Nine o'clock in the morning.
How sad, how gloomy, has been the approach of morning!—About six, for I had not clos'd my eyes,—somebody enter'd my chamber. I suppos'd it Mr. Morgan, and drew aside my curtain.—It was not Mr. Morgan;—itwasthe poor disconsolate father of Miss Powis, more agitated, if possible, than the preceding night.—He flung himself on my bed with agony not to be express'd:—
Dear Risby, said he,dorise:—docome to my apartment.—Alas! my Fanny—
What new misfortune, my friend? ask'd I, starting up.—My wife! return'd! he!—she is in fits;—she has been in fits the whole night.—Oh Risby! if I should loseher, if I should lose mywife!—My parentstoo, I shall lose them!—
Words could not lessen his affliction. I was silent, making what haste I could to huddle on my clothes;—and at his repeated intreaties follow'd him to his wife,—She was sitting near the fire drowned; in tears, supported by her woman. I was pleas'd to see them drop so plentifully.—She lifted up her head a little, as I enter'd.—How alter'd!—how torn to pieces with grief!—Her complexion once so lovely,—how changed in a few hours.
My husband! said she, in a faint voice, as he drew near her.—Then looking at me,—Comfort him, Mr. Risby;—don't let him sob so.—Indeed he will be ill;—indeed he will.—Then addressing him, Consider, she who us'd to be your nurse is now incapable of the task.—His agitation was so much increas'd by her words and manner, that I attempted to draw him into another apartment.—Your intentions are kind, said she, Mr. Risby;—but Imustnot lose my husband:—you see how it is, Sir, shaking her head;—try to sooth him;—talk to himherebut do not take him fromme.—
Then turning to Mr. Powis,—I am better, my love,—don't frighten yourself:—we must learn to be resign'd.—Set the example, and I will be resign'd, said he,—wiping away the tears as they trickled down her cheek;—if my Fanny supports herself, I shall not be quite miserable. In this situation I left them, to close my letter.
What is become of poor Lord Darcey? For ever is he in my thoughts.—Hisdeath will be an aggravation to the general sorrow.—Write instantly:—I wait your account with impatience; yet dread to receive it.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Say not a word of it;—no, not for the world;—the body of Miss Powis is drove on shore.—If the family choose to have her brought down, it may be done some time hence.—I have order'd an undertaker to get a lead coffin, and will take care to have her remains properly deposited.—It would be an act of cruelty at present to acquaint her friends with this circumstance.—I have neither leisure or spirits to tell you in what manner the body was found, and how I knew it to be miss Powis's.
The shore is fill'd with a multitude of people.—What sights will they gaze on to satisfy their curiosity!—a curiosity that makes human nature shrink.
I have got three matronly women to go with the undertaker, that the body may be taken up with decency.
Darcey lives;—buthowdoes he live?—Without sense; almost without motion.
God protect the good old steward!—the worthy Jenkings!—He is with you before this;—he has told you everything. I could not write by him:—I thought I should never be able to touch a pen again.—He had left Dover before the body was found.—What conflicts did he escape! But as it is, I fear his grey hairs will go down with sorrow to the grave.—God support us all!
MOLESWORTH.
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
My heart bleeds afresh—Her body found! Good heaven!—itmustnot,—shallnot come to the knowledge of the family.—At present they submit with a degree of resignation.—Who knows but a latent hope might remain?—Instances have been known of many saved from wrecks;—but her body is drove on shore.—Not a glimmering;—possibility isnowout of the question.—The family are determin'd to shut themselves out from the world;—no company ever more to be admitted;—never to go any where but to the church.—Your letter was deliver'd me before them.—I was ask'd tenderly for poor Lord Darcey.—What could I answer?—Near the same; not worse, on the whole.—They flatter themselves he will recover;—I encourage all their flattering hopes.
Mrs. Jenkings has never been home since Mr. Morgan fetch'd her;—Mr. Jenkings too is constantly here;—sometimes Edmund:—except the unhappy parents, never was grief like theirs.
Mr. Jenkings has convinc'd me it was Miss Powis which I saw at ——. Strange reverse of fortune since that hour!
When the family are retir'd I spend many melancholy hours with poor Edmund;—and from him have learnt the reason why Mr. Powis conceal'd his marriage,—which isnowno secret.—Even Edmund never knew it till Mr. and Mrs. Powis return'd to England,—Take a short recital:—it will help to pass away a gloomy moment.
When Mr. Powis left the University, he went for a few months to Ireland with the Lord-Lieutenant; and at his return intended to make the Grand Tour.—In the mean time, Sir James and Lady Powis contract an intimacy with a young Lady of quality, in the bloom of life, but not of beauty.—By what I can gather, Lady Mary Sutton is plain to a degree,—with a mind—But why speak of her mind?—let that speak for itself.
