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F. Warley.
LETTER XXVI.
Lord DARCEY to Sir JAMES POWIS.
London.
Even whilst I write, I see before me the image of my expiring father;—I hear the words that issued from his death-like lips;—my soul feels the weight of his injunctions;—again in my imagination I seal the sacred promise on his livid hand;—and my heart bows before Sir James with all that duty which is indispensable from a child to a parent.
Happiness is within my reach, yet without your sanction I will not, dare not, bid it welcome;—I will not hold out my hand to receive it.—Yes, Sir, I love Miss Warley; I can no longer disguise my sentiments.—On the terrace I should not have disguis'd them, if your warmth had not made me tremble for the consequence.—You remember my arguments then; suffer me now to reurge them.
I allow it would be convenient to have my fortune augmented by alliance; but then it is not absolutely necessary I should make the purchase with my felicity.—A thousand chances may put me in possession of riches;—one event only can put me in possession of content.—Without it, what is a fine equipage?—what a splendid retinue?—what a table spread with variety of dishes?
Judge for me, Sir James; you who know, who love Miss Warley, judge for me.—Is it possible for a man of my turn to see her, to talk with her, to know her thousand virtues, and not wish to be united to them?—It is to your candour I appeal.—Say I am to be happy, say it only in one line, I come immediately to the Abbey, full of reverence, of esteem, of gratitude.
Think, dear Sir James, of Lady Powis;—think of the satisfaction you hourly enjoy with that charming woman; then will you complete the felicity of
DARCEY.
LETTER XXVII.
Sir JAMES POWIS to Lord DARCEY.
Barford Abbey.
I am not much surpris'd at the contents of your Lordship's letter, it is what Lady Powis and I have long conjectur'd; yet I must tell, you, my Lord, notwithstanding Miss Warley's great merit, I should have been much better pleas'd to have found myself mistaken.
I claim no right to controul your inclinations: the strict observance you pay your father's last request, tempts me to give my opinion very opposite to what I should otherwise have done.—Duty like yours ought to be rewarded.—If you will content yourself with an incumber'd estate rather than a clear one, why—why—why—faith you shall not have my approbation 'till you come to the Abbey. Should you see the little bewitching Gipsy before I talk with you, who knows but you may be wise enough to make a larger jointure than you can afford?
I am glad your Lordship push'd the matter no farther on the terrace: I did not then know how well I lov'd our dear girl.—My wife is so pleas'd,—so happy,—so overjoy'd,—at what she calls your noble disinterested regard for her Fanny, that one would think she had quite forgot the value of money.—I expect my son to-morrow.—Let me have the happiness of embracing you at the same time;—you are both my children, &c. &c.:
J. Powis.
LETTER XXVIII.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Full of joy! full of surprize! I dispatch a line by Robert.—Fly, Molesworth, to Mr. Smith's, in Bloomsbury-Square:—tell my dearest, dear Miss Warley, but tell her of it by degrees, that Mr. Powis is her father!—Yes! her father, George;—and the most desirable woman on earth, her mother!—Don't tell her of it neither; you will kill her with surprise.—Confounded luck! that I did not know she was in London.
I shall be with you in less than two hours, after Robert:—I send him on, with orders to ride every horse to death, lest he should be set out for Dover.
Jenkings is now on the road, but he travels too slow for my wishes.—If she is gone, prepare swift horses for me to follow:—I am kept by force to refresh myself.—What refreshment can I want!—Fly, I say, to Miss Powis, now no longer Miss Warley.—Leave her not, I charge you;—stir not from her;—by our friendship, Molesworth, stir not from her 'till you see
DARCEY.
LETTER XXIX.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Oh Dick! the most dreadful affair has happen'd!—Lord Darcey is distracted and dying; I am little better—Good God! what shall I do?—what can I do?—He lies on the floor in the next room, with half his hair torn off.—Unhappy man! fatigue had near kill'd him, before the melancholy account reach'd his ears.—Miss Warley, I mean Miss Powis, is gone to the bottom.—She sunk in the yacht that sailed yesterday from Dover for Calais.—Every soul is lost.—The fatal accident was confirm'd by a boat which came in not ten minutes before we arriv'd.—There was no keeping it from Lord Darcey.—The woman of the Inn we are at has a son lost in the same vessel: she was in fits when we alighted.—Some of the wreck is drove on shore.—What can equal this scene!—Oh, Miss Powis! most amiable of women, I tremble for your relations!—But Darcey, poor Darcey, what do I feel for you!—He speaks:—he calls for me:—I go to him.
Oh, Risby! my heart is breaking; for once let it be said a man's heart can break.—Whilst he rav'd, whilst his sorrows were loud, there was some chance; but now all is over. He is absolutely dying;—death is in every feature.—His convulsions how dreadful!—how dreadful the pale horror of his countenance!—But then so calm,—so compos'd!—I repeat, there can, be no chance.—
Where is Molesworth? I heard him say as I enter'd his apartment: come to me, my friend,—holding out his hand—come to me, my friend.—Don't weep—don't let me leave you in tears.—If you wish me well, rejoice:—think how I should have dragg'd out a miserable number of days, after—oh, George! after—Here he stopp'd.—The surgeon desir'd he would suffer us to lift him on the bed.—No, he said, in a faultering accent, if I move I shall die before I have made known to my friend my last request.—Upon which the physician and surgeon retir'd to a distant part of the room, to give him an opportunity of speaking with greater freedom.
