How does beauty,—politeness—wit,—a fine voice,—a graceful movement, charm!—But how often are we deceiv'd by them.—An instance of which I have lately seen in our old friend Sir Harry. No man on earth can pity that poor soul more than I do; yet I have laughed hours to think of his mistake. So mild—so gentle—said he, George, a week before his marriage, I should have said execution,—it is impossible to put her out of humour.—If I am not the happiest man breathing, it must be my own fault.

What was my astonishment when I call'd on him in my way to town, and found this mild gentle mate of his, aided by a houseful of her relations, had not only deprived him of all right and authority in the Castle, but almost of his very speech!

I dropt in about one, told the Baronet I came five miles out of my way for the pleasure of saluting his bride, and to drink a bottle of claret with him.—He was extremely glad to see me; and ventured to say so, before I was introduced to the Ladies:—but I saw by his sneaking look, no such liberty must be taken in their presence.—My reception was gracious enough, considering all communication is cut off between him and his former acquaintance.

Scarce was I seated, before the old Dowager asked me, if her daughter had not made great alterations in the little time she had been at the Castle.

Alterations, Madam! I reply'd;—upon my honour, they are so visible, no person can avoid being struck with them.—How could your father and mother, Sir Harry, bear to live in such an wood? looking and speaking disdainfully.—He smiled obsequious—hemm'd—trembled, and was silent.—I hope, continued she, not to see a tree remaining near this house before the next summer.—We want much, Mr. Molesworth, turning to me with quite a different look and voice, to have the pleasure-ground laid out:—but really her Ladyship has had so much to set in order within doors, that it has taken off her attention a good deal from what is necessary to be done without.—However, Sir, you shall see our design; so, my dear, speaking to her daughter, let Sir Harry fetch the plan.

It is in my closet, returned her Ladyship, and I don't chuse to send him there;—but I'll ring for Sally.

I had like that moment to have vow'd a life of celibacy—I saw him redden;—how could he avoid it, if one spark of manhood remain'd?

The indignation I felt threw such a mist before my eyes, that when the plan was laid on the table, I could scarce distinguish temples from clumps of shrubs, or Chinese seats from green slopes.—Yet this reptile of a husband could look over my shoulder, hear the opinion of every one present, without daring to give his own.

I was more out of patience at dinner.—Bless me, says her Ladyship, how aukward you are when I bid you cut up any thing!—the mother and daughter echoing, Never was there such a carver as Sir Harry!—Well, I vow, cry'd the latter, it is a strange thing you will not remember, so often as I have told you, to lay the meat handsome in the dish.

Good God! thought I, can this man live out half his days?—And, faith, if I had not drank five bumpers of Madeira, I could not have stood the sight of his fearful countenance.

He perceived I was distress'd, and whisper'd me as I mounted my horse,—You see how it is, Molesworth; breeding women must not be contradicted.—

I do, I do see how it is, return'd I; and could not for my soul forbear saying, I shall rejoice to hear of a delivery.

This is the day when the important affairs of the m——y are to be settled; the papers will inform you; but can a man in love have any relish for politics?—Pray, divest yourself of that plague, when you attend the house.—I should drop to hear you say you espouse this or that cause, for the love of Miss Warley, instead of your country.

Next Friday!—Well, I long to see you after a dreadful, dreadful absence of eight days.—There is something confounded ridiculous in all this stuff; nor can I scarce credit that man should pine, fret, and make himself unhappy, because he is loosed from the apron-strings of his Phillida for a few days.—I see you shrug;—but my fate is not dependent on your prognostications.—Was it so, I know where I should be,—down amongst the dead men;—down amongst the dead men.—

However, I would consent to be rank'd in the number of Cupid's slain, could I be hit by just such a dart as pierc'd you.

Vulcan certainly has none ready made that will do, unless he sharpens the points of those which have already recoiled.

But hold; I must descend from the clouds, to regale myself on a fine turtle at the Duke of R——d's. What an epicure! Talk of feasting my palate, when my eyes are to meet delicacies of a far more inviting nature!—There was a time I should have been envy'd such a repast:—that time is fled;—you are no longer a monopolizer of beauty;—can sing but of one,—talk but of one—dream but of one,—and, what is still more extraordinary, love but one.—

Give me a heart at large;—such confin'd notions are not for

MOLESWORTH.



LETTER XV.

Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

Barford Abbey.

I envy not the greatest monarch on earth!—She is return'd with my peace;—my joy;—my very soul.—Had you seen her restorative smiles! they spoke more than my pen can describe!—She bestow'd them on me, even before she ran to the arms of Sir James and Lady Powis.—Sweet condescension!—Her hand held out to meet mine, which, trembling, stopt half way.—What checks,—what restraint, did I inflict on myself!—Yes, that would have been the decisive moment, had I not perceiv'd the eyes of Argus planted before, behind, on every side of Sir James.—God! how he star'd.—I suppose my looks made some discovery.—Once more I must take thee up, uneasy dress of hypocrisy;—though it will be as hard to girt on, as the tight waistcoat on a lunatic.

Never has a day appear'd to me so long as this.—Full of expectation, full of impatience!—All stuff again.—No matter; it is not the groans of a sick man, that can convey his pain to another:—to feel greatly, you must have been afflicted with the same malady.

I suppose you would laugh to hear how often I have opened and shut the door;—how often look'd out at the window,—or the multiplicity of times examined my watch since ten this morning!—Needless would it likewise be to recount the impatient steps I have taken by the road-side, attentive to the false winds, which would frequently cheat me into a belief, that my heart's treasure was approaching.—Hark! I should say, that must be wheels;—stop and pause;—walk forwards;—stop again, till every sound have died upon my ear.

Harrass'd by expectation, I saunter'd a back way to Jenkings's;—enquired of Mrs. Jenkings, what time she thought her husband might be home; and taking Edmund with me to my former walk, determined to sound his inclinations.—I waved mentioning Miss Warley's name till we had gone near a quarter of a mile from the house; still expecting he would begin the subject, which at this juncture I suppose particularly engaged his attention; but perceiving he led to things quite opposite, I drew him out in the following manner.

So you really think, Edmund, your father will not be out after it is dark?

I have not known, my Lord, that he has for many years; rather than venture, I believe, he would stop the night at Oxford. Very composedly he said this, for I watched his looks narrowly.—

Edmund, confess, confess frankly, said I; has not this day been the longest you ever knew?

The longest I ever knew! Faith your Lordship was never more out: far from thinking so, I am startled to find how fast the hours have flown; and want the addition of at least three, to answer letters which my father's business requires.

Business, Edmund! and does business really engross so much of your attention, when you know who is expected in the evening? Ah! Edmund, you are a sly fellow: never tell me, you want to lengthen out the tedious hours of absence.

Tedious hours of absence! Ho! ho! my Lord, I see now what you are at; your Lordship can never suppose me such a fool as to—

Fool!—My supposition, Edmund, pronounces you a man of sense; but you mistake my meaning.

I do not mistake, my Lord; surely it must be the height of folly to lift my thoughts to Miss Warley. Suppose my father can give me a few thousands,—are these sufficient to purchase beauty, good sense, with every accomplishment?—No, no, my Lord, I am not such a vain fellow;—Miss Warley was never born for Edmund Jenkings—She told me so, the first moment I beheld her.

Told you so? what then, you have made pretensions to her, and she told you so?

Yes, my Lord, she told, me so.—That is, her eyes, her whole graceful form, spoke it.—Was I a man of family,—a man of title, with a proper knowledge of the world,—I would not deliberate a moment.

How comes it then, Edmund, that you are so assiduous to oblige her?—You would not run and fly for every young lady.—

True, my Lord, it is not every one would repay me with smiles of condescension. Suffer me to assure your Lordship, when I can oblige Miss Warley, my ambition is gratified.—Never, never shall a more presumptuous wish intrude to make me less worthy of the honour I receive from your Lordship's notice.—

This he spoke with energy;—such energy,—as if he had come at the book of my heart, and was reading its contents. I knew his regard for my dear amiable girl, and the danger of betraying my secret, or should have treated him with unbounded confidence:—I therefore only applauded his sentiments;—told him a man who could think thus nobly,—honour'd me in his friendship;—that mine to him should be unalterable; call'd him brother; and by the joyful perturbations of my soul, I fear I gave him some idea of what I strove to hide.

The curtain of night was dropping by slow degrees, when a distant sound of wheels interrupted our conversation.—We stood listening a moment, as it approach'd nearer. Edmund cry'd out,—They are come; I hear, Caesar's voice; and, taking a hearty leave, ran home to receive them.—I directed my course towards the Abbey, in hopes the chaise had proceeded thither, and found I had steer'd right, seeing it stand at the entrance.

Mr. Jenkings did not get out; Lady Powis refused to part with Miss Warley this night. Whilst I write, I hope she is enjoying a sweet refreshing sleep. O! Molesworth! could I flatter myself she dreams of me!—

To-morrow Lord and Lady Allen, Mr. and Mrs. Winter, dine here; consequently Miss Winter, and her fond admirer, Lord Baily.—How often have I laugh'd to see that cooing, billing, pair? It is come home, you'll say, with a vengeance.—Not so neither.—I never intend making such a very fool of myself as Lord Baily.—Pray, Madam, don't sit against that door;—and pray, Madam, don't sit against this window.—I hear you have encreased your cold;—you speak hoarse:—indeed, Madam, you speak hoarse, though you won't confess it.—In this strain has the monkey ran on for two hours.—No body must help him at table but Miss Winter.—He is always sure to eat whatever is next her.—She, equally complaisant, sends her plate to him;—desires he will have a bit of the same.—Excessively high, my Lord;—you never eat any thing so well done.—The appearance of fruit is generally the occasion of great altercation:—What! venture on peaches again, Miss Winter?—Indeed, my Lord, I shall only eat this small one;—that was not half ripe which made me sick yesterday.—No more nuts; I absolutely lay an embargo on nuts,—No more, nonsense: I absolutely lay an embargo on nonsense, says Molesworth to

DARCEY.