She was independent; her fortune noble;—her affections disengag'd.—Mr. Powis returns from Ireland: Lady Mary is then at the Abbey.—Sir James in a few days, without consulting his son, sues for her alliance.—Lady Mary supposes it is with the concurrence of Mr. Powis:—hisperson,—hischaracter,—hisfamily, were unexceptionable; and generously she declar'd her sentiments in his favour.—Sir James, elated with success, flies to his son;—and in presence of Lady Powis, tells him he has secur'd his happiness.—Mr. Powis's inclinations not coinciding,—Sir James throws himself into a violent rage.—Covetousness and obstinacy always go hand in hand:—both had taken such fast hold of the Baronet, that he swore—and his oath was without reservation—he would never consent to his son's marrying any other woman.—Mr. Powis, finding his father determin'd,—and nothing, after his imprecation, to expect from the entreaties of his mother,—strove to forget the person of Lady Mary, and think only of her mind.—Her Ladyship, a little chagrin'd Sir James's proposals were not seconded by Mr. Powis, pretended immediate business into Oxfordshire.—The Baronet wants not discernment: he saw through her motive; and taking his opportunity, insinuated the violence of his son's passion, and likewise the great timidity it occasion'd—he even prevail'd on Lady Powis to propose returning with her to Brandon Lodge.
The consequence of this was, the two Ladies set out on their journey, attended by Sir James and Mr. Powis, who, in obedience to his father, was still endeavouring to conquer his indifference.—
Perhaps,in time, the amiable Lady Mary might have found a way to his heart,—had she not introduc'd the very evening of their arrival at the Lodge, her counter-part in every thing but person:—there Miss Whitmore outshone her whole sex.—This fair neighbour was the belov'd friend of Lady Mary Sutton, and soon became the idol of Mr. Powis's affections, which render'd his situation still more distressing.—His mother's disinterested tenderness for Lady Mary;—her own charming qualifications;—his father's irrevocable menace, commanded him one way:—Miss Whitmore's charms led him another.
Attached as he was to this young Lady, he never appear'd to take the least notice, of her more than civility demanded;—tho' she was of the highest consequence to his repose, yet the obstacles which surrounded him seem'd insurmountable.
Sir James and Lady Powis retiring one evening earlier than usual,—Lady Mary and Mr. Powis were left alone. The latter appear'd greatly embarrass'd. Her Ladyship eyed him attentively; but instead of sharing his embarrassment,—began a conversation of which Miss Whitmore was the subject.—She talk'dsolong of her many excellencies, profess'dsuchsincerity,suchtenderness,for her, that his emotion became visible:—his fine, eyes were full of fire;—his expressive features spoke what she, had long wish'd to discover.—You are silent, Sir, said she, with a smile of ineffable sweetness; is my lovely friend a subject that displeases you?—
How am I situated! replied he—Generous Lady Mary, dare I repose a confidence in your noble breast?—Willyou permit me that honour?—Willyou not think ill of me, if I disclose—No, I cannot—presumption—Idarenot. She interrupted him:
Ah Sir!—you hold me unworthy,—you hold me incapable of friendship.—Suppose me your sister:—if you had a sister, would you conceal any thing fromher?—Give me then abrother;—I can never beholdyouin any other light.
No, my Lady;—no, return'd he, I deserve notthishonour.—If you knew, madam,—if you knew all,—youwould, youmustdespise me.
Despise you, Mr. Powis!—she replied;—despise you for loving Miss Whitmore!
Exalted goodness! said he,—approaching her with rapture: take my heart;—do with it as you please;—it is devoted to your generosity.
Well then, said she, I commandit,—I commanditinstantly to be laid open before me.—Nowlet it speak,—nowlet it declare if I am not the bar to its felicity:—if—
No, my good angel, interrupted he, dropping on his knees,—and pressing her hand to his lips;—I see it is through you,—through you only,—I am to expect felicity.
Before Lady Mary could prevail on Mr. Powis to arise, Sir James, whom they did not expect,—and who they thought was retir'd for the night, came in quest of his snuff-box;—but with a countenance full of joy retir'd precipitately, bowing to Lady Mary with the same reverence as if she had been a molten image cast of his favourite metal.
In this conversation I have been circumstantial, that you might have a full view of the noble, disinterested Lady Mary Sutton:—you may gather now, from whence sprang her unbounded affection for the incomparable, unfortunate Miss Powis.
You will not be surprised to find a speedy marriage took place between Mr. Powis and Miss Whitmore, to which none were privy but the Dean of H——, who perform'd the ceremony,—Lady Mary,—Mrs. Whitmore (the mother of Mrs. Powis),—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings.—Perhaps you think Lady Powis ought to have been consulted:—I thought sotoo; but amnowconvinc'd she would have been the wretchedest woman in the world, had she known her son acting diametrically opposite to the will of his father in so material a point.
To put it out of the power of every person intrusted with this momentous secret to divulge it,—and to make Mr. Powis perfectly easy,—each bound themselves at the altar where the ceremony was perform'd, never to make the least discovery 'till Mr. Powis thought fit to declare his marriage.
What an instance have I given you offemalefriendship!—Shew me such another:—our sex are a test oftheirfriendships.