He caught hold of my hand with the grasp of anguish, saying, Go, go. I entreat you, by that steady regard which has subsisted between us,—go to the unhappy family:—if they can be comforted; ay, if they can, you must undertake the task.—I will die without you.—Tell them I send the thanks, the duty, of a dying man;—that they must consider me as their own. A few, a very few hours! and I shall be their own;—I shall be united to their angel daughter.—Dear soul, he cried, is it for this,—for this, I tore myself from you!—But stop, I will not repine; the reward of my sufferings is at hand.
Now, you may lift me on the bed;—now, my friend, pointing to the door,—now, my dear Molesworth, if you wish I should die in—there fainted.—He lay without signs of life so long, that I thought, all was over.—
I cannot comply with his last request;—it is his last I am convinc'd;—he will never speak more, Risby!—he will never more pronounce the name of Molesworth.
Be yours the task he assign'd me.—Go instantly to the friends you revere;—go to Mr. and Mrs. Powis, the poor unfortunate parents.—Abroad they were to you as tender relations;—in England, your first returns of gratitude will be mournful.—You have seen Miss Powis:—it could be no other than that lovely creature whom you met so accidentally at ——: the likeness she bore to her father startled you. She was then going with Mr. Jenkings into Oxfordshire:—you admired her;—but had you known her mind, how would you have felt for Darcey!
Be cautious, tender, and circumspect, in your sad undertaking.—Go first to the old steward's, about a mile from the Abbey; if he is not return'd, break it to his wife and son.—They will advise, they will assist you, in the dreadful affair;—I hope the poor old gentleman has not proceeded farther than London.—Write the moment you have seen the family; write every melancholy particular: my mind is only fit for such gloomy recitals.—Farewel! I go to my dying friend.
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.
LETTER XXX.
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH,
Barford Abbey.
What is the sight of thousands slain in the field of battle, compar'd with the scene I am just escap'd from!—How can I be circumstantial!—where am I to begin!—whose distress shall I paint first!—can there be precedence in sorrow!
What a weight will human nature support before it sinks!—The distress'd inhabitants of this house are still alive; it is proclaim'd from every room by dreadful groans.—You sent me on a raven's message:—like that ill-boding bird I flew from house to house, afraid to croak my direful tidings.
By your directions I went to the steward's;—at the gate stood my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. Powis, arm in arm.—I thought I should have sunk;—I thought I should have died instantly.—I was turning my horse to go back, and leave my black errand to be executed by another.
They were instantly at my side;—a hand was seiz'd by each,—and the words Risby!—captain Risby!—ecchoed in my ears.—What with their joyous welcomes,—and transported countenances, I felt as if a flash of lightning had just darted on my head.—Mrs. Powis first perceiv'd the alteration and ask'd if I was well;—if any thing had happen'd to give me concern?
Certainly there has, said Mr. Powis, or you are not the same man you was, Risby.—It is true, Sir, return'd I;—it is true, I am not so happy as when I last saw you;—my mind is disagreeably situated;—could I receive joy, it would be in knowing this amiable woman to be Mrs. Powis.
You both surprise and affect us, replied he.
Indeed you do, join'd in his Lady; but we will try to remove your uneasiness:—pray let us conduct you to the Abbey; you are come to the best house in the world to heal grievances.—Ah, Risby! said my friend, all there is happiness.—Dick, I have the sweetest daughter: but Lord Darcey, I suppose, has told you every thing; we desir'd he would; and that we might see you immediately.—Can you tell us if his Lordship is gone on to Dover?
He is, returned I.—I did not wait his coming down, wanting to discover to you the reason of my perplexities.
What excuse after saying this, could I make, for going into the steward's?—For my soul, I could not think of any.—Fortunately it enter'd my head to say, that I had been wrong directed;—that a foolish boy had told me this was the strait road to the Abbey.
Mr. and Mrs. Powis importun'd me to let the servant lead my horse, that I might walk home with them.—This would never do.—I could not longer trust myself in their company, 'till I had reconnoitred the family;—'till I had examin'd who there was best fitted to bear the first onset of sorrow.—I brought myself off by saying, one of my legs was hurt with a tight boot.
Well then, go on, Risby, said Mr. Powis: you see the Abbey just before you; my wife and I will walk fast;—we shall be but a few minutes behind.
My faculties were quite unhing'd, the sight of the noble structure.—I stopp'd, paus'd, then rode on; stopp'd again, irresolute whether to proceed.—Recollecting your strict injunctions, I reach'd the gate which leads to the back entrance; there I saw a well-looking gentleman and the game-keeper just got off their horses:—the former, after paying me the compliment of his hat, took a brace of hares from the keeper, and went into the house.—I ask'd of a servant who stood by, if that was Sir James Powis?
No, Sir, he replied; but Sir James is within.
Who is that gentleman? return'd I.
His name is Morgan, Sir,
Very intimate here, I suppose—is he not?
Yes, very intimate, Sir.