LETTER XVI.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.

Barford Abbey.

Once more, my dear Lady, I dispatch a packet from this place,—after bidding adieu to the agreeable Dean,—Brandon Lodge,—and my friends in that neighbourhood.

How long I shall continue here, God only knows.—If my wishes could avail, the time would be short; very short, indeed.—I am quite out of patience with Mr. and Mrs. Smith; some delay every time I hear from them.—First, we were to embark the middle of this month;—then the latter end;—now it is put off till the beginning of the next:—perhaps, when I hear next, it will be, they do not go at all.—Such weak resolutions are never to be depended on;—a straw, like a magnet, will draw them from side to side.

I think I am as much an inhabitant of this house as of Mr. Jenkings's:—I lay here last night after my journey, and shall dine here this day; but as a great deal of company is expected, must go to my other home to dress.—To-morrow your Ladyship shall command me.

From Mr. Jenkings's.

Rejoice with me, my dear Lady.—You will rejoice, I know, you will. to find my eyes are open to my folly.—How could I be so vain; so presumptuous!—Yes, it must be vanity, it must be presumption to the highest,—gloss it over as I will,—to harbour thoughts which before this your Ladyship is acquainted with.—Did you not blush for me?—did you not in contempt throw aside my letter?—Undoubtedly you did.—Go, you said.—I am sure, dear Madam, you must let me not again behold the weakness of that poor silly girl.—But this is my hope, you are not apt to judge unfavourably, even in circumstances that will scarce admit of palliation.—Tell me, my dear Lady, I am pardoned; tell me so, and I shall never be again unhappy.—How charming, to have peace and tranquility restor'd, when I fear'd they were for ever banish'd my breast!—I welcomed the friends;—my heart bounded at their return;—I smiled on them;—soothed them;—and promised never more to drive them out.

Thank you, Lord Allen;—again, I thank you:—can I ever be too grateful?—You have been instrumental to my repose.

The company that dined at the Abbey yesterday were Lord and Lady Allen, Lord Baily, Mr. Mrs. and Miss Winter.—This was the first day I changed my mourning;—a white lutestring, with the fine suit of rough garnets your Ladyship gave me, was my dress on the occasion.—But let me proceed to the incident for which I stand indebted for the secret tranquility, the innate repose I now possess in a superlative degree.—

When I went to Mr. Jenkings's to dress for dinner, Lord Darcey attended me, as usual:—the coach was to fetch us.—I thought I never saw his Lordship in such high good humour; what I mean is, I never saw him in such spirits.—To speak the truth, his temper always appears unruffled;—sometimes a little gloomy; but I suppose he is not exempted from the common ills of life.—He entertained me on the way with a description of the company expected, interlarding his conversation with observations tending to raise my vanity. Notwithstanding his seeming sincerity, I was proof against such insinuations.—If he had stopp'd there,—well, if he had stop'd there;—what then?—Why then, perhaps, I should not have betray'd the weakness of my heart.—But I hope thy confusion pass'd unobserv'd;—I hope it was not seen before I could draw my handkerchief from my pocket: if it should, heavens! the very thought has dyed me scarlet.

I am running on as though your Ladyship had been present in Mr. Jenkings's parlour,—in the coach,—and at table, whither I must conduct you, my dear Lady, if your patience will bear a minute recital.—First, then, to our conference in the parlour, after I was dress'd.

My coming down interrupted a tete-a-tete between his Lordship and Edmund. The latter withdrew soon after I entered;—it look'd some-how as if designed;—it vexed me;—mean it how he would, it much disconcerted me:—I hate, I despise the least appearance of design.—In vain did I attempt to bring him back; he only answer'd he would be with us instantly.

I was no sooner seated, than his Lordship placed himself by me; and fetching a deep sigh, said, I wish it was in my power to oblige Miss Warley as much as it is in hers to oblige me.—

My Lord, I cannot conceive how I have it in my power to oblige you. He took my hand,—Yes, Madam, to make me happy,—for ever happy,—to make Sir James and Lady Powis happy, you have only to determine not to quit your native country.

Stop! my Lord, if you mean my going to Montpellier, I am determin'd.—And are you really determin'd, Miss Warley?—his face overspread with a dreadful paleness.

I am, my Lord,

But what are you determin'd? Are you determined to distress your friends?

I wish not to distress my friends: nothing would give me so much pain; but I must go;—indeed I must.

He rose up;—walk'd about the room,—came back to his seat again, looking quite frantic,—Good God! why should that sex practise so many arts? He pray'd,—intreated,—left no argument untried.

I cannot picture his countenance, when I declared myself resolved.—He caught both my hands, fixed his eyes stedfastly upon me.

Then you are inflexible, Madam?—Nothing can move you to pity the most wretched of his sex.—Know you the person living that could prevail?—If you do,—say so;—I will bring him instantly on his knees.

There is not in the world, my Lord, one who could prevent me from paying my duty, my affection, my obedience, to Lady Mary Sutton: if due to a parent, how much more from me to Lady Mary;—a poor orphan, who have experienced from her the most maternal fondness? The word orphan struck him; he reeled from me and flung himself into a chair opposite, leaning his head on a table which stood near.

I declare he distress'd me greatly;—I know not what my thoughts were at that moment;—I rose to quit the room; he started up.

Don't leave me, Miss Warley;—don't leave me. I will keep you no longer in the dark: I must not suffer in your opinion,—be the consequence—

Here we were interrupted by Edmund.—I was sorry he just then entered;—I would have given the world to know what his Lordship was about to say.

When we were in the coach, instead of explaining himself, he assumed rather a chearful air; and asked, if my time was fix'd for going to France?

Not absolutely fix'd, my Lord; a month or two hence, perhaps. This I said, that he might not know exactly the time when I shall set out.

A month or two! O! that will be just the thing, just as I could wish it.—

What does your Lordship mean?

Only that I intend spending part of the winter in Paris; and if I should not be deemed an intruder, perhaps the same yacht may carry us over.

I was never more at a loss for a reply.

Going to France, my Lord! in a hesitating voice.—I never heard,—I never dreamt,—your Lordship had such an intention.

Well, you do not forbid it, Miss Warley? I shall certainty be of your party:

I forbid it, my Lord! I forbid it! What right have I to controul your Lordship's actions? Besides, we should travel so short a way together, it would be very immaterial.

Give me Leave, Madam, in this respect to be the judge; perhaps every one is not bless'd with that happy indifference.—What may be very immaterial to one,—may be matter of the highest importance to another.

He pronounced the word immaterial, with some marks of displeasure. I was greatly embarrass'd: I thought our conversation would soon become too interesting.

I knew not what to do.—I attempted to give it a different turn; yet it engrossed all my attention.—At length I succeeded by introducing my comical adventure at the inn, in our way to Oxfordshire: but the officer's name had escaped my memory, though I since recollect it to be Risby.

This subject engaged us till we came within sight of the drawing-room windows.—There are the visitors, as I live! said I. Your Lordship not being dress'd, will, I suppose, order the coach to the other door.—To be plain, I was glad of any excuse that would prevent my getting out before them.—Not I, indeed, Miss Warley, reply'd he:—Dress is never of consequence enough to draw me two steps out of my way.—If the spectators yonder will fix their eyes on an old coat rather than a fine young Lady, why they have it for their pains.

By this time the door was open'd, and Sir James appearing, led me, with his usual politeness, to the company. I was placed by her Ladyship next Miss Winter, whose person I cannot say prejudiced me in her favour, being entirely dispossessed of that winning grace which attracts strangers at a first glance.

After measuring me with her eye from head to toe, she sent my dimensions in a kind of half smile across the room to Lord Baily; then vouchsafed to ask, how long I had been in this part of the world? which question was followed by fifty others, that shewed she laboured under the violent thirst of curiosity; a thirst never to be conquered; for, like dropsical people, the more they drink in, the more it rages.

My answers were such as I always return to the inquisitive.—Yes, Madam;—No, Madam;—very well;—very good;—not certain;—quite undetermin'd.—Finding herself unsuccessful with me, she apply'd to Lady Powis; but alas! poor maiden, she could drain nothing from that fountain; the streams would not flow;—they were driven back, by endeavouring to force them into a wrong channel.

These were not certainly her first defeats, by the clever way of hiding her chagrin:—it is gone whilst she adjusts the flower in her bosom,—or opens and shuts her fan twice.—How can she be mortified by trifles,—when the Lord of her heart,—the sweet, simpering, fair-faced, Lord Baily keeps his eyes incessantly fixed on her, like centinels on guard?—They cannot speak, indeed they cannot, or I should expect them to call out every half hour, "All is well."

I admire Lord and Lady Allen. I say, I admire them: their manners are full of easy freedom, pleasing vivacity.—I cannot admire all the world; I wish I could.—Mr. and Mrs. Winter happen not to suit my taste;—they are a kind of people who look down on every one of middle fortune;—seem to despise ancestry,—yet are always fond of mixing with the great.—Their rise was too sudden;—they jump'd into life all at once.—Such quick transitions require great equality of mind;—the blaze of splendor was too much for their weak eyes;—the flare of surprise is still visible.

It was some time before the conversation became general.—First, and ever to have precedence,—the weather;—next, roads;—then houses,—plantations,—fashions,—dress,—equipage;—and last of all, politics in a thread-bare coat.