How many girls have I seen,—for ever together arm in arm,—whispering their own, perhaps the secrets of all their neighbours;—when in steps a young fellow of our cloth,—or any other, it signifies not the colour,—and down tumbles the tottering basis.—Instead ofmy dearandmy love, it issly creature, false friend, could any one have thought Miss Such-a-one possess'd of so much art?—then out comes intrigues, family-affairs, losses at cards,—in short, every thing that has been treasur'd up by two industrious fair ones seven years before.
Don't think me satyrical:—I am nice;—toomuch so, perhaps.—The knowledge ofsuchas constitute this little narrative, andsomeother minds liketheirs, has made me rathertoonice, as I said before;—a matter of little consequence, as I am situated.—Can I look forward to happy prospects, and see how soon the fairest felicity is out of sight?—This afflicted family, Molesworth, has taught me to forget,—that is, I ought to forget.—But no matter;—never again let me see Lady Sophia;—never lead me a second time into danger:—she is mortal; like Miss Powis.—Lord Darcey! poor Lord Darcey!
If recollection will assist me, a word or two more of Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
Lady Sophia—the deuce is in me! you know who I mean;—why write I the name of Lady Sophia?—upon my honour, I have given over all thoughts of that divinity—Lady Mary I should have said, a few months after the nuptials of her friends, wrote to Mr. Powis, who was then at Barford Abbey, an absolute refusal, in consequence of a preconcerned plan of operation.—Immediately after this, she set out with Mrs. Powis for London, whosesituationmade it necessary for her to leave Hillford Down.
You will suppose, on the receipt of this letter, how matters were at the Abbey:—Sir. James rav'd; even Lady Powis thought her son ill us'd; but, in consideration of their former intimacy, prevail'd on Sir James never to mention the affair, though from this time all acquaintance ceas'd between the families.
In order to conceal the marriage, it was inevitable Mr. Powis must carry his wife abroad;—and as he intended to travel before the match was thought of with Lady Mary,—his father now readily consented that he should begin his tour.—This furnish'd him with an excuse to go immediately to town,—where he waited 'till the angel that we all weep for, made her appearance.
But what, you ask, was Mrs. Powis's excuse to leave England, without being suspected?—Why, I'll tell you: by the contrivance of Lady Mary, together with Mrs. Whitmore, it was believ'd she had left the world;—that she died in town of a malignant fever;—that—but I cannot be circumstantial—Miss Powis, after her parents went abroad, was brought down by Lady Mary, and consign'd to the care of her grandmother, with whom she liv'd as the orphan child of some distant relation.
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Powis were travelling through Italy, he apply'd to his friend the Lord-Lieutenant,—and bythatinterest was appointed to the government of ——. It was here my acquaintance with them commenc'd: not that I suspected Miss Glinn to be Mrs. Powis, though I saw her every day.—Glinnwas a name she assum'd 'till she returned to England.—A thousand little circumstances which render'd her character unsuspected, I want spirits to relate.—Suffice it to say,—the death of Mrs. Whitmore;—a daughter passing on the world for an orphan;—and the absence of Lady Mary Sutton;—made them resolve to hazard every thing rather than leave their child unprotected.—Alas! for what are they come home?
Nothing is impossible with a Supreme Being.—Lord Darceymayrecover.—But why this ray of hope to make the horrors of my mind more dreadful?—He ispasthope, you say.—
RISBY.
The Honourable George Molesworth to Richard Risby, Esq;
Dover.
Risby, I am lifted above myself!—I am overcome with surprise!—I am mad with joy!—Is it possible!—can it be!—But Lord Darcey's servant has swore it;—yes, he has swore, a letter directed in Miss Powis'sownhand, lay on the counter in a banker's shop where he went to change a bill: the direction was to Lady Mary Sutton:—he has put many for the same Lady into the post-office.—Irun, Irideor ratherflyto town.
You may jump, you may sing, but command your features before the family.—Should it be a mistake of John's, we kill them twice.
If I live to see the resurrection of our hopes, John shall be with you instantly.—On second thought, I will not dispatch this, unless we have a bless'd certainty.
Molesworth.
The Honourable George Molesworth to the same.
London.
Are you a mile from the Abbey, Dick?—Are you out of sight,—out of hearing?—John, though you should offer to kill him, dare not deliver letter or message 'till you are at a proper distance.
Miss Powis lives!—Restore peace within the walls.—As I hope to be pardon'd for my sins, I have seen, I have spoke to her.—She lives!—Heavenly sound! it should be convey'd to them from above.—She lives! let me again repeat it.—Proclaim the joyful tidings:—but for particulars have patience 'till I return to the man, to the friend my life is bound up in.—I have seen him in every stage. Brightest has he shone, as the taper came nearer to an end.—The rich cordial must be administered one drop at a time.—Observe the caution.
Molesworth.
Captain Risby to the Honourable George Molesworth.
Barford Abby.