Then he is the person I have business with; pray tell him so.
The servant obey'd.—Mr. Morgan came to me, before I had dismounted; and accosting me very genteely, ask'd what my commands were with him?
Be so obliging, Sir, I replied; to go a small distance from the house; and I will unfold an affair which I am sorry to be the messenger of.
Nothing is amiss, Sir, I hope: you look strangely terrified; but I'll go with you this instant.—On that he led me by a little path to a walk planted thick with elms; at one end of which was a bench, where we seated ourselves.—Now, Sir, said Mr. Morgan, you may here deliver what you have to say with secrecy.—I don't recollect to have had the honour of seeing you before;—but I wait with impatience to be inform'd the occasion of this visit.
You are a friend, I presume, of Sir James Powis?
Yes, Sir, I am: he has few of longer standing, and, as times go, more sincere, I believe.—But what of that?—do you know any harm, Sir, of me, or of my friend?
God knows I do not;—but I am acquainted, Mr. Morgan, with an unfortunate circumstance relative to Sir James.
Sir James! Zounds, do speak out:—Sir James, to my knowledge, does not owe a shilling.
It is not money matters, Sir, that brought me here:—heaven grant it was!
The devil, Sir!—tell me at once, what is this damn'd affair? Upon my soul, you must tell me immediately.
Behold!—read, Sir—what a task is mine! (putting your letter into his hands.)
Never was grief, surprize, and disappointment so strongly painted as in him.—At first, he stood quite silent; every feature distorted:—then starting back some paces, threw his hat over the hedge:—stamp'd on his wig;—and was stripping himself naked, to fling his clothes into a pond just by, when I prevented him.
Stop, Sir, I cried: do not alarm the family before they are prepar'd.—Think of the dreadful consequences;—think of the unhappy parents!—Let us consult how to break it to them, without severing their hearts at one blow.
Zounds, Sir, don't talk to me of breaking it; I shall go mad:—you did not know her.—Oh! she was the most lovely, gentle creature!—What an old blockhead have I been!—Why did I not give her my fortune?—then Darcey would have married her;—then she would not have gone abroad;—then we should have sav'd her. Oh, she was a sweet, dear soul!—What good will my curst estates do me now?—You shall have them, Sir;—any body shall have them—I don't care what becomes of me.—Do order my horse, Sir—I say again, do order my horse. I'll never see this place more.—Oh! my dear, sweet, smiling girl, why would you go to France?
Here I interrupted him.
Think not, talk not, Sir, of leaving the family in such a melancholy situation.—Pray recollect yourself.—You ought not to run from your friends;—you ought to redouble your affection at this hour of trial.—Who can be call'd friends, but those who press forward, when all the satisfactions of life draw back.—You are not;—your feeling heart tells me you are not one of the many that retire with such visionary enjoyments.—Come, Sir, for the present forget the part you bear in this disaster:—consider,—pray, consider her poor parents; consider what will be their sufferings:—let it be our task to prepare them.
What you say is very right, Sir, return'd he.—I believe you are a good christian;—God direct us,—God direct us.—I wish I had a dram:—faith, I shall be choak'd.—Sweet creature!—what will become of Lord Darcey!—I never wanted a dram so much before.—Your name, Sir, if you please.—I perceive we shall make matters worse by staying out so long.
I told him my name; and that I had the honour of being intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
He continued,—You will go in with me, Sir.—How am I to act!—I'll follow your advice—We must expect it will be a dreadful piece of work.—
Caution and tenderness, Mr. Morgan, will be absolutely necessary.
But where is my hat?—where is my wig?—have I thrown them into the pond?
It is well the poor distress'd man recollected he had them not; or, bare-headed as he was, I should have gone with him to the house.—I pick'd them up, all over dirt; and, well as I could, clean'd them with my handkerchief.
Now, Sir, said I, if you will wipe your face,—for the sweat was standing on it in large drops,—I am ready to attend you.
So I must really go in, captain.—I don't think I can stand it;—you had better go without me.—Upon my soul, I had sooner face the mouth of a cannon—If you would blow my brains out, it would be the kindest thing you ever did in your life.
Poh! don't talk at this rate, Sir.—Do we live only for ourselves?—
But will you not leave us, captain;—will you not run from us, when all is out?
Rather, Sir, suspect me of cowardice.—I should receive greater satisfaction from administering the smallest consolation to people in distress, than from whole nations govern'd by my nod.
Well, captain, I will go;—I will do any thing you desire me, since you are so good to say you will not leave us.
But, notwithstanding his fair promise, I never expected to get him within the doors.—He was shifting from side to side:—sometimes he would stand still,—sometimes attempt to retreat.—When we were just at the house, a servant appear'd:—of whom he enquir'd, if Mr. and Mrs. Powis were return'd; and was inform'd the latter was within;—the former gone out in pursuit of us. We likewise found the Ladies were with Sir James in the library. I sent in my name: it was in vain for me to expect any introduction from my companion.
Mrs. Powis flew to meet me at the door:—Mr. Morgan lifted up his eyes, and shook his head.—I never was so put to it:—I knew not what to say; or how to look.—Welcome, Mr. Risby, said the amiable, unfortunate, unsuspecting mother;—doubly welcome at this happy juncture.—Let me lead you to parents, introducing me to Sir James and Lady Powis, from whom I have receiv'd all my felicity.