About ten minutes before dinner, Lord Darcey joined us, dress'd most magnificently in a suit of olive velvet, embroider'd with gold;—his hair without powder, which became him infinitely.—He certainly appear'd to great advantage:—how could it be otherwise, when in company with that tawdry, gilded piece of clay?—And to sit by him, of all things!—One would really think it had been designed:—some exulted, some look'd mortified at the contrast.—Poor Miss Winter's seat began to grow very uneasy;—she tried every corner, yet could not vary the light in which she saw the two opposites.—Why did she frown on me?—why cast such contemptuous glances every time I turn'd my eye towards her?—Did I recommend the daubed coxcomb;—or represent that her future joys depended on title?—No! it was vanity, the love of grandeur,—that could make her give up fine sense, fine accomplishments, a princely address, and all the noble requisites:—yes, my Lady, such a one, Lord Darcey tells me, she has refused.—Refused, for what? For folly, a total ignorance in the polite arts, and a meaness of manners not to be express'd: yet, I dare say, she thinks, the sweet sounds of my Lady, and your Ladyship is cheaply purchased by such a sacrifice.

When we moved to go into the dining-parlour, Miss Winter bow'd for me to follow Lady Allen and her mother; which after I had declined, Lady Powis took me by the hand, and said, smiling, No, Madam, Miss Warley is one of us.—If so, my Lady—and she swam out of the room with an air I shall never forget.

Lord Darcey took his place at table, next Lord Allen;—I sat opposite, with Miss Winter on my right, and Lord Baily on my left.—Sorry I was, to step between the Lovers; but ceremony required it; so I hope they do not hate me on that account.—Lord Allen has a good deal of archness in his countenance, though not of the ill-natur'd kind.—I don't know how, but every time he look'd across the table I trembled; it seem'd a foreboding of what was to follow.

He admired the venison;—said it was the best he had ever tasted from Sir James's park;—but declared he would challenge him next Monday, if all present would favour him with their company.—Lady Allen seconded the request so warmly, that it was immediately assented to.—

What think you, said his Lordship it is to the young folks that I address myself, of seeing before you a couple who that day has been married twenty years, and never frown'd on one another?

Think! said Lord Darcey, it is very possible.

Possible it certainly is, reply'd Lady Powis; but very few instances, I believe—

What say you, Miss Warley? ask'd his Lordship: you find Lord Darcey supposes it very possible.—Good God! I thought I should have sunk: it was not so much the question, as the manner he express'd it in. I felt as if my face was stuck full of needles: however, I stifled my confusion, and reply'd, I was quite of Lady Powis's opinion.

Well, what say you, Miss Winter?

How I rejoiced! I declare I could hardly contain my joy, when he address'd himself to her.

What say I, my Lord? return'd she; why, truly, I think it must be your own faults, if you are not treated civilly.—The Devil! cry'd he.

O fie! O fie! my Lord, squeaked my left hand neighbour.—And why O fie! retorted his Lordship: Is civility all we have to expect?

We can claim nothing else said the squeaker.—If the dear creatures condescend to esteem us, we ought to consider it a particular indulgence.

And so, Miss Warley, cry'd Lord Allen, we are only to be esteemed now-a-days. I thank God my good woman has imbibed none of those modern notions. Her actions have convinced the world of that long ago.

Poh! my Lord, said Lady Allen, we are old-fashion'd people:—you must not talk thus before Gentlemen and Ladies bred in the present age.

Come, come, let me hear Lord Darcey speak to this point, continued his Lordship. He is soon to be one of us;—we shall shortly, I am told, salute him Benedick.

On this Sir James threw down his knife and fork with emotion, crying, This is news, indeed! This is what I never heard before! Upon my word, your Lordship has been very secret! looking full at Lord Darcey. But you are of age, my Lord, so I have no right to be consulted; however, I should be glad to know, who it is that runs away with your heart. This was spoke half in jest, half in earnest.

In a moment my neck and face were all over crimson.—I felt the colour rise;—it was not to be suppress'd.—I drew my handkerchief from my pocket;—held it to my face;—hemm'd;—call'd for wine and water;—which, when brought, I could scarcely swallow; spoke in a low voice to Miss Winter;—said she had a poor stomach, or something like it.

Lord Darcey too was confus'd.—Why did I look up to him?—He was pale, instead of red.—I saw his lips move, but could not hear what he said for more than a minute; occasion'd by an uncommon noise which just then rush'd through my head:—at length sounds grew distinct, and I heard this sentence—every word is inscribed where it can never be erazed—

Upon my honour. Lord Allen, I have never made proposals to any woman; and further, it is a matter of doubt, whether I ever shall.

By this time I had lost all my colour;—charming cool—and calm,—no perturbation remaining.

Nothing disagreeable now hung on my mind, except a certain thoughtfulness, occasion'd by the recollection of my folly.—

Miss Winter's eyes sparkled, if it is possible for grey ones to sparkle, at the declaration Lord Darcey had just made; and, of a sudden, growing very fond of me, laid her hand on mine, speaking as it were aside,—Well, I was never more surprized! I as much believed him engaged to a certain young Lady,—squeezing my thumb,—as I think I am living.—Nay, I would not have credited the contrary, had I not heard him declare off with my own ears.—I see how it is; Sir James must chuse a wife for him.—

To all which I only answered, Lord Darcey, Madam, is certainly the best judge of his actions:—I make no doubt but Sir James will approve his Lordship's choice.

After what I have related, common subjects ensued:—the cloth being removed, I withdrew to the Library, intending to sit with Mr. Watson half an hour, who was confined by a cold. He holds out his hand to take mine the moment he hears my footstep.—I look on him as an angel: his purity, his mildness, his resignation speak him one.—

Lord Darcey entered as I was about to join the company; however, I staid some minutes, that my quitting the room might not seem on his account.

I am glad you are come, my Lord, said Mr. Watson; sitting with such a poor infirm man has made Miss Warley thoughtful.—Upon my word, Sir, returned I, it was only the fear of increasing your head-ach that me silent.—I never was in higher spirits.—I could sing and dance this very moment. Well then, dear Miss Warley, cried his Lordship, let me fetch your guitarre.

With all my heart, my Lord; I am quite in tune.—Taking leave of Mr. Watson, I return'd to the company.—His Lordship soon followed. Again repeating his request, in which every person join'd, I sung and play'd several compositions.

Miss Winter was next call'd upon and the guitarre presented to her by Lord Darcey.—A long time she absolutely refused it; declaring she had not learnt any new music this year.—What does that signify, Miss Winter? said her mother; you know you have a sweet voice.

Bless me! Madam! how can you say so?—To be sure, I should sing to great advantage now.

Well, Nancy, you'll oblige Papa?—says the old Gentleman; I know you'll oblige Papa,—stalking over to her on the tops of his toes.

Here the contest ended; Miss taking the guitarre, condescended to oblige her Papa.

She really sings and plays well:—if her manner had been less affected, we should have been more entertain'd.—The company staid supper, after which Lord Darcey came with me home.—I made no objection:—of all things, I would make none—after what pass'd at table. Fortunate event! how I rejoice in my recovered tranquillity!

The thoughts, the pleasing thoughts of freedom have kept me from sleep; I could not think of repose amidst my charming reflections. Happy, happy change!

It is past two o'clock!—At all times and all seasons,

I am, my dear Lady,

Yours invariably,

F. WARLEY.



LETTER XVII.

Miss WARLEY to the same.

From Mr. Jenkings's.

Sent for before breakfast!—Nobody in the coach!—Well, I am glad of that, however.—Something very extraordinary must have happen'd.—I hope Lady Powis is not ill.—No other message but to desire I would come immediately.—I go, my dear Lady; soon as I return will acquaint you what has occasion'd me this early summons.

Eight o'clock at Night.

No ill news! quite the reverse:—I am escaped from the house of festivity to make your Ladyship a partaker.

My spirits are in a flutter.—I know not where to begin.—I have run every step of the way, till I am quite out of breath.—Mr. Powis is coming home,—absolutely coming home to settle;—married too, but I cannot tell all at once.—Letters with an account of it have been this morning receiv'd. He does not say who his wife is, only one of the best women in the world.

She will be received with affection;—I know she will.—Lady Powis declares, they shall be folded together in her arms.

It was too much for Sir James, he quite roared again when he held out to me the letter,—I don't believe he has eat a morsel this day.—I never before saw a man so affected with joy.—Thank God! I left him pure and calm.

The servants were like mad creatures, particularly those who lived in the family before Mr. Powis left England.—He seems, in short, to be considered as one risen from the dead.—

I was in such haste on receiving Lady Powis's message, that I ran down to the coach, my hat and cloak in my hand.—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings were talking to the coachman.—I soon perceived by them something pleasing had happen'd.—They caught me in their arms, and I thought would have smother'd me in their embraces; crying out, Mr. Powis is coming home, my dear;—Mr. Powis is coming home:—for God's sake, Madam, make haste up to the Hall.

In getting into the coach, I stepp'd on my apron, and fell against the opposite door.—My right arm was greatly bruis'd, which I did not perceive till I drew on my glove.

The moment I alighted, I ran to the breakfast-parlour; but finding no one there, went directly to her Ladyship's dressing-room.—She open'd the door, when she heard me coming. I flew to her.—I threw my arms about her neck, and all I could say in my hurry was, Joy, Joy, Joy!

I am all joy, my love, she return'd—I am made up of nothing else. I quitted her to run to Sir James, who was sitting in a great chair with a letter held out. I believe I kiss'd him twenty times before I took it;—there could be no harm in that surely.—Such endearments I should have shewn my father, on the like tender occasion. He wept, as I have said, till he quite roared again.—I laid his head on my shoulder, and it was some time before I would mention his son's name.