Well, Molesworth,—well—I can go no farther;—yet Imust;—John, poor faithfulJohn, says Imust;—says he shall be sent back again.—But I have lost the use of my fingers:—my head bobs from side to side like a pendulum. Don't stamp, don't swear: they have a few drops of your cordial more than I intended.—It operates well.—I long to administer a larger potion.—Could you see how I am shifted—now here—now there—by the torrent of joy, that like a deluge almost drives reason before it;—I say, could you see me, you would not wonder at the few unconnected lines of
Yours,
Risby.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Darcey bears the joyful surprise beyond imagination:—it has brought him from death to life.—
Hear in what manner I proceeded;—You may suppose the hurry in which I left Dover:—I took no leave of my friend;—his humane apothecary promis'd not to quit him in my absence:—I gave orders when his Lordship enquir'd for me, that he should be told particular business of myownhad call'd me to town express.—It happen'd very convenient that I left him in a profound sleep.
Away I flew,—agitated betwixthopeandfear:—harrass'd by fatigue;—not in a bed for three nights before;—nature was almost wore out, when I alighted at the banker's.
I accosted one of the clerks, desiring to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Delves[A]:—the former not at home, I was immediately conducted to the latter, a genteel woman, about forty.—She receiv'd me politely; but before I could acquaint her with the occasion of my visit, the door open'd, and in stepp'd a pretty sprightly girl, who on seeing me was going to retire.—Do you want any thing, my love? said Mrs. Delves. Only, Madam, she replied, if you think it proper for Miss Warley to get up.
[A]
The name of the banker.
The name of the banker.
Miss Warley! exclaim'd I.—Great God! Miss Warley!—Tell me, Ladies, is Miss Warleyreallyunder your roof?—Both at once, forbothseem'd equally dispos'd to diffuse happiness, answer'd to my wishes.
I threw myself back in my chair:—the surprise was more than I could support.—Shall I tell you all my weakness?—I even shed tears;—yes, Dick, I shed tears:—but they were drops of heart-felt gladness.
The Ladies look'd on each other,—Mrs. Delves said in a tone that shew'd she was not without the darling passion of her sex,
Pardon me, Sir; I think I have heard Miss Warley hasnobrother,—or I should thinkyouremotion I saw him before me.—But whoever you are, this humanity is noble.—Indeed, the poor young Lady has been extremely ill.
I am not her brother, Madam, return'd I.—It is true, she hasnobrother;—butshe hasparents,she hasfriends, who lament her dead:—theirsorrow has beenmine.
I fear, Sir, return'd she, it will not end here.—I grieve to tell you, the Miss Warley you speak of is not with me;—I know nothing of that Lady:—my Miss Warley has no parents.
I still persisted it was the same; and, to the no small gratification of both mother and daughter, promis'd to explain the mystery.—But before I began, Miss Delves was sent to desire Miss Warley would continue in bed an hour longer, on account of some visitors that had dropp'd in accidentally.
Soon as Miss Delves return'd, I related every particular.—I cannot tell you half that pass'd;—I cannot describe their astonishment:—but let metellyou Miss Powis is just recover'd from the small-pox;—that this was the second day of her sitting up:—let metellyoutooher face is as beautiful as ever.—On mature deliberation, it was determin'd, for the sake of Miss Powis's health, she must some time longer think her name Warley.
I din'd with my new acquaintance, on their promising to procure an interview for me with Miss Powis in the afternoon.
It was about five when I was admitted to her presence.—I found her in an elegant dressing-room, sitting on a sopha: her head a little reclin'd.—I stepp'd slow and softly: she arose as I enter'd.—I wonder not that Darcey adores her, never was a form so perfect!
My trembling knees beat one against another.—My heart,—my impatient heart flew up to my face to tell its joyful sensations.—I ventur'd to press her hand to my lips, but was incapable of pronouncing a syllable.—She was confus'd:—she certainly thought of Darcey, when she saw his friend.—I took a chair next her.—I shall not repeat our conversation 'till it became interesting, which began by her asking, if I had heard lately any accounts from Barford Abbey?—Lord Darcey, Madam, I reply'd, has receiv'd a letter from Sir James.
Lord Darcey! she repeated with great emotion.—Is Sir James and Lady Powis well. Sir?
His Lordship, reply'd I, awkwardly, did not mention particulars.—I believe,—I suppose.—your friends are well.
I fear, said she sighing, they will think me an ungrateful creature.—No person, Mr. Molesworth, had eversuchobligations to their friends asI have—This family, looking at the two Ladies, must be rank'd with my best.—Their replies were polite and affectionate—Can you tell me, Sir, continued she, if Lord—here her face was all over crimson—heavens! I mean, if Mr. Powis and his Lady are at the Abbey?—Why did she not say Lord Darcey? I swear the name quiver'd on her lips.
I answer'd in the affirmative;—and sitting silent a moment,—she ask'd how I discover'd her to be still in England.—I said by means of a servant:—true enough, Dick:—but then I was oblig'd to add, this servant belonged to Mr. Delves, and that he accidentally happen'd a few hours since to mention her name whilst I was doing business in the shop.—She was fond of dwelling on the family at the Abbey;—on Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings;—and once when I mention'd my friend, when I said how happy I should make him at my return;—pleasure, the most difficult to be conceal'd of any sensation, sprang to her expressive eyes.