You need not be told my reception:—it is sufficient that you know Sir James and her Ladyship.—My eyes instantly turn'd on the venerable chaplin: I thought I never discover'd so much of the angel in a human form.
Mrs. Powis ask'd me a thousand questions;—except answering them, I sat stupidly silent.—It was not so with Mr. Morgan: he walk'd, or rather ran up and down;—his eyes fix'd on the floor,—his lips in motion.—The Ladies spoke to him: he did not answer; and I could perceive them look on each other with surprize.
Mr. Powis enter'd:—the room seem'd to lift up:—I quite rambled when I rose to receive his salute.—Mr. Morgan was giving me the slip.—I look'd at him significantly,—then at Mr. Watson,—as much as to say, Take him out; acquaint him with the sorrowful tidings.—He understood the hint, and immediately they withdrew together.
Come, dear Risby, pluck up, said Mr. Powis:—do not you, my friend, be the only low-spirited person amongst us.—I fear Mr. Risby is not well, return'd Lady Powis.—We must not expect to see every one in high spirits, because we are:—our blessings must be consider'd as very singular.—You have not mention'd Fanny to your friends.
Indeed, Madam, I have, replied he.—Risby knows, I every minute expect my belov'd daughter.—But tell me, Dick;—tell me, my friend;—all present are myself;—fear not to be candid;—what accident has thrown a cloud of sadness over your once chearful countenance?—Can I assist you?—My advice, my interest, my purse are all your own.—Nay, dear Risby, you must not turn from me.—I did turn, I could hold it no longer.—
Pray Sir, said Mrs. Powis, do speak;—do command us; and she condescended to lay her hand on mine—Lady Powis, Sir James too, both intreated I would suffer them to make me happy.—Dear worthy creatures, how my heart bled! how it still bleeds for them!—
I was attempting some awkward acknowledgment, when Mr. Watson enter'd, led by Mr. Morgan.—I saw he had executed the task, which made me shudder.—Never did the likeness of a being celestial shine more than in the former! He mov'd gently forward,—plac'd himself next Lady Powis;—pale,—trembling,—sinking.—Mr. Morgan retir'd to the window.—
Now,—now,—the dreadful discovery was at a crisis.—Mr. Watson sigh'd.—Lady Powis eyed him with attention; then starting up, cried, Bless me! I hear wheels: suppose, Mr. Watson, it should be Fanny!—and after looking into the lawn resum'd her chair.
Pardon me, Lady Powis said. Mr. Watson in a low-voice; why this impatience?—Ah Madam! I could rather wish you to check than encourage it.
Hold, hold, my worthy friend, return'd Sir James; do you forget four hours since how you stood listening at a gate by the road-side, saying, you could hear, tho' not see?
We must vary our hopes and inclinations, reply'd Mr. Watson.—Divine Providence—there stopp'd;—not another word.—He stopp'd;—he groan'd;—and was silent.—Great God! cried Mr. Powis, is my child ill?—Is my child dead? frantickly echoed Mrs. Powis—Heaven forbid! exclaim'd Sir James and his Lady, arising.—Tell us, Mr. Watson;—tell us, Mr. Ruby.
When you are compos'd,—return'd the former—Then, our child is dead,—really dead! shriek'd the parents.—No, no, cried Lady Powis, clasping her son and daughter in her arms,—she is, not dead; I am sure she is not dead.
Mr. Watson, after many efforts to speak, said in a faultering voice,—Consider we are christians:—let that bless'd name fortify our souls.
Mrs. Powis fell on her knees before him,—heart-rending sight!—her cap torn off,—her hair dishevell'd,—her eyes fix'd;—not a tear,—not a single tear to relieve the bitter anguish of her soul.
Sir James had left the room;—Lady Powis was sunk almost senseless on the sopha;—Mr. Powis kneeling by his wife, clasping her to his bosom;—Mr. Morgan in a corner roaring out his affliction;—Mr. Watson with the voice of an angel speaking consolation.—I say nothing of my own feelings.—God, how great!—how inexpressible! when Mrs. Powis, still on her knees, turn'd to me with uplifted hands,—Oh Mr. Risby! cried she,—can you,—can you speak comfort to the miserable?—Then again addressing Mr. Watson,—Dear, saint, only say she lives:—I ask no more; only say she lives.—My best love!—my life!—my Fanny! said Mr. Powis, lifting her to the sopha;—live,—live,—for my sake.—Oh!—Risby, are you the messenger?—his head fell on my shoulder, and he sobb'd aloud.
Lady Powis beckon'd him towards her, and, looking at Mrs. Powis with an expressive glance of tenderness,—said Compose yourself, my son;—what will become of you, if—He took the meaning of her words, and wrapping his arms about his wife, seem'd for a moment to forget his own sorrow in endeavours to.
What an exalted woman is Lady Powis!
My children, said she; taking a hand from each,—I am thankful: whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.—Let us follow his great example of patience,—of resignation.—What is a poor span?—Ours will be eternity.