Lord Darcey held one of Sir James's hands: he was in the room when I enter'd; but I declare I never saw him till he spoke. He is safe now,—after what happened yesterday,—safe from any imputation on my account—

Very kind and very civil, upon my word! O! your Ladyship never heard such a fuss as he made about the scratch on my arm.—I affect to look pleased when he speaks to me, that he might not take it into his head I am mortified.

He must be the happiest creature in the world; I honour him for the grateful affection he shews Sir James and Lady Powis.

Breakfast stood on the table: not a soul had broke their fast.—Her Ladyship was here, there, and every where.—I was sadly afraid they would be all sick; at length I prevailed on them to drink a cup of chocolate.—

Mr. Watson, good man notwithstanding his indisposition, got up at eleven.—I met him coming from his apartment, and had the pleasure of leading him to the happy family.—

His congratulations were delivered with such serene joy,—such warmth of affection,—as if he had cull'd the heart-felt satisfaction of both parents.

The word happy echoed from every mouth; each sentence began and ended with it.—What the heart feels is seldom to be disguised.—Grief will speak,—if not by the tongue, it will out;—it hangs on the features, sallows the skin, withers the sinews, and is a galling weight that pulls towards the ground.—Why should a thought of grief intrude at this time?—Is not my dear Lady Mary's health returning?—Is not felicity restor'd to this family?—Now will my regret at parting be lessened;—now shall I leave every individual with minds perfectly at ease.

Mr. Powis is expected in less than a month, intending to embark in the next ship after the Packet.—How I long to see him!—But it is very unlikely I should; I shall certainly have taken my leave of this place before he arrives.—By your Ladyship's permission, I hope to look in upon them, at our return to England.

What genteel freedoms men give themselves after declaring off, as Miss Winter calls it?—I had never so many fine things said to me before;—I can't tell how many;—quite a superabundance;—and before Sir James too!—But no notice is taken; he has cleared himself of all suspicion.—He may go to town as soon as he will.—His business is done;—yes, he did it yesterday.

I wish I may not laugh out in the midst of his fine speeches.—

I wish your Ladyship could see this cool attention I give him.—But I have nettled him to the truth this afternoon:—his pride was alarm'd;—it could certainly proceed from no other cause, after he has declared off.

I was sitting at the tea-table, a trouble I always take from Lady Powis, who with Sir James was walking just without the windows, when Lord Darcey open'd the door, and said, advancing towards me with affected airs of admiration,—How proud should I be to see my house and table so graced!—Then leaning over the back of my chair, Well, my angel! how is the bad arm? Come, let me see, attempting to draw off my glove.

Oh! quite well, my Lord; withdrawing my hand carelessly.

For heaven's sake, take more care of yourself, Miss Warley; this might have been a sad affair.

Depend on that, my Lord, for my own sake.

For your own sake! Not in consideration of any other person?

Yes; of Lady Mary Sutton, Sir James and Lady Powis, good Mr. Jenkings and his wife, who I know would be concerned was I to suffer much from any accident.

Then there is no other person you would wish to preserve your life for?

Not that I know at present, my Lord,

Not that you know at present! so you think you may one day or other?

I pretend not, my Lord, to answer for what may happen; I have never seen the person yet. I was going to say something further, I have really forgot what, when he turn'd from me, and walked up and down the room with a seeming discomposure.

If you are sincere in what you have said, Miss Warley; if you are really sincere, I do pronounce—Here he burst open the door, and flew out the instant Sir James and Lady Powis entered.

When the tea was made, a footman was sent to Lord Darcey; but he was no where to be found.

This is very strange, said her Ladyship; Lord Darcey never used to be out of the way at tea-time. I declare I am quite uneasy; perhaps he may be ill.

Oh! cry'd Sir James, don't hurry yourself; I warrant he is got into one of his old reveries, and forgets the time.

I was quite easy. I knew his abrupt departure was nothing but an air:—an air of consequence, I suppose.—However, I was willing to be convinced, so did not move till I saw the Gentleman sauntering up the lawn. As no one perceived him but myself, I slid out to the housekeeper, and told her, if her Lady enquir'd for me, I was gone home to write Letters by to-morrow's post.

You have enough of it now, I believe, my dear Lady; two long letters by the same packet:—but you are the repository of my joy, my grief, the very inmost secrets of my soul.—You, my dear Lady, have the whole heart of

F. WARLEY.



LETTER XVIII.

Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

Barford Abbey.

Ruin'd and undone, as I hope for mercy!—undone too by my own egregious folly!—She is quite lost,—quite out of my power.—I wish Lord Allen had been in the bottom of the sea;—he can never make me amends;—no, if he was to die to-morrow and leave me his whole fortune.—

I told you he was to dine here yesterday.—I cannot be circumstantial.—He did dine here;—to my utter sorrow he did.

Oh what a charming morning I spent!—Tho' my angel persisted in going to France, yet it was in a manner that made me love her, if possible, ten thousand times more than ever.—Good God! had you seen how she look'd!—But no matter now;—I must forget her angelical sweetness.—Forget did I say?—No, by heaven and earth—she lives in every corner of my heart.—I wish I had told her my whole soul.—I was going to tell her, if I had not been interrupted.—It is too late now.—She would not hear me: I see by her manners she would not hear me. She has learnt to look with indifference:—even smiles with indifference.—Why does she not frown? That would be joy to what her smiles afford.—I hate such smiles; they are darts dipp'd in poison.—

Lord Allen said he heard I was going to be marry'd:—What was that to him?—Sir James look'd displeased. To quiet his fears I assured him—God! I know not what I assured him—something very foreign from my heart.

She blushed when Sir James asked, to whom?—With what raptures did I behold her blushes!—But she shrunk at my answer.—I saw the colour leave her cheek, like a rose-bud fading beneath the hoary frost.

I will know my fate.—Twill be with you in a few days,—if Sir James should consent.—What if he should consent?—She is steeled against my vows—my protestations;—my words affect her not;—the most tender assiduities are disregarded:—she seems to attend to what I say, yet regards it not.

Where are those looks of preference fled,—those expressive looks?—I saw them not till now:—it is their loss,—it is their sad reverse that tells me what they were. She turns not her head to follow my foot-steps at parting;—or when I return, does not proclaim it by advancing pleasure tip-toe to the windows of her soul.—No anxiety for my health! No, she cares not what becomes of me.—I complain'd of my head, said I was in great pain;—heaven knows how true! My complaints were disregarded.—I attended her home. She sung all the way; or if she talked, it was of music:—not a word of my poor head;—no charges to draw the glasses up going back.

There was a time, Molesworth—there was a time, if my finger had but ached, it was, My Lord, you look ill. Does not Lady Powis persuade you to have advice? You are really too careless of your health.

Shall she be another's?—Yes; when I shrink at sight of what lies yonder,—my sword, George;—that shall prevent her ever being another's.

Tell me you believe she will be mine:—it may help to calm my disturbed mind.—Be sure you do not hint she will be another's.

Have I told you, Mr. Powis is coming home?—I cannot recollect whether I have or not;—neither can I pain myself to look back.

All the world has something to comfort them, but your poor friend.—Every thing wears the face of joy, till I turn my eyes inwards:—there it is I behold the opposite;—there it is where Grief has fix'd her abode.—Does the fiend ever sleep? Will she be composed by ushering in the happy prospects of others?—Yes, I will feel, joy.—Joy did I say? Joy I cannot feel.—Satisfaction then?—Satisfaction likewise is forbid to enter.—What then will possess my mind; on recollecting peace is restor'd, where gratitude calls for such large returns?—I'll pray for them;—I'll pray for a continuance of their felicity.—I'll pray, if they have future ills in store, they may light on the head of Darcey.—Yes, he can bear more yet:—let the load be ever so heavy, he will stoop to take up the burthen of his friends;—such friends as Sir James and Lady Powis have been to

DARCEY.



LETTER XIX.

The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to LORD DARCEY.

London.

Well, give me the first salute of your fair bride;—and for your bride I'll ensure Miss Warley.—Why there is not a symptom but is in your favour.—She is nettled; can't you perceive it?—Once a studied disregard takes place, we are safe:—nothing will hurt you now, my Lord.—

You have been stuttering falsehoods.—From what I can gather, you have been hushing the Baronet at the expence of your own and Miss Warley's quiet.—If you have, never mind it; things may not be the worse.—Come away, I advise you; set out immediately.—See how she looks at parting.—But don't distress her;—I charge you not to distress her.—Should you play back her own cards, I will not answer for the pride of the sex.—

Sir James's consent once gained, and she rejects your proposals, lay all your letters to me on the subject before her.—I have them by me.—These cannot fail of clearing every doubt; she will be convinced then how sincerely you have loved her.—

You surprise me concerning Mr. Powis:—I thought he was settled in his government for life;—or rather, for the life of his father.—However, I am convinced his coming over will be no bad thing for you;—he has suffered too much from avarice, not to assist another so hardly beset.—

Was not his settling abroad an odd affair!—If he determined to remain single till he had an opportunity of pleasing himself, why did he leave England?—The mortification could not be great to have his overtures refused, where they were made with such indifference.—

As he has lived so many years a batchelor, I suppose there will be now an end to that great family.—

What a leveller is avarice! How does it pull down by attempting to raise? How miserable, as Seneca says, in the desire?—how miserable in attaining our ends?—The same great man alledges, that as long as we are solicitous for the increase of wealth, we lose the true use of it; and spend our time in putting out, calling in, and passing our accounts, without any substantial benefit, either to the world, or to ourselves.—

If you had ever any uneasiness on Bridgman's account, it must be now at an end.—Married, and has brought his bride to town.—What a false fellow!—From undoubted authority, I am assured the writings have been drawn six months:—so that every thing must be concluded between him and his wife, at the very time he talked to me of Miss Warley.—I wash my hands from any further acquaintance with concealed minds:—there must be something very bad in a heart which has a dark cloud drawn before it.—Virtue and innocence need no curtain:—they were sent to us naked;—it is their loss, or never possessing them,—that makes caution necessary, to hide from the world their destined place of abode.—Without entering a house, and being conversant with its inhabitants, how is it possible to say, if they are worthy or unworthy:—so if you knock, and are not admitted, you still remain doubtful.—But I am grown wise from experience;—and shall judge, for the future, where a heart is closely shut up, there is nothing in it worth enquiring after.