I suppose she will expect a visit from his Lordship.—If she is angry at being disappointed, no matter: the mistake will be soon clear'd up.
The moment I left her, I stepp'd into a chaise that waited for me at the door, and drove like lightning from stage to stage, 'till I reach'd this place;—my drivers being turn'd into Mercuries by a touch more efficacious than all the oaths that can be swore by a first-rate blood.
I did not venture into Darcey's apartment 'till he was inform'd of my return.—I heard him impatiently ask to see me, as I stood without the door. This call'd me to him;—when pulling aside the curtain he ask'd, Who is that?—Is it Molesworth?—Are you come, my friend? But what have you seen?—what have you heard?—looking earnestly in face.—Iam past joy,—past feeling pleasure even for you, George;—yet tell me why you look not so sorrowful as yesterday.—
I ask'd what alteration it was he saw:—what it was he suspected.—When I have griev'd, my Lord, it has been for you.—If I am now less afflicted, you must be less miserable.—He started up in the bed, and grasping both my hands in his, cry'd. Tell me, Molesworth, is there a possibility,—a bare possibility?—I ask no more;—only tell me there is a possibility.
My Lord,—my friend,—my Darcey, nothing is impossible.
By heaven! he exclaim'd, you would not flatter me;—by heaven she lives!
Ask me not farther, my Lord.—What is the blessing you most wish for?—Suppose that blessing granted.—And you, Risby, suppose the extasy,—the thankfulness that ensued.—He that is grateful to man, can he be ungrateful to his Maker?
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
Miss Powis to Lady Powis.
London.
Think me not ungrateful, my ever-honour'd Lady, that I have been silent under the ten thousand obligations which I receiv'd at Barford Abbey.—But indeed, my dear Lady, I have beenveryill.—I have had the small-pox:—I was seiz'd delirious the evening after my arrival in Town.—My God! what a wretch did I set out with!—Vile man!—Man did I say?—No; he is a disgrace tomanhood.—How shall I tell your Ladyship all I have suffer'd?—I am weak,—veryweak;—I find myself unequal to the task.—
This moment I have hit on an expedient that will unravel all;—I'll recall a[A]letter which I have just sent down to be put into the post-office;—a letter I wrote Lady Mary Sutton immediately on my arrival here;—but was seiz'd so violently, that I could not add the superscription, for which reason it has lain by ever since.—I am easy on Lady Mary's account:—Mr. Delves has acquainted her of my illness:—like wise the prospect of my recovery.
[A]
This was the same Lord Darcey's servant saw on the counter.
This was the same Lord Darcey's servant saw on the counter.
Consider then, dear Lady Powis, the inclos'd as if it was address'd to yourself.
I cannot do justice to the affection,—the compassion,—the tender assiduity I have experienc'd from Mr. Delves's family:—I shall always love them; I hope too I shall always be grateful.
God grant, my dear Lady;—God grant, dear Sir James, that long ere this you may have embrac'd Mr. and Mrs. Powis.—My heart is withyou:—it delights to dwell at Barford Abbey.
In a few days I hope to do myself the honour of writing to your Ladyship again.—One line from your dear hand would be most gratefully receiv'd by your oblig'd and affectionate
F. WARLEY.
P.S.My good friends Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings shall hear from me next post.
Miss Powis to Lady MARY SUTTON.
Oh my dear Lady! what a villain have I escap'd from?—Could your Ladyship believe that a man, who, to all appearance, has made a good husband to your agreeable neighbour upwards of twelve years, and preserv'd the character of a man of honour;—could you believe in the decline of life he would have fallen off? No, he cannot have fallen: such a mind as his never was exalted.—It is the virtues of his wife that has hitherto made his vices imperceptible;—that has kept them in their dark cell, afraid to venture out;—afraid to appear amidst her shining perfections.—Vile, abandon'd Smith!—But for the sake of his injur'd, unhappy wife, I will not discover his baseness to any but yourself and Lady Powis.—Perhaps Mrs. Smith may not be unacquainted with his innate bad principles;—perhaps she conceals her knowledge of them knowing it vain to complain of a disorder which is past the reach of medicine.—What cure is there for mischief lurking under the mask of hypocrisy?—It must be of long standing before that covering can grow over it:—like a vellum on the eye, though taken off ever skillfully, it will again spread on the blemish'd sight.
How am I running on!—My spirits are flutter'd:—I begin where I should end, and end where I should begin.—Behold me, dearest Madam, just parted from my Hampshire friends,—silent and in tears, plac'd by the side of my miscreant conductor.—You know, my Lady, this specious mancanmake himself vastly entertaining: he strove to render his conversation particularly so, on our first setting out.
We had travell'd several stages without varying the subject, which was that of our intended tour, when I said I hop'd it would conquer Mrs. Smith's melancholy for the death of her brother.—How did his answer change him in a moment from themostagreeable to themostdisgustful of his sex!