I whisper'd Mr. Morgan, a female friend would be necessary to attend the Ladies;—one whom they lov'd,—whom they confided in, to be constantly with them in their apartments.—He knew just such a woman, he said; and went himself to fetch Mrs. Jenkings.—Lady Powis being unable longer to support herself, propos'd withdrawing.—I offered my arm, which she accepted, and led her to the dressing-room.—Mrs. Powis follow'd; almost lifeless, leaning on her husband: there I left them together, and walk'd out for a quarter of an hour to recover my confus'd senses.
At my return to the library, I found Sir James and Mr. Watson in conversation.—The former, with a countenance of horror and distraction,—Oh Sir! said he, as I came near him,—do I see you again?—are you kind enough not to run from our distress?
Run from it, Sir James! I reply'd;—no, I will stay and be a partaker.
Oh Sir! he continued, you know not my distress:—death only can relieve me—I am without hope, without comfort.
And is this, Sir James, what you are arriv'd at? said the good chaplain—Is this what you have been travelling sixty years after?—Wish for death yet say you have neither hope or comfort.—Your good Lady, Sir, is full of both;—she rejoices in affliction:—she has long look'd above this world.
So might I, he reply'd,—had I no more to charge myself with than she has.—You know, Mr. Watson,—you know how faulty I have been.
Your errors, dear Sir James, said he, are not remember'd.—Look back on the reception you gave your son and daughter.
He made no reply; but shedding a flood of tears, went to his afflicted family.
Mr. Watson, it seems, whilst I had been out, acquainted him with the contents of your letter;—judging it the most seasonable time, as their grief could not then admit of increase.
Sir James was scarce withdrawn, when Lady Powis sent her woman to request the sight of it.—As I rose to give it into her hand, I saw Mr. Morgan pass by the door, conducting an elderly woman, whom I knew afterward to be Mrs. Jenkings.—She had a handkerchief to her eyes, one hand lifted up;—and I heard her say, Good God! Sir, what shall I do?—how can I see the dear Ladies?—Oh Miss Powis!—the amiable Miss Powis!
Mr. Morgan join'd us immediately, with whom and Mr. Watson I spent the remainder of this melancholy evening: at twelve we retir'd.
So here I sit, like one just return'd from the funeral of his best friend;—alone, brooding over every misery I can call together.—The light of the moon, which shines with uncommon splendor, casts not one ray on my dark reflections:—nor do the objects which present themselves from the windows offer one pleasing idea;—rather an aggravation to my heart-felt anguish.—Miserable family!—miserable those who are interested in its sad disaster!—
I go to my bed, but not to my repose.
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;—it was the 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, do rise:—do come 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 lose her, if I should lose my wife!—My parents too, 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 I must not lose my husband:—you see how it is, Sir, shaking her head;—try to sooth him;—talk to him here but do not take him from me.—
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.—His death will be an aggravation to the general sorrow.—Write instantly:—I wait your account with impatience; yet dread to receive it.
LETTER XXXI.
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;—but how does 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.
LETTER XXXII
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
My heart bleeds afresh—Her body found! Good heaven!—it must not,—shall not 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 is now out 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 is now no 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:—his person,—his character,—his family, 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'd so long of her many excellencies, profess'd such sincerity, such tenderness, 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?—Will you permit me that honour?—Will you not think ill of me, if I disclose—No, I cannot—presumption—I dare not. 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 from her?—Give me then a brother;—I can never behold you in any other light.
No, my Lady;—no, return'd he, I deserve not this honour.—If you knew, madam,—if you knew all,—you would, you must despise 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 command it,—I command it instantly to be laid open before me.—Now let it speak,—now let 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 so too; but am now convinc'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 of female friendship!—Shew me such another:—our sex are a test of their friendships.
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 of my dear and my love, it is sly 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;—too much so, perhaps.—The knowledge of such as constitute this little narrative, and some other minds like theirs, has made me rather too nice, 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, whose situation made 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 by that interest 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.—Glinn was 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 Darcey may recover.—But why this ray of hope to make the horrors of my mind more dreadful?—He is past hope, you say.—
RISBY.
LETTER XXXIII.
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's own hand, 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.—I run, I ride or rather fly to 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.
LETTER XXXIV.
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.
LETTER XXXV.
Captain Risby to the Honourable George Molesworth.
Barford Abby.
Well, Molesworth,—well—I can go no farther;—yet I must;—John, poor faithful John, says I must;—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.
LETTER XXXVI.
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 my own had call'd me to town express.—It happen'd very convenient that I left him in a profound sleep.
Away I flew,—agitated betwixt hope and fear:—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 [Footnote: The name of the banker.]:—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.
Miss Warley! exclaim'd I.—Great God! Miss Warley!—Tell me, Ladies, is Miss Warley really under your roof?—Both at once, for both seem'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 has no brother,—or I should think your emotion 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 has no brother;—but she has parents, she has friends, who lament her dead:—their sorrow has been mine.
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 me tell you Miss Powis is just recover'd from the small-pox;—that this was the second day of her sitting up:—let me tell you too her 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 ever such obligations to their friends as I 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.—I am 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.
LETTER XXXVII.