I go on Thursday to meet Risby, and conduct him to town. It would give us great joy, at our return, to shake you by the hand.—What can avail your staying longer in the midst of doubts, perplexities, racks, tortures, and I know-not-what. Have you any more terms to express the deadly disorder?—If you have keep them to yourself; I want not the confounded list compleat:—no; no, not I; faith.—

I go this evening to see the new play, which is at present a general subject of conversation.—Now, was I a vain fellow—a boaster—would I mention four or six of the prettiest women about town, and swear I was to escort them.—Being a lover of truth, I confess I shall steal alone into an upper box, to fix my attention on the performance of the piece.—Perhaps, after all is over, I may step to the box of some sprightly, chatty girl, such as lady ——,—hear all the scandal of the town, ask her opinion of the play, hand her to her chair, and so home, to spend a snug evening with sir Edward Ganges, who has promised to meet me here at ten.

Yours,

MOLESWORTH.



LETTER XX.

Lady MARY SUTTON to Miss WARLEY.

German Spaw.

No, my dear, Lord Darcey is not the man he appears.—What signifies a specious outside, if within there's a narrow heart?—Such must be his, to let a virtuous love sit imprisoned in secret corners, when it delights to dwell in open day.

Perhaps, if he knew my intentions, all concealments would be thrown aside, and he glory to declare what at present he meanly darkly hints.—By my consent, you should never give your hand to one who can hold the treasures of the mind in such low estimation.

When you mention'd your happy situation, the friendly treatment of Sir James and Lady Powis, I was inclined to think for many reasons, it would be wrong to take you from them;—now I am convinced, the pain that must occasion, or the danger in crossing the sea, is not to be compared to what you might suffer in your peace by remaining where you are.—When people of Lord Darcey's rank weigh long a matter of this nature, it is seldom the scale turns of the right side;—therefore, let not Hope, my dear child, flatter you out of your affections.

Do not think you rest in security:—tender insinuations from a man such as you describe Lord Darcey, may hurt your quiet.

I speak not from experience;—Nature, by cloathing me in her plainest garb, has put all these hopes and fears far from me.

I have been ask'd, it is true, often, for my fortune;—at least, I look upon asking for my heart to be the same thing.—Sure, I could never be such a fool to part with the latter, when I well knew it was requested only to be put in possession of the former!

You think Jenkings suspects his son has a too tender regard for you;—you think he is uneasy on that account.—Perhaps he is uneasy;—but time will convince you his suspicions, his uneasiness, proceed not from the cause you imagine.—He is a good man; you cannot think too well of him.

I hope this letter will find you safe return'd to Hampshire. I am preparing to leave the Spaw with all possible expedition: I should quit it with reluctance, but for the prospect of visiting it again next summer, with my dear Fanny.

At Montpelier the winter will slide on imperceptibly: many agreeable families will there join us from the Spaw, whose good-humour and chearful dispositions, together with plentiful draughts of the Pouhon Spring, have almost made me forget the last ten years I have dragg'd, on in painful sickness.

The family in which I have found most satisfaction, is Lord Hampstead's:—every way calculated to make themselves and others happy;—such harmony is observed through the whole, that the mechanism of the individuals seem to be kept in order by one common wheel.—I rejoice that I shall have an opportunity of introducing you to them.—We have fixed to set out the same day for Montpelier.

Lady Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, has obligingly offer'd to travel in my coach, saying, she thought it would be dull for me to go alone.

It is impossible to say which of the two sisters, was it left to my choice, would be my companion, as both are superlatively pleasing.—They possess, to a degree, what I so much admire in our sex;—a peculiar softness in the voice and manner; yet not quite so sprightly, perhaps, as may be thought necessary for some misses started up in this age; but sufficient, I think, for those who keep within certain bounds.—It requires an uncommon share of understanding, join'd with a great share of wit, to make a very lively disposition agreeable. I allow, if these two ingredients are happily blended, none can chuse but admire, as well as be entertain'd with, such natural fine talents:—on the contrary, where one sees a pert bold girl apeing such rare gifts, it is not only the most painful, but most absurd sight on earth.

Lady Elizabeth, and her amiable sister Sophia strive to hide every perfection they possess;—yet these I have just mention'd, with all others, will on proper occasions, make their appearance through a croud of blushes.—This timidity proceeds partly from nature,—partly from the education they have received under the best of mothers, whose tenderness for them would not suffer her to assign that momentous task to any but herself; fearing, as she has often told me, they would have had a thousand faults overlook'd by another, which her eye was ever on the watch to discover. She well knew the most trivial might be to them of the worst consequence:—when they were call'd to an account for what was pass'd, or warn'd how to avoid the like for the future, her manner was so determin'd and persuasive, as if she was examining her own conscience, to rectify every spot and blemish in it.

Though Lady Hampstead's fondness for her daughters must cause her to admire their good qualities, like a fine piece of perspective, whose beauties grow upon the eye,—yet she has the art not only to conceal her admiration, but, by the ascendency her tenderness has gain'd, she keeps even from themselves a knowledge of those perfections.—To this is owing the humility which has fortified their minds from the frequent attacks flattery makes against the unstable bulwarks of title and beauty.

Matchless as these sisters appear, they are to be equalled in their own, as well as the other sex.—I hope you will allow it in one, when you see Lord Hallum: he is their brother as much by virtue as birth.—I could find in my heart to say a thousand things of this fine youth;—but that I think such subjects flow easier from a handsome young woman than a plain old one.—Yet don't be surpriz'd;—unaccountable things happen every day;—if I should lend a favourable ear to this Adonis!—Something whispers me I shall receive his proposals.—An excuse, on these occasions, is never wanting; mine will be a good one:—that, at my death, you may be left to the protection of this worthy Lord.—But, first, I must be assured you approve of him in that light;—being so firmly attach'd to my dear Fanny, to your happiness, my Love, that the wish of contributing to it is the warmest of your ever affectionate

M. SUTTON.



LETTER XXI.

Lord DARCEY to the Hon. GEORGE MOLESWORTH.

Barford Alley.

Five days more, and I am with you.—Saturday morning!—Oh that I may support the hour of trial with fortitude!—I tremble at the thought;—my blood freezes in my veins, when I behold the object I am to part from.—

I try in vain to keep out of her sight:—if I attempt to leave the room where she is, my resolutions are baffled before I reach the door.—Why do I endeavour to inflict so hard a penance!—Because I foolishly suppose it would wean me.—Wean me from what?—From virtue.—No, Molesworth, it is not absence;—it is not time itself can deaden the exalted image;—it neither sickens or dies, it blooms to immortality,

Was I only to be parted from beauty, that I might meet again in every town and village.—I want you to force me from the house.—Suppose I get up early, and slip away without taking leave.—But that will not do;—Sir James is ceremonious;—Lady Powis may deem it disrespect;—above all, Miss Warley, that dear, dear Miss Warley,—if she should think me wanting in regard, all then must be at an end.

Ha! Sir James yonder on the terrace, and alone! Let me examine his countenance:—I see no clouds;—this is the time, if ever!—Miss Warley not yet come up from Jenkings's!—If successful, with what transports shall I run to fetch her!—Yes, I will venture;—I will have one trial, as I hope for mercy.—

* * * * *

As I hope for mercy, I see, were my last words.—I do indeed hope for it, but never from Sir James.

Still perplexed;—still miserable!—

I told you Miss Warley was not come from Jenkings's; but how I started, when I saw her going to Lady Powis's dressing-room!

I was hurried about her in a dream, last night.—I thought I had lost her:—I hinted it when we met;—that moment I fancied she eyed me with regard;—she spoke too in a manner very different from what she has done some days past.—Then I'll swear it,—for it was not illusion, George,—her whole face had something of a sweet melancholy spread over it;—a kind of resignation in her look;—a melting softness that droop'd on her cheek:—I felt what it expressed;—it fir'd my whole frame;—it sent me to Sir James with redoubled eagerness.

I found him thoughtful and complaisant: we took several turns, before I could introduce my intended subject; when, talking of my setting out, I said, Now I have an opportunity, Sir James, perhaps I may not have another before I go, I should be glad of your sentiments in regard to my settling in life.—

How do you mean, my Lord; as to the choice of a wife?—

Why, I think, Sir, there's no other way of settling to one's satisfaction.

To be sure, it is very necessary your Lordship should consider on those matters,—especially as you are the last of a noble family:—when, you do fix, I hope it will be prudently.

Prudently, Sir James! you may depend on it I will never settle my affections imprudently.

Wall, but, my Lord, what are your notions of prudence?

Why, Sir, to make choice of a person who is virtuous, sensible, well descended.—Well descended Jenkings has assured me she is.

You say nothing, my Lord, of what is most essential to happiness;—nothing of the main point.

Good-nature, I suppose you mean:—I would not marry an ill-natur'd woman, Sir James, for the world. And is good-nature, with those you have mention'd, the only requisites?

I think they are the chief, Sir.

You and I differ much, my Lord.—Your father left his estate encumbered; it is not yet clear; you are of age, my Lord: pray, spare yourself the trouble of consulting me, if you do not think of fortune.