My wife, Miss Warley, with a leer that made him look dreadful, wants your charming sprightliness:—it is a curs'd thing to be connected with a gloomy woman:—
Gloomy, Sir! casting at him a look of disdain; do you call mildness, complacency, and evenness of temper,gloomy?
She is much altered, Madam;—is grown old and peevish;—her health is bad;—she cannot live long.
Mrs. Smith can never bepeevish, Sir;—and as to herage, I thought it pretty near yourown.
No, no, Madam, you are quite mistaken; I am at least five years younger.
Five years, Sir! what are five years atyourtime of life!
Come, come, Miss Warley, laying his huge paw on my hand, and in a tone of voice that shew'd him heartily nettled;—even atmytime of life I can admire a beautiful young Lady.—If my wife should die,—old as I am—menolderthan myself, with half my estate, have married some of the finest women in the kingdom.
Very likely, Sir;—but then it is to be suppos'd the characters ofsuchmen have been particularly amiable,—No man or woman of honour can esteem another whose principles are doubtful.
This was a pretty home-thrust; it put him more on his guard for the present; but had he behav'd like an angel, I must have hated him. He wasveryrespectful,veryceremonious, andverythoughtful, 'till we arrived at the inn where we were to stop the night; and had so much art not to seem displeas'd, that I refus'd giving him my company at supper, under pretence of indisposition.—Indeed, I was far from well: a child which I had seen a few hours before fresh in the small-pox, a good deal disconcerted me.—After fixing on my room, not to appear suspicious, I went down at his request, to eat a bit of cake and drink a glass of wine, before I retired for the night.—I had scarce swallow'd it when he left me, as he said, to speak to the drivers. I wished him a good night as he went out, and took an opportunity a few moments after to go to my chamber.—When there I lock'd the door, and sat myself down to undress; but I began to be greatly alarm'd by something that mov'd under the bed.—Judge my surprize,—judge my horror,—on taking the candle and examining, to see there a man!—But how was that surprize,—that horror increased, on discovering, him to be the vile Smith!—I gave a loud scream, and ran towards the door; but had not power to turn the key, before he caught me in his arms.—
Be calm, Miss Warley, cried the monster;—hear what I have to say.—Suffer me to tell you, that I love you to distraction;—that I adore you.
Adoreme, vile man! said I, breaking from him:—leave me this instant—begone:—leave me, I say, instantly.—Again I scream'd.
No, by heaven! he reply'd, I will not go 'till you have heard and pardon'd me.—Here I standdetermin'dto be heard:—hearme, or this moment is my last.—With that he drew out a pistol, and held it to his breast.
Anddareyou, said I, collecting all my resolution,—dareyou rush into eternity, without one virtue to offer up with your polluted soul?—I pronounc'd these words with steadiness.—Hetrembled, he look'd like a criminal at the hour of execution.—Letting the pistol drop from his hand, the base dissembler fell on his knees before me.—Nobody hearing my cries,—nobody coming to my assistance, I was oblig'd to hear, and pretend to credit his penitential protestations. God knows how my ears might have been farther shock'd with his odious passion;—what indignities I might have suffer'd,—had I not heard some person passing by the door of my apartment:—on which I ventur'd to give another scream.—The door was instantly burst open; and whilst an elderly Gentleman advanc'd towards me, full of surprize, the detested brute slipp'd away.—This Gentleman, my good deliverer, was no other than your Ladyship's banker, who when he was acquainted with my name, insisted on taking me to Town in his own coach, where he was returning from a visit he had made at Salisbury—I did not ask, neither do I know what became of Smith; but I suppose he will set out with his wife immediately for Dover.—Thank God! I am not of the party—How I pity poor Miss Frances Walsh, a young Lady who, he told me, was waiting at his house in Town to go over with them.—I am but just arriv'd at Mr. Delves's house.—Mr. and Mrs. Delves think with me, that the character of theunworthySmith should not be expos'd for the sake of hisworthywife.—The family here are all amiable.—I could say a great deal more; but my head aches dreadfully.—This I must add, I have consented, at the tender intreaties of Mr. and Mrs. Delves, to remain with them 'till a proper opportunity offers to throw myself at your Ladyship's feet.—My head grows worse;—I must lay down my pen.—This bad man has certainly frighten'd me into a fever.
[The following lines were added after Miss Powis's recovery]
I hope, my dear Lady, before this you have Mr. Delves's letter;—if so, you know I have had the small-pox.—You know too I am out of danger.—How can I be thankful enough for so many escapes!—This is the first day I have been able to hold a pen.—I am permitted to write no more than the name of your honour'd and affectionate
F. WARLEY.
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE
Barford Abbey.
Will all the thanks,—all the gratitude,—the parents blessings,—their infinity of joy, be contain'd in one poor sheet?—No:—Was I to repeat half,—only half of what they send, you, I might write on for ever.—One says you shall be their son;—another, their brother;—a third, that you are a man most favour'd of heaven—but all agree, as a reward for your virtues you are impower'd to heal afflictions—in short, they want to make me think you can make black white—But enough for the vanity of one man.