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 been very ill.—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 to manhood.—How shall I tell your Ladyship all I have suffer'd?—I am weak,—very weak;—I find myself unequal to the task.—
This moment I have hit on an expedient that will unravel all;—I'll recall a letter [Footnote: This was the same Lord Darcey's servant saw on the counter.] 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.
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 with you:—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.
LETTER XXXVIII.
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 man can make 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 the most agreeable to the most disgustful 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 be peevish, Sir;—and as to her age, I thought it pretty near your own.
No, no, Madam, you are quite mistaken; I am at least five years younger.
Five years, Sir! what are five years at your time 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 at my time of life I can admire a beautiful young Lady.—If my wife should die,—old as I am—men older than 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 of such men 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 was very respectful, very ceremonious, and very thoughtful, '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.
Adore me, 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 stand determin'd to be heard:—hear me, or this moment is my last.—With that he drew out a pistol, and held it to his breast.
And dare you, said I, collecting all my resolution,—dare you rush into eternity, without one virtue to offer up with your polluted soul?—I pronounc'd these words with steadiness.—He trembled, 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 the unworthy Smith should not be expos'd for the sake of his worthy wife.—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.
LETTER XXXIX
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,—you as certainly will be disinherited for Lord Darcey.
See what a man of consequence I am.—Does Captain Risby say this?—Does Captain Risby say that?—Does Captain Risby think well of it?
Expect, George, to behold me push'd into perferment against my will;—all great people say so, 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 to more than sight—the steward and his family worthy every honour they receive from this honourable house.
I hear my shadow.—Strange, indeed! to hear shadows;—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 all patience.
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,—'Twas John Warren, Sir, was the man who found out the Lady; 'twas I was the man, 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 more pleasurable to 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 are here.—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 if hope was out of the question.—If he and all of us were 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 Powis lives!—Will you run from me now?—Miss Powis lives!—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.—Every sigh that escap'd,—every sorrowful look that was interchang'd, I now plac'd to my own account, because in my power 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 all over, Risby, I suppose in a low voice?—I hardly wish for his own sake he may recover:—for ours, 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 the virtuous, who would be depraved?—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 at mouth and eyes:—pleasures that fleet not away;—pleasures that 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 seen Filley rubb'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 it much;—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.
LETTER XL.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH
to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
All is happiness, Dick!—I see nothing else; I hear of nothing else.—It is the last thing I take leave of at night;—the first thing I meet in the morning.—Yesterday was full of it!—yesterday I dined with Mr. and Mrs. Powis and their charming daughter, at the Banker's.—To look back, it seems as if I had gone through all the vexations of my life in the last three weeks.
Darcey would not let me rest 'till I had been to congratulate them, or rather to satisfy his own impatience, being distracted to hear how Miss Powis bore the great discovery.—Her fortitude is amazing!—But Sir James has had every particular from his son, therefore I shall be too late on that subject.
The following short epistle I receiv'd from Mr. Powis, as I was setting off for Town.
Mr. Powis to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
London,
"The first moment I can tear myself from the tender embraces of all my hopes;—the first moment I can leave my belov'd daughter, I come to Dover;—I come to acknowledge my gratitude to the noble-minded Molesworth—I come to testify my affection to the generous, disinterested Lord Darcey.—We pray for the recovery of his. Lordship's health.—When that is establish'd, not one wish will be wanting to complete the felicity of
J. Powis."
The more I know of this family, the more I admire them.—I must be their neighbour, that's certain—Suppose I petition for a little spot at one end of the park; suppose you throw up your commission; and we live together two snug batchelors.
Darcey vows he will go to Town next week.—If fatigue should cause him to relapse, what will become of us then?—But I will not think of that now.
We shall come down a joyful, cavalcade to the Abbey.—I long to see the doors thrown open to receive us.—School-boy like, I shall first count days;—next hours;—then minutes: though I am your's the same here, there, and every where.
MOLESWORTH.
LETTER XLI
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to the same.
London.
Build in the park, and live batchelors!—Pish!—A horrid scheme!—I give it up.—Over head and ears, Dick!
Last Monday arriv'd at his Lordship's house in St. James's-Square, the Right Honourable the Earl and Countess of Hampstead,—Lord Hallum,—the Ladies Elizabeth and Sophia Curtis.
True, as I hope to be sav'd;—and as true, that Lady Elizabeth and Sophia are blooming as angels.
Three times have I sat down, pen in my hand, paper folded, yet could not tune my mind to write one word.—Over head and ears! I say.—
Past one in the morning!—All silent! Let me try if I can scribble now.
First, I must tell you the body drove on shore at Dover, which I concluded was Miss Powis's, is discover'd to be a Miss Frances Walsh, going over in the yacht which was unfortunately cast-away;—the corpse much defac'd:—but what confirm'd it to be the body of Miss Powis, was a handkerchief taken from the neck mark'd F W.—Poor young Lady! her friends, perhaps are suffering the excesses of grief which you and I have so lately witness'd.—But this is a subject I shall not dwell on.
I came to Town this evening with Darcey:—he bore the journey very poorly;—sinking, fainting, all the way.—When we got to our lodgings, and he was put into a bed, recovering a little, he press'd me to go to the Banker's.—I saw his impatience, and went immediately.