Duty to the memory of my rever'd father, the affection and gratitude I owe you, Sir James, calls for my obedience:—without your sanction, Sir, never shall my hand be given.

He seem'd pleas'd: I saw tears starting to his eyes; but still he was resolv'd to distress me.

Look about you, my child; look about you, Darcey;—there's Lady Jane Marshly, Miss Beaden, or—and was going on.

Pardon me, Sir James, for interrupting you; but really, I cannot take any Lady on recommendation: I am very difficult, perhaps perverse in this point; my first attachment must be merely accidental.

Ah! these are the notions that ruin half the young fellows of this age.—Accidental likings—First love,—and the devil knows what, runs away with half the old family estates.—Why, the least thing men ought to expect, even if they marry for love, is six-pence for a shilling.—Once for all, my Lord, I must tell you, your interest is to be consulted before your inclinations.

Don't be ruffled, Sir James; don't let us talk warmly of a matter which perhaps is at a great distance.

I wish it may be at a great distance, my Lord.—If what I conjecture is true—Here he paus'd, and look'd so sternly, that I expected all would out.

What do you conjecture, Sir?—Yes, I ask'd him what.—

Your Lordship must excuse my answering that question. I hope I am wrong;—I hope such a thing never enter'd your thoughts:—if it has—and he mutter'd something I could not understand; only I heard distinctly the words unlucky,—imprudent,—unforeseen.—I knew enough of their meaning to silence me.—Shaking him by the hand, I said, Well, Sir James, if you please, we will drop this subject for the present.—On which the conversation ended.

What a deal of patience and philosophy am I master of, to be here at my pen, whilst two old men are sucking in the honey which I should lay up for a winter's store?—Like Time, nothing can stand before her:—she mows down all ages.—Even Morgan, that man who us'd to look on a fine woman with more indifference than a horse or dog,—is now new-moulded;—not one oath in the space where I have known twenty escape him:—instead of following his dogs the whole morning, he is eternally with the ladies.

If he rides out with my angel, for he's determin'd, he says, to make her a complete horsewoman, I must not presume to give the least direction, or even touch the bridle.

I honour him for the tender regard he shews her:—yes, I go further; he and Mr. Watson may love her;—they do love her, and glory in declaring it.—I love them in return;—but they are the only two, of all the race of batchelors within my knowledge, that should make such a declaration with impunity.

Let me see: I shall be in London Saturday evening;—Sunday, no post;—Monday, then I determine to write to Sir James;—Wednesday, I may have an answer;—Thursday,—who knows but Thursday!—nothing is impossible; who knows but Thursday I may return to all my hopes?—How much I resemble a shuttlecock! how am I thrown from side to side by hope and fear; now up, now down; no sooner mounted by one hand than lower'd by another!

This moment a gleam of comfort steals sweetly through my heart;—but it is gone even before I could bid it welcome.—Why so fast!—to what spot is it fled?—Can there be a wretch more in need, who calls louder for its charitable ray than

DARCEY.



LETTER XXII.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON

From Mr. Jenkings's

Now, my dear Lady, the time is absolutely fix'd for our embarkation; the 22d, without fail.—Mr. Smith intends coming himself, to accompany me to London.—How very good and obliging this!—I shall say nothing of it to Lady Powis, till Lord Darcey is gone, which will be Saturday:—he may go to France, if he pleases, but not with me.—

When I received Mrs. Smith's letter, he was mighty curious to know who it was from:—I found him examining the seal, as it lay on the table in Mr. Jenkings's parlour.—Here is a letter for you, Miss Warley, a good deal confus'd.—So I see, my Lord: I suppose from Lady Mary Sutton.

I fancy not;—it does not appear to be directed in the same hand with that my servant brought you last from the post-office.—I broke the seal; it was easy to perceive the contents gave me pleasure.

There is something, Miss Warley, which gives you particular satisfaction.

You are right, my Lord, I never was better pleas'd.

Then it is from Lady Mary?

No, not from Lady Mary.

From Mrs. Smith, then?—Do I guess now?—You say nothing; oh, there it is.—I could not forbear smiling.

Pray tell me, only tell me, and he caught one of my hands, if this letter does not fix the very day of your setting out for France?

I thought him possest with the spirit of divination.—What could I do, in this case?—Falshoods I despise;—evasions are low, very low, indeed:—yet I knew he ought not to be trusted with the contents, even at the expence of my veracity—I recollected myself, and looked grave.

My Lord, you must excuse me; this affair concerns only myself; even Lady Powis will not be acquainted with it yet.

I have done, if Lady Powis is not to be acquainted with it.—I have no right—I say right.—Don't look so, Miss Warley—believe I did flare a little—Time will unfold,—will cast a different light on things from that in which you now see them.

I was confus'd;—I put up my letter, went to the window, took a book from thence, and open'd it, without knowing what I did.

Complete Pocket-Farrier; or, A Cure for all Disorders in Horses, read his Lordship aloud, looking over my shoulder; for such was the title of the book.

What have you here, my love?

My love, indeed! Mighty free, mighty free, was it not, my Lady? I could not avoid laughing at the drollery of this accident, or I should have given him the look he deserved.—I thank God I am come to a state of indifference; and my time here is so short, I would willingly appear as little reserv'd as possible, that he might not think I have chang'd my sentiments since his declaring off: though I must own I have; but my pride will not suffer me to betray it to him.

If he has distress'd me,—if he has led my heart a little astray,—I am recovered now:—I have found out my mistake.—Should I suffer my eye to drop a tear, on looking back, for the future it will be more watchful;—it will guard, it will protect the poor wanderer.

He is very busy settling his affairs with Sir James:—three hours were they together with Mr. Jenkings in the library;—his books all pack'd up and sent away, to be sure he does not intend returning here again soon.

I suppose he will settle;—he talks of new furnishing his house;—has consulted Lady Powis upon it.—If he did not intend marrying, if he had no Lady in his eye—

But what is all this to me? Can he or his house be of any consequence to my repose?—I enjoy the thoughts of going to France without him:—I suppose he will think me very sly, but no matter.—

That good-natur'd creature Edmund would match me to a prince, was it in his power.—He told me, yesterday, that he'd give the whole world, if I was not to go to France.—Why so, Edmund?—I shall see you again, said I, at my return to England.

Ay, but what will somebody do, in the mean time?

Who is somebody?

Can't you guess, Miss Warley?

I do guess, Edmund. But you was never more mistaken; the person you mean is not to be distress'd by my absence.

He is, upon my honour;—I know he is.—Lord Darcey loves you to distraction.

Poh! Edmund; don't take such things into your head: I know you wish me well; but don't be so sanguine!—Lord Darcey stoop to think of me!

Stoop to think of you, Miss Warley!—I am out of all patience: stoop to think of you!—I shall never forget that.—Greatly as I honour his Lordship, if he conceals his sentiments, if he trifles in an affair of such importance,—was he the first duke in the kingdom, I hold him below the regard even of such a one as I am.—Pardon my curiosity, madam, I mean no ill; but surely he has made proposals to you.

Well, then, I will tell you, Edmund;—I'll tell you frankly, he never has made proposals:—and further, I can answer for him, he never will.—His belief was stagger'd;—he stood still, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Are you really in earnest, Miss Warley?

Really, Edmund.

Then, for heaven's sake, go to France.—But how can you tell, madam, he never intends to make proposals?

On which I related what passed at table, the day Lord Allen dined at the Abbey.—Nothing could equal his astonishment; yet would he fain have persuaded me that I did not understand him;—call'd it misapprehension, and I know not what.

He will offer you his hand, Miss Warley; he certainly will.—I've known him from a school-boy;—I'm acquainted with every turn of his mind;—I know his very looks;—I have observ'd them when they have been directed to you:—he will, I repeat,—he will offer you his hand.

No! Edmund:—but if he did, his overtures should be disregarded.

Say not so, Miss Warley; for God's sake, say not so again;—it kills me to think you hate Lord Darcey.

I speak to you, Edmund, as a friend, as a brother:—never let what has pass'd escape your lips.

If I do, madam, what must I deserve?—To be shut out from your confidence is a punishment only fit for such a breach of trust.—But, for heaven's sake, do not hate Lord Darcey.

Mr. Jenkings appeared at this juncture, and look'd displeas'd.—How strangely are we given to mistakes!—I betray'd the same confusion, as if I had been really carrying on a clandestine affair with his son.—In a very angry tone he said, I thought, Edmund, you was to assist me, knowing how much I had on my hands, before Lord Darcey sets out;—but I find business is not your pursuit:—I believe I must consent to your going into the army, after all.—On which he button'd up his coat, and went towards the Abbey, leaving me quite thunderstruck. Poor Edmund was as much chagrined as myself.—A moment after I saw Mr. Jenkings returning with a countenance very different,—and taking me apart from his son, said, I cannot forgive myself, my dear young Lady;—can you forgive me for the rudeness I have just committed?—I am an old man, Miss Warley;—I have many things to perplex me;—I should not,—I know I should not, have spoke so sharply to Edmund, when you had honour'd him with your company.

I made him easy by my answer; and since I have not seen a cloud on his brow.—I shall never think more, with concern, of Mr. Jenkings's suspicions.—Your Ladyship's last letter,—oh! how sweetly tender! tells me he has motives to which I am a stranger.

We spent a charming day, last Monday, at Lord Allen's. Most of the neighbouring families were met there, to commemorate the happy festival.—Mr. Morgan made one of the party, and return'd with us to the Abbey, where he proposes waiting the arrival of his godson, Mr. Powis.—If I have any penetration, most of his fortune will center there,—For my part, I am not a little proud of stealing into his good graces:—I don't know for what, but Lady Powis tells me, I am one of his first favourites; he has presented me a pretty little grey horse, beautifully caparison'd; and hopes he says, to make me a good horsewoman.