I dread your coming to the Abbey.—We that are here already, shall only, then, appear like pismires:—but let me caution my friend not to think his head will touch the clouds.
What man can bear to be twice disinherited?—Mr. Morgan's estate, which the other day I was solely to possess, is now to devolve on the Honourable George Molesworth.—But mark me:—As I have been disinherited for you,—youas certainly will be disinherited for Lord Darcey.
See what a man of consequence I am.—Does Captain Risby saythis?—Does Captain Risby saythat?—Does Captain Risby think well of it?
Expect, George, to behold me push'd into perferment against my will;—all great peoplesayso, you know;—expect to behold me preside as governor of this castle.—Let me enjoy it then,—let me plume myself beneath the sun-beam.
If to witness the honours with I am surrounded, is insufficient to fill your expanded heart;—if it looks out for a warmer gratification; you shall see, you shall hear, the exulting parents?—you shall see Mr. Morgan revers'd;—Mr. Watson restor'd tomorethan sight—the steward and his family worthy everyhonourthey receive from thishonourable house.
I hear myshadow.—Strange, indeed! to hearshadows;—but more so to hear them swear.—Ha! ha! ha!—Ha! ha! ha!—I cannot speak to it for laughing.—Coming, Sir!—coming, Mr. Morgan!—Now is he cursing me in every corner of the house;—I suppose dinner is on the table.
This moment return'd from regaling myself with the happy family:—I mean Sir James and Lady Powis, with their joyful inmates.—Mr. and Mrs. Powis are set out for London.—As an addition to their felicity, Lady Powis had a letter from her grand-daughter the instant they were stepping into the chaise.
For one hour I am at your command:—take, then, the particulars which I was incapable of giving you by John.—
I was sitting in the library-window, talking to Mr. Watson; the Ladies, Sir James, and Mr. Morgan, in the dressing-room, when I saw John riding down the great road a full gallop.—At first I thought Lord Darcey had been dead; then, again, consider'd his faithful servant would not have come post with the news:—however, I had not patience to go through the house, but lifting up a sash, jump'd out before he could reach the stable yard.—Without speaking, I enquired of his face what tidings; and was answer'd by a broad grin. I had nothing to fear from his message.
Well, John, said I, running up to him,—how is your Lord? how is Mr. Molesworth?—
Better, I thank God, Sir;—better, I thank God! With that he turned his horse, and was riding across the lawn.—
Zounds, John, where are you going?—where are you going?
Follow me, Sir;—follow me (setting up a brisk trot). If you kill me, I dare not deliver letter or message before we are at a distance from the Abbey.
I thought him mad, but kept on by the side of his horse 'till we came to the gate of a meadow, where he dismounted.
Now, Sir,' said he, with a look that bespoke his consequence,—have patience, whilst I tie up my horse.
Patience, John! (and I swore at him) I am out of allpatience.
With that he condescended to deliver your letters.—I rambled with surprise at the contents, and fell against a hedge.—John, who by this time had fasten'd his steed, came up to me just as I recover'd my legs;—and speaking close to my ear,—'TwasJohn Warren, Sir, was themanwho found out the Lady; 'twas I was theman, Sir.
I shook him heartily by the hand, but for my soul could not utter a syllable.—I hope you are not ill, Sir, said the poor fellow, thinking me seiz'd speechless.—
No, John;—no, reply'd I; it is only excess of pleasure.—You are a welcome messenger:—you have made your fortune, John Warren, and please your honour, has made his dear Lord happy;—that is morepleasurableto him than all the riches in the world.
You are an honest, good creature, John.
Ay, Captain; but was it not very sensible to remember the young Lady's hand-writing?—Would a powder-headed monkey have had the forecast?
Oh very sensible, John;—very sensible, indeed!—Now go the Abbey;—ask for my servant;—say you was sent by Mr. Molesworth to enquire for the family; but do not mention you have seen me:—I shall return by a different way.
John mounted immediately, and I walk'd full speed towards the house. I found Mr. Morgan taking long strides up and down the dining-parlour, puffing, blowing, and turning his wig on every side.
Where have you been, Captain? I have sent to seek you.—Lord Darcey's servant is without;—come to enquire how things arehere.—I would not let them send his message up;—but I have been out myself to ask for his Lordship.
Well, Sir, and what says the servant?
Says!—Faith I hardly know what he says—something about hopes of him:—to be plain, I should think it better ifhopewas out of the question.—Ifheand all ofuswere dead—But see John yourself; I will send him to you.
As he was just without the door, I drew him back,—and turn'd the key.—
Come hither, Sir;—Come hither, Mr. Morgan:—I have something of importance to communicate.
D——n ye, Captain, what's the matter now? (staring.)—I'll hear no more bad news:—upon my soul, I'll run out of it (attempting to open the door).