My name was no sooner sent up, than Mr. Powis flew to receive me.—Welcome, my friend! said he; you come opportunely. We have a noble family with us that has been just wishing to see Mr. Molesworth.—He had time for no more; the door open'd.—What was my surprize to be embrac'd by Lord Hampstead and Lord Hallum, by them, led to the Countess and our two divinities, whose mild eyes,—whose elegant deportment, told me Loves and Graces had put a finishing stroke to the great work of virtue and humility.—Lady Mary Sutton,—yes, Lady Mary Sutton too was there: she advanc'd towards me, Miss Powis in her hand.
I have the honour, said Mr. Powis, of presenting Lady Mary Sutton (the source of all my felicity) to Mr. Molesworth.—Then addressing himself to her Ladyship, Permit me, Madam, to introduce to you the friend I love.
If ever I wish'd to shine, it was then—I would have given the world for eloquence;—nay, common understanding.—The former I never possessed:—A surprize and pleasure had flown away with the latter.—Miss Powis has that looks through one's very soul—a sweet compassionate eye: the dignity it expresses bespeaks your confidence.—She perceived my embarrassment, and said, Come, Mr. Molesworth, let me have the satisfaction of placing you next Lady Mary. So down sat the stupid blockhead.—Her Ladyship is very chatty, and very affable; she said a thousand obliging things; but half was lost upon me, whilst I watch'd the lips of my fair Elizabeth.
Mr. Mrs. Powis, and Lady Mary, enquired affectionately after the health of Lord Darcey. When I said he was come to Town, up flew the heart's tell-tale to the face of Miss Powis.—Her father and mother ask'd, if they might have the happiness of waiting on his Lordship next morning.—I arose to assure them what joy their visit would occasion; when having settled the hour, and so forth, I slid to a chair vacant between Lady Elizabeth and Lady Sophia,—How enchanting did they look!—how enchanting did they speak!—No reserve;—all frankness;—the same innocence in their manners as at fifteen;—the vivacity of the French,—the sedateness of the English, how charmingly blended!
Risby, thou art a fortunate fellow: Lady Sophia speaks of thee with esteem.
The sweet syrens—syrens only by attraction—held me by the ear upwards of an hour.—From them I learnt Lady Mary Sutton came to England, on receiving an account from Mr. Delves that Miss Powis had the small-pox.—Happy for us, Dick, they lov'd Lady Mary too well to stay behind her!
As I was listening to their entertaining descriptions of places abroad, we were join'd by Lord Hallum.—Molesworth, said his Lordship, I will not suffer these girls to engage you solely:—My prating sisters are grown so saucy that I am obliged to be a very tyrant.—
A spirited conversation ensued, in which the cherub sisters bore away the palm.
More and more sick of my batchelor notions!—Yet I aver, that state should be my choice, rather than swallow one grain of indifference in the matrimonial pill, gilder'd over ever so nicely.—Think what must be my friendship for Darcey, to tear myself from this engageing circle before nine!—As I was taking my leave, Lady Mary stepp'd towards me.—To-morrow, Mr. Molesworth, said her Ladyship, I bespeak the favour of your company and Lord Darcey's to dine with me in Pall-Mall:—I bow'd, and answer'd both for his Lordship and myself.
We shall rejoice, continued she, to congratulate your friend on his recovery,—looking with peculiar meaning at Miss Powis.—I think by that look there will be an interview between the lovers, though I did not say so much to Darcey.—He requires sleep: none would he have had, if he knew my surmises.—I'll to bed, and dream of Lady Elizabeth;—so good night, Dick.
Twelve o'clock at noon.
Mr. and Mrs. Powis this moment gone;—Lord Darcey dressing to meet them in Pall-Mall.—Yes, they are to be there;—and the whole groupe of beauties are to be there;—Miss Powis,—Lady Elizabeth,—Lady Sophia,—and the little sprightly hawk-eyed Delves.—Risby, you know nothing of life; you are dead and buried.
I will try to be serious.—Impossible! my head runs round and round with pleasure.—The interview was affecting to the last degree.—Between whom?—Why Darcey, Mr. and Mrs.—faith I can write no more.
MOLESWORTH.
LETTER XLII.
The Hon. GEORGE MOLESWORTH to the same.
London
The day of days is over!
I am too happy to sleep:—exquisite felicity wants not the common supports of nature.—In such scenes as I have witness'd, the soul begins to know herself:—she gives us a peep into futurity:—the enjoyments of this day has been all her own.
Once more I regain the beaten path of narrative.
Suppose me then under the hands of hair-dressers, valets, &c. &c. &c. I hate those fellows about me:—but the singularity of this visit made me undergo their tortures with tolerable patience.—Now was the time when Vanity, under pretence of respect, love, and decorum, usher'd in her implements.
It was about two when we were set down at Lady Mary Sutton's.—Darcey trembled, and look'd so pale at coming out of his chair, that I desir'd a servant to shew us to a room, where we might be alone 'till Mr. Powis was inform'd of our being in the house.—He instantly came with Lady Mary.—Tender welcomes and affectionate caresses fill'd him with new life.—Her Ladyship propos'd he should first see Miss Powis in her dressing-room;—that none should be present but Mr. and Mrs. Powis, her Ladyship, and your humble servant.
