is a punishment only fit for such a breach of trust.—But, for heaven's sake, do nothateLord Darcey.
Mr. Jenkings appeared at this juncture, and look'd displeas'd.—How strangely are we given to mistakes!—I betray'd the same confusion, as if I had been really carrying on a clandestine affair with his son.—In a very angry tone he said, I thought, Edmund, you was to assist me, knowing how much I had on my hands, before Lord Darcey sets out;—but I find business is notyourpursuit:—I believe I must consent to your going into the army, after all.—On which he button'd up his coat, and went towards the Abbey, leaving me quite thunderstruck. Poor Edmund was as much chagrined as myself.—A moment after I saw Mr. Jenkings returning with a countenance very different,—and taking me apart from his son, said, I cannot forgive myself, my dear young Lady;—can you forgive me for the rudeness I have just committed?—I am an old man, Miss Warley;—I have many things to perplex me;—I should not,—I know I shouldnot, have spoke so sharply to Edmund, when you had honour'd him with your company.
I made him easy by my answer; and since I have not seen a cloud on his brow.—I shall never think more, with concern, of Mr. Jenkings's suspicions.—Your Ladyship's last letter,—oh! how sweetly tender! tells mehehasmotivesto whichIam a stranger.
We spent a charming day, last Monday, at Lord Allen's. Most of the neighbouring families were met there, to commemorate the happy festival.—Mr. Morgan made one of the party, and return'd with us to the Abbey, where he proposes waiting the arrival of his godson, Mr. Powis.—If I have any penetration, most of his fortune will centerthere,—For my part, I am not a little proud of stealing into his good graces:—I don't know for what, but Lady Powis tells me, I am one of his first favourites; he has presented me a pretty little grey horse, beautifully caparison'd; and hopes he says, to make me a good horsewoman.
As I have promis'd to be at the Abbey early, I shall close this letter; and, if I have an opportunity, will write another by the same packet.—Believe me ever, my dearest Lady, your most grateful and affectionate
F. WARLEY.
MDCCLXVIII.
Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.
from Mr. Jenkings's.
Oh what a designing man is Lord Darcey!—He loves me not, yet fain would persuade me that he does.—When I went yesterday morning to the Abbey, I met him in my way to Lady Powis's dressing-room.—Starting as if he had seen an apparition, and with a look which express'd great importance, he said, taking my hand, Oh! Miss Warley, I have had the most dreadful night!—but I hopeyouhave rested well.
I have rested very well, my Lord; what has disturb'd your Lordship's rest?
What, had it beenrealas it wasvisionary, would have drove me to madness.—I dreamt, Miss Warley,—I dreamt every thing I was possess'd of was torn from me;—but now—and here stopt.
Well, my Lord, and did not the pleasure of being undeceiv'd overpay all the pain which you had been deceiv'd into?
No, my angel!—Why does he call me his angel?
Why, no: I have such a sinking, such a load on my mind, to reflect it is possible,—only possible it might happen, that, upon my word, it has been almost too much for me.
Ah! my Lord, you are certainly wrong to anticipate evils; they come fast enough, one need not run to meet them:—besides, if your Lordship had been in reality that very unfortunate creature, you dreamt you were, for no rank or degree is proof against the caprice of Fortune,—was nothing to be preserv'd entire?—Fortune can require only what she gave: fortitude, peace, and resignation, are not her gifts.
Oh! Miss Warley, you mistake: it was not riches I fancied myself dispossess'd of;—it was, oh my God!—what my peace, myverysoul is center'd in!—and his eyes turn'd round with so wild a stare, that really I began to suspect his head.
I trembled so I could scarce reach the dressing-room, though just at the door.—The moment I turn'd from him, he flew like lightning over the stairs; and soon after, I saw him walking with Sir James on the terrace. By their gestures I could discover their conversation was not a common one.
Mr. Morgan comes this instant in sight;—a servant after him, leading my little horse.—I am sorry to break off, but I must attend him;—he is so good, I know your Ladyship would be displeas'd, was I to prolong my letter at the expence of his favour.—Yours, my much honour'd,—my much lov'd Lady,—with all gratitude, with all affection,
F. WARLEY.