Hold, Sir; why this impatience?—Miss Powislives!—Will you run from me now?—Miss Powislives!—With that he sent forth a horrid noise;—something betwixt howling and screaming.—It reach'd the dressing-room, as well it might:—had the wind sat that way, I question if the village would not have been alarm'd.—Down ran Sir James and Mr. Powis into the library;—out jump'd Mr. Morgan.—I held up my hand for him to retreat:—he disregarding the caution, I follow'd.—Sir James was inquiring of a servant whence the noise had proceeded.
It was I, said Mr. Morgan, rubbing his sides, and expressing the agitation of joy by dumb shew;—it was I, beating one of my damn'd dogs for running up stairs.
If that is all, said Mr. Powis,—let us return to my mother and wife, who are much hurried.—Away we went together, and the affair of the dog pass'd very well on the Ladies.
I sat musing for some moments how to introduce the event my heart labour'd to give up.—Everysigh that escap'd,—everysorrowful look that was interchang'd, Inowplac'd to my own account, because inmypower to reverse the scene.
Addressing myself to Mr. Powis, I ask'd if he knew Lord Darcey's servant was below.—He shook his head;—No, he answer'd.—Then it is allover, Risby, I suppose in a low voice?—I hardly wish for hisownsake he may recover:—forours, it would be selfish.
He was not worse, I reply'd:—there was hope,—great hope he would do well.
Blessings attend him! cried Mrs. Powis.—tears starting afresh to her swoln eyes;—then you really think, Mr. Risby, he may recover?
If he does, Madam, return'd! he is flatter'd into life.—Flatter'd! said Mr. Powis eagerly;—how flatter'd?
Why, continued I, he has been told some persons are sav'd from the wreck.
Up they all started, surrounding me on every side:—there seem'd but one voice, yet each ask'd if I credited the report.
I said I did.—
Down they dropp'd on their knees, praying with uplifted hands their dear,—dear child may be of the number.—Though nothing could equal the solemnity of this scene, I could scarce command my countenance, when I saw Mr. Morgan standing in the midst of the circle, his hat held up before his face, and a cane under his arm.
As they rose from their knees,—I gave them all the consolation I thought at that moment they were capable of sustaining;—and assur'd them no vigilance would be wanting to come at particulars.—I was ask'd, if there was any letter from Mr. Molesworth?—When answer'd in the affirmative,—the next question was, if it related to what I had just disclos'd?—I equivocated in my reply, and withdrew to write the few unconnected lines sent by John.
After he was dispatch'd, I return'd immediately to the hopeing,—fearing family.—Mr. Watson was sitting amidst them:—he seem'd like a Being of purity presiding over hearts going to be rewarded for resignation to the Divine will.
He heard me as I enter'd: he rose from his seat as I came near him, and pressing one of my hands between both his, whisper'd, I have seen Mr. Morgan.—Then raising his voice, You are the messenger of joy, Mr. Risby;—complete the happiness you have begun:—all present, pointing round, are prepar'd to receive it.
Here drops my pen.—I must not attempt this scene:—a Shakespeare would have wrote it in tears.
How infinite,—how dazzling the beauty of holiness!—Affliction seems to have threaten'd this amiable family, only to encrease their love,—their reverence,—their admiration of Divine Omnipotence.—Blessings may appear, as a certain great man remarks, under the shape of pain, losses, and disappointments;—but let us have patience, and we shall see them in their own proper figures.
If rewards even in this world attend thevirtuous, who would bedepraved?—Could the loose, the abandon'd, look in on this happy mansion, how would their sensual appetites be pall'd!—How would they hate,—how detest the vanity,—the folly that leads to vice!—If pleasure is their pursuit, here they might see it speaking atmouthandeyes:—pleasuresthat fleet not away;—pleasuresthat are carried beyond the grave.
What a family is this to take a wife from!—Lord Darcey's happiness is insur'd:—in my conscience, there will not be such another couple in England.
Preparations are making to welcome the lovely successor of this ancient house;—preparations to rejoice those whose satisfactions are scanty,—to clothe the naked,—to feed the hungry,—to let the stately roof echo with songs and mirth from a croud of chearful, honest, old tenants.
I often hear Mrs. Jenkings crying out in extasy,—My angel!—my sweet angel!—As to the old gentleman and Edmund, they actually cannot refrain from tears, when Miss Powis's name is mention'd.—Sir James and her Ladyship are never easy without these good folks.—It has ever been an observation of mine, that at an unexpected fortunate event, we are fond of having people about us who feel on the same passion.
Mr. Morgan is quite his own man again:—he has been regaling himself with a fine hunt, whilst I attended Sir James and my Lady in an airing round the park.—After dinner we were acquainted with all his losses and crosses in the dog and horse way.—He had not seenFilleyrubb'd down this fortnight:—the huntsman had lost three of his best hounds:—two spaniels were lame;—and one of his running horses glander'd.—He concluded with swearing, as things turn'd out, he did not matter itmuch;—but had it happen'd three weeks since; he should have drove all his servants to the devil.—Enough of Mr. Morgan.—Adieu, Molesworth!—Forget not my congratulations to your noble, happy, friend.
RISBY.