Judge how agreeable this must be to his Lordship, whose extreme weakness consider'd, could not have supported this interview before so much company as were assembled in the drawing-room.
The plan settled, Lady Mary withdrew to prepare Miss Powis for our reception.—A footman soon came with a message from her Ladyship that she expected us.
I was all compassionate at this moment:—the conflicts of my feeble friend were not to be conceal'd.—We follow'd Mr. Powis;—the door open'd;—Darcey turn'd half round, and laying his cold clammy hand on mine, said, Oh Molesworth! my happiness is in view!—how can I meet it?
Inimitable creature!—Can I describe your reception of my friend?—can I describe the dignity of beauty;—the melting softness of sensibility;—the blushing emotion of surprize?—No, Risby;—impossible!
The Ladies stood to receive us; Miss Powis supported between her mother and Lady Mary;—she all graceful timidity;—they all extasy and rapture.—Do you not expect to see Darcey at the feet of his mistress?—No; at Mrs. Powis's, at Lady Mary's, he fell.
The eyes of his Adorable glisten'd.—He was rais'd, and embrac'd tenderly—by the parents,—by Lady Mary.—Mr. Powis said, presenting him to his delighted daughter, You, my dear, must make our returns of gratitude to Lord Darcey;—giving him her more than passive hand, which he press'd to his lips with fervor, saying, This is the hour my soul has flown up to petition—Dearest, best of women! tell me I am welcome.
She attempted to reply;—it was only an attempt.
She does bid you welcome, return'd Mr. Powis;—her heart bids you welcome.
Indeed, said she, I am not ungrateful:—indeed, my Lord, I am not insensible to the obligations you have laid me under.
As these words escap'd her, you must certainly take in the whole countenance of Darcey.
By this time we were seated, and Lady Mary return'd to the company.
Honour'd as I am, said his Lordship, addressing Miss Powis, will you permit me, Madam, in presence of your revered parents,—in presence of the friend to whom every wish of my heart has been confess'd;—will you permit me to hope you are not offended by my application to Sir James?—May I hope for your—
Friendship, my Lord (reply'd she, interrupting him); you may command my friendship.
Friendship! (retorted he) Miss Powis, starting up:—is that all I am to expect?—Can I accept your friendship?—No, Madam, the man who would have died for you aspires to more than friendship;—he aspires to your love.
I am no stranger, my Lord, return'd she, to the honour you intend me;—I am no stranger to your worth;—but I have scruples;—scruples that seem to me insurmountable.
I never saw him so affected.
For heaven's sake, Madam, he answer'd, don't drive me to despair:—tear not open the wound which the hand of Mercy has just clos'd:—my shatter'd frame will not bear another rub from fortune.—What scruples?—Tell me, Miss Powis, I conjure you.
You have none, my dear child, said Mrs. Powis. You have none, Fanny, said Mr. Powis, but what his Lordship can remove.
Indeed, Sir!—indeed, Madam! replied she, I meant not to give Lord Darcey pain.—Then turning to him in a tender, soothing accent,—Your peace, my Lord, has never been lightly regarded by me.—Here he brighten'd up,—and said, taking her hand, You know not, Miss Powis, from the first moment I saw you, how ardent,—how steady has been my love.
Why then my Lord, resum'd she—why endeavour to gain my affections, yet hide your preference for me from the world;—even from myself?—Think of the day Lord Allen dined at the Abbey;—think what pass'd in a walk preceding that you set out for town:—on both these,—on many others, how mysterious your conduct?—If you thought me worthy your regard, my Lord, why such mysteries?
For God's sake, my dear,—dear Miss Powis, said Darcey, suffer me to vindicate myself.—Pardon me, my Lord (continued the angel that harangued him) hear me patiently another moment, and I will listen to your vindication.
She went on.
From whence can I suppose, my Lord, your embarrassments proceeded, if not from some entanglement grown irksome?—No; before I can promise myself happiness, I must be first satisfied I do not borrow that happiness from another.
Another, Madam! repeated he, throwing himself at her feet:—May all my brighter prospects fly me;—may my youth be blighted by the loss of reason if I have ever lov'd another!
She was affected with the solemnity of his air: one pearly drop stray'd down her cheek;—one that escap'd the liquid body of tenderness assembled in her eyes:—she could not speak, but held out her snowy hand for him to be seated.
He obey'd; and placing himself next her, so clearly accounted for that part of his conduct she call'd mysterious, that Mr. and Mrs. Powis both at once exclaim'd, Now, my dear, complete our felicity;—now all your scruples must be over.
And do you, said she, my tender, my indulgent parents, rising and throwing herself into their arms;—do you say it is in my power to complete your felicity?—Will confessing a preference for Lord Darcey;—will declaring I wish you to prefer him to your daughter;—will that complete it?
My friend caught the blushing beauty from the arms of her parents, and, frantic with joy, folded her to his bosom, standing as if he wonder'd at his own happiness.
What innocence in the look of Miss Powis, when she greatly acknowledg'd her heart!—How reverse from this innocence, this greatness, is the prudish hypocrite, who forbids even her features to say she is susceptible of love! You may suppose a profusion of friendly acknowledgments fell to my share; but I am not vain enough to repeat them. |
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