As I have promis'd to be at the Abbey early, I shall close this letter; and, if I have an opportunity, will write another by the same packet.—Believe me ever, my dearest Lady, your most grateful and affectionate

F. WARLEY.



END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.



BARFORD ABBEY,

A NOVEL:

IN A

SERIES of LETTERS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

MDCCLXVIII.



BARFORD ABBEY.



LETTER XXIII.

Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON.

from Mr. Jenkings's.

Oh what a designing man is Lord Darcey!—He loves me not, yet fain would persuade me that he does.—When I went yesterday morning to the Abbey, I met him in my way to Lady Powis's dressing-room.—Starting as if he had seen an apparition, and with a look which express'd great importance, he said, taking my hand, Oh! Miss Warley, I have had the most dreadful night!—but I hope you have rested well.

I have rested very well, my Lord; what has disturb'd your Lordship's rest?

What, had it been real as it was visionary, would have drove me to madness.—I dreamt, Miss Warley,—I dreamt every thing I was possess'd of was torn from me;—but now—and here stopt.

Well, my Lord, and did not the pleasure of being undeceiv'd overpay all the pain which you had been deceiv'd into?

No, my angel!—Why does he call me his angel?

Why, no: I have such a sinking, such a load on my mind, to reflect it is possible,—only possible it might happen, that, upon my word, it has been almost too much for me.

Ah! my Lord, you are certainly wrong to anticipate evils; they come fast enough, one need not run to meet them:—besides, if your Lordship had been in reality that very unfortunate creature, you dreamt you were, for no rank or degree is proof against the caprice of Fortune,—was nothing to be preserv'd entire?—Fortune can require only what she gave: fortitude, peace, and resignation, are not her gifts.

Oh! Miss Warley, you mistake: it was not riches I fancied myself dispossess'd of;—it was, oh my God!—what my peace, my very soul is center'd in!—and his eyes turn'd round with so wild a stare, that really I began to suspect his head.

I trembled so I could scarce reach the dressing-room, though just at the door.—The moment I turn'd from him, he flew like lightning over the stairs; and soon after, I saw him walking with Sir James on the terrace. By their gestures I could discover their conversation was not a common one.

Mr. Morgan comes this instant in sight;—a servant after him, leading my little horse.—I am sorry to break off, but I must attend him;—he is so good, I know your Ladyship would be displeas'd, was I to prolong my letter at the expence of his favour.—Yours, my much honour'd,—my much lov'd Lady,—with all gratitude, with all affection,

F. WARLEY.



LETTER XXIV.

Miss WARLEY to the same.

From Mr. Jenkings's.

Now, my dearest Lady, am I again perplex'd, doubting, and embarrass'd:—yet Lord Darcey is gone,—gone this very morning,—about an hour since.

Well, I did not think it would evermore be in his power to distress me;—but I have been distress'd,—greatly distress'd!—I begin to think Lord Darcey sincere,—that he has always been sincere—He talks of next Thursday, as a day to unravel great mysteries:—but I shall be far enough by that time; sail'd, perhaps.—Likely, he said, I might know before Thursday.—I wish any body could, tell me:—I fancy Sir James and Lady Powis are in the secret.

Mr. Jenkings is gone with his Lordship to Mr. Stapleton's,—about ten miles this side London, on business of importance:—to-morrow he returns; then I shall acquaint him with my leaving this place.—Your Ladyship knows the motive why I have hitherto kept the day of my setting out a secret from every person,—even from Sir James and Lady Powis.

Yesterday, the day preceding the departure of Lord Darcey, I went up to the Abbey, determin'd to exert my spirits and appear chearful, cost what it would to a poor disappointed heavy heart.—Yes, it was disappointed:—but till then I never rightly understood its situation;—or perhaps would not understand it;—else I have not examin'd it so closely as I ought, of late;—Not an unusual thing neither: we often stop to enquire, what fine feat that?—whose magnificent equipage this?—long to see and converse with persons so surrounded with splendor;—but if one happen to pass a poor dark cottage, and see the owner leaning on a crutch at the door, we are apt to go by, without making any enquiry, or betraying a wish to be acquainted with its misery.—

This was my situation, when I directed my steps to the Abbey.—I saw not Lord Darcey in an hour after I came into the house;—when he join'd us, he was dress'd for the day, and in one hand his own hat, in the other mine, with my cloak, which he had pick'd up in the Vestibule:—he was dreadfully pale;—complain'd of a pain in his head, which he is very subject to;—said he wanted a walk;—and ask'd, if I would give him the honour of my company.—I had not the heart to refuse, when I saw how ill he look'd;—though for some days past, I have avoided being alone with him as much as possible.

We met Lady Powis returning from a visit to her poultry-yard.—Where are my two runabouts going now? she said.—Only for a little walk, madam, reply'd Lord Darcey.

You are a sauce-box, said she, shaking him by the hand;—but don't go, my Lord, too far with Miss Warley, nodding and smiling on him at the same time.—She gave me a sweet affectionate kiss, as I pass'd her; and cried out, You are a couple of pretty strollers, are you not!—But away together; only I charge you, my Lord, calling after him, remember you are not to go too far with my dear girl.

We directed our steps towards the walk that leads to the Hermitage, neither of us seeming in harmony of spirits.—His Lordship still complaining of his head, I propos'd going back before we had gone ten paces from the house.

Would Miss Warley then prevent me, said he, from the last satisfaction! might ever enjoy?—You don't know, madam, how long—it is impossible to say how long—if ever I should be so happy again—I look forward to Wednesday with impatience;—if that should be propitious,—Thursday will unravel mysteries; it will clear up doubts;—it will perhaps bring on an event which you, my dearest life, may in time reflect on with pleasure;—you, my dearest life!—pardon the liberty,—by heaven! I am sincere!

I was going to withdraw my hand from his: I can be less reserv'd when he is less free.

Don't take your hand from me;—I will call you miss Warley;—I see my freedom is depleasing;—but don't take your hand away; for I was still endeavouring to get it away from him.

Yes, my angel, I will call you Miss Warley.

Talk not at this rate, my Lord: it is a kind of conversation I do not, nor wish to understand.

I see, madam, I am to be unhappy;—I know you have great reason to condemn me:—my whole behaviour, since I first saw you, has been one riddle.

Pray, my Lord, forbear this subject.

No! if I never see you more, Miss Warley,—this is my wish that you think the worst of me that appearances admit;—think I have basely wish'd to distress you.

Distress me, my Lord?

Think so, I beseech you, if I never return.—What would the misfortune be of falling low, even to the most abject in your opinion, compared with endangering the happiness of her whole peace is my ardent pursuit?—If I fail, I only can tell the cause:—you shall never be acquainted with it;—for should you regard me even with pity,—cool pity,—it would be taking the dagger from my own breast, and planting it in yours.

Ah! my Lady, could I help understanding him?—could I help being moved?—I was moved;—my eyes I believe betrayed it.

If I return, continued he, it is you only can pronounce me happy.—If you see me not again, think I am tossed on the waves of adverse fortune:—but oh think I again intreat you,—think me guilty. Perhaps I may outlive—no, that will never do;—you will be happy long before that hour;—it would be selfish to hope the contrary. I wish Mr. Powis was come home;—I wish—All my wishes tend to one great end.—Good God, what a situation am I in!—That the Dead could hear my petitions!—that he could absolve me!—What signifies, whether one sue to remains crumbled in the dust, or to the ear which can refuse to hear the voice of reason?

I thought I should have sunk to see the agony he was work'd up to.—I believe I look'd very pale;—I felt the blood thrill through my veins, and of a sudden stagnate:—a dreadful sickness follow'd;—I desir'd to sit;—he look'd on every side, quite terrified;—cry'd, Where will you sit, my dearest life?—what shall I do?—For heaven's sake speak,—speak but one word;—speak to tell me, I have not been your murderer.

I attempted to open my mouth, but in vain; I pointed to the ground, making an effort to sit down:—he caught me in his arms, and bore me to a bench not far off;—there left me, to fetch some water at a brook near, but came back before he had gone ten steps.—I held out my hand to his hat, which lay on the ground, then look'd to the water.—Thank God!—thank God! he said, and went full speed, to dip up some;—he knelt down, trembling, before me;—his teeth chatter'd in his head whilst he offer'd the water.

I found myself beginning to recover the moment it came to my lips.—He fix'd his eyes on me, as if he never meant to take them off, holding both my hands between his, the tears running down his face, without the contraction of one feature.—If sorrow could be express'd in stone, he then appear'd the very statue which was to represent it.

I attempted to speak.

Don't speak yet, he cried;—don't make yourself ill again: thank heaven, you are better!—This is some sudden chill; why have you ventur'd out without clogs?

How delicate,—how seasonable, this hint! Without it could I have met his eye, after the weakness I had betrayed?—We had now no more interesting subjects; I believe he thought I had enough of them.

It was near two when we reach'd the Abbey. Sir James and Mr. Morgan were just return'd from a ride;—Lady Powis met us on the Green, where she said she had been walking some time, in expectation of her strollers,—She examin'd my countenance very attentively, and then ask'd Lord Darcey, if he had remember'd her injunctions?

What reason, my Lady, have you to suspect the contrary? he returned—Well, well, said she, I shall find you out some day or other;—but her Ladyship seem'd quite satisfied, when I assured her I had been no farther than the Beach-walk.

Cards were propos'd soon after dinner: the same party as usual.—Mr. Morgan is never ask'd to make one;—he says he would as soon see the devil as a card-table.—We kept close at it 'till supper.—I could not help observing his Lordship blunder'd a little;—playing a diamond for a spade,—and a heart for a club,—I took my leave at eleven, and he attended me home.

Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings were gone to bed,—Edmund was reading in the parlour; he insisted on our having a negus which going out to order, was follow'd by Lord Darcey:—I heard them whisper in the passage, but could distinguish the words, if she is ill, remember, if she is ill—and then Edmund answer'd, You may depend on it, my Lord,—as I have a soul to be saved:—does your Lordship suppose I would be so negligent?

I guess'd at this charge;—it was to write, if I should be ill, as I have since found by Edmund,—who return'd capering into the room, rubbing his hands, and smiling with such significance as if he would have said, Every thing is as it should be.

When his Lordship had wish'd us a good night, he said to me,—To-morrow, Miss Warley!—but I will say nothing of to-morrow;—I shall see you in the morning. His eyes glisten'd, and he left the room hastily.—Whilst Edmund attended him out, I went to my chamber that I might avoid a subject of which I saw his honest heart was full.

On my table lay the Roman History; I could not help giving a peep where I had left off, being a very interesting part:—from one thing I was led to another, 'till the clock struck three; which alarm made me quit my book.

Whilst undressing, I had leisure to recollect the incidents of the pass'd day; sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain, would arise, from this examination; yet the latter was most predominant.

When I consider'd Lord Darcey's tender regard for my future, as well as present peace,—how could I reflect on him without gratitude?—When I consider'd his perplexities, I thought thus:—they arise from some entanglement, in which his heart is not engag'd.—Had he confided in me, I should not have weaken'd his resolutions;—I would no more wish him to be guilty of a breach of honour, than surrender myself to infamy.—I would have endeavour'd to persuade him she is amiable, virtuous, and engaging.—If I had been successful, I would have frown'd when he smil'd;—I would have been gay when he seem'd oppress'd—I would have been reserv'd, peevish, supercilicus;—in short, I would have counterfeited the very reverse of what was likely to draw him from a former attachment.

To live without him must be my fate; since that is almost inevitable, I would have strove to have secur'd his happiness, whilst mine had remain'd to chance.—These reflections kept me awake 'till six; when I fell into a profound sleep, which lasted 'till ten; at which time I was awaken'd by Mrs. Jenkings to tell me Lord Darcey was below; with an apology, that she had made breakfast, as her husband was preparing, in great haste, to attend his Lordship.

This was a hint he was not to stay long; so I put on my cloaths with expedition; and going down, took with me my whole stock of resolution; but I carried it no farther than the bottom of the stairs;—there it flew from me;—never have I seen it since:—that it rested not in the breast of Lord Darcey, was visible;—rather it seem'd as if his and mine had taken a flight together.

I stood with the lock of the door in my hand more than a minute, in hopes my inward flutterings would abate.—His Lordship heard my footstep, and flew to open it;—I gave him my hand, without knowing what I did;—joy sparkled in his eyes and he prest it to his breast with a fervour that cover'd me with confusion.

He saw what he had done,—He dropp'd it respectfully, and inquiring tenderly for my health, ask'd if I would honour him with my commands before he sat out for Town?—What a fool was I!—Lord bless me!—can I ever forget my folly? What do you think, my Lady! I did not speak;—no! I could not answer;—I was silent;—I was silent, when I would have given the world for one word.—When I did speak, it was not to Lord Darcey, but, still all fool, turn'd and said to Mr. Jenkings, who was looking over a parchment, How do you find yourself, Sir? Will not the journey you are going to take on horseback be too fatiguing? No, no, my good Lady; it is an exercise I have all my life been us'd to: to-morrow you will see me return the better for it.

Mrs. Jenkings here enter'd, follow'd by a servant with the breakfast, which was plac'd before me, every one else having breakfasted.—She desir'd I would give myself the trouble of making tea, having some little matters to do without.—This task would have been a harder penance than a fast of three days;—but I must have submitted, had not my good genius Edmund appear'd at this moment; and placing himself by me, desir'd to have the honour of making my breakfast.

I carried the cup with difficulty to my mouth. My embarrassment was perceiv'd by his Lordship; he rose from his seat, and walk'd up and down.—How did his manly form struggle to conceal the disorder of his mind!—Every movement, every look, every word, discover'd Honour in her most graceful, most ornamental garb: when could it appear to such advantage, surrounded with a cloud of difficulties, yet shining out and towering above them all?

He laid his cold hand on mine;—with precipitation left the room;—and was in a moment again at my elbow.—Leaning over the back of my chair, he whisper'd, For heaven's sake, miss Warley, be the instrument of my fortitude; whilst I see you I cannot—there stopt and turn'd from me.—I saw he wish'd me to go first,—as much in compassion to myself as him. When his back was turn'd, I should have slid out of the room;—but Mr. Jenkings starting up, and looking at his watch, exclaim'd, Odso, my Lord! it is past eleven; we shall be in the dark. This call'd him from his reverie; and he sprang to the door, just as I had reached it.—Sweet, generous creature! said he, stopping me; and you will go then?—Farewell, my Lord, replied I.—My dear, good friend, to Mr. Jenkings, take care of your health.—God bless you both I—My voice faulter'd.

Excellent Miss Warley! a thousand thanks for your kind condescension, said the good old man.—Yet one moment, oh God! yet one moment, said his Lordship; and he caught both my hands.

Come, my Lord, return'd Mr. Jenkings; and never did I see him look so grave, something of disappointment in his countenance;—come, my Lord, the day is wasting apace. Excuse this liberty:—your Lordship has been long determin'd,—have long known of leaving this country.—My dearest young Lady, you will be expected at the Abbey.—I shall, indeed, replied I;—so God bless you, Sir!—God bless you, my Lord! and, withdrawing my hands, hasten'd immediately to my chamber.

I heard their voices in the court-yard:—if I had look'd out at the window, it might not have been unnatural,—I own my inclinations led to it.—Inclination should never take place of prudence;—by following one, we are often plung'd into difficulties;—by the other we are sure to be conducted safely:—instead, then, of indulging my curiosity to see how he look'd—how he spoke at taking leave of this dwelling;—whether his eyes were directed to the windows, or the road;—if he rid slow or fast;—how often he turn'd to gaze, before he was out of sight:—instead of this, I went to Mrs. Jenkings's apartment, and remain'd there 'till I heard they were gone, then return'd to my own; since which I have wrote down to this period. Perhaps I should have ran on farther, if a summons from Lady Powis did not call me off. I hope now to appear before her with tolerable composure.—I am to go in the coach alone.—Well, it will seem strange!—I shall think of my late companion;—but time reconciles every thing.—This was my hope, when I lost my best friend, the lov'd instructress of my infant years.—Time, all healing Time! to that I fear I must look forward, as a lenitive against many evils.

Two days!—only two days!—and then, adieu, my dear friends at the Abbey;—adieu, my good Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings!—and you too, my friendly-hearted Edmund, adieu!

Welcome,—doubly welcome, every moment which brings me nearer to that when I shall kiss the hands of my honour'd Lady;—when I shall be able to tell you, in person, ten thousand things too much for my pen;—when you will kindly say, Tell me all, my Fanny, tell me every secret of your heart.—Happy sounds!—pleasing sounds! these will be to your grateful and affectionate

F. WARLEY.



LETTER XXV.

Miss WARLEY to the same.

From Mr. Jenkings's.

Now, my dear Lady, am I ready for my departure:—Sir James and Lady Powis reconciled to my leaving them;—yet how can I call it reconciled, when I tear myself from their arms as they weep over me?—Heavens! how tenderly they love me!—Their distress, when I told them the day was absolutely fix'd; when I told them the necessity of my going, their distress nothing could equal but my own.—I thought my heart would have sunk within me!—Surely, my Lady, my affection for them is not a common affection;—it is such as I hear your dear self;—it is such as I felt for my revered Mrs. Whitmore.—I cannot dwell on this subject—indeed I cannot.

I almost wish I had not kept the day so long a secret.—But suppose I had not,—would their concern have been lessen'd?

I would give the world, if Mr. Jenkings was come home:—his wife is like a frantic woman; and declares, if I persist in going, I shall break the heart of her and her husband.—Why do they love me so well?—It cannot be from any deserts of mine:—I have done no more than common gratitude demands;—the affection I shew them is only the result of their own kindness.—Benevolent hearts never place any thing to their own account:—they look on returns as presents, not as just debts:—so, whether giving or receiving, the glory must be their's.

I fancy Mr. Smith will not be here 'till to morrow, his Lady having wrote me, he intended spending the evening with an acquaintance of his about six miles from the Abbey.

How I dread the hour of parting!—Poor Mr. Watson!—I fear I shall never see him more.—Mr. Morgan too! but he is likely to live many years.—There is something in this strange man excessively engaging.—If people have roughness, better to appear in the voice, in the air and dress, than in the heart: a want of softness there, I never can dispense with.—What is a graceful form, what are numberless accomplishments, without humanity? I love, I revere, the honest, plain, well-meaning Mr. Morgan.

Hark! I hear the trampling of horses.—Mr. Jenkings is certainly return'd.—I hasten down to be the first who shall inform him of my departure.

How am I mortified to see Aaron return without his master!—Whilst Mrs. Jenkings was busied in enquiries after the health of her good man, I was all impatience for the contents of a letter she held in her hand, unopen'd: having broke the seal, and run her eye hastily over it, she gave it me.—I think my recollection will serve to send it verbatim to your Ladyship.

Mr. JENKINGS to Mrs. JENKINGS.

"My Dear,

I dispatch Aaron to acquaint you it is impossible for me to be home till Wednesday. Mr. Stapleton is gone to London: I am obliged to attend Lord Darcey thither. I love his Lordship more and more.—He has convinc'd me our conjectures were not without foundation.—Heaven grant it may end to our wishes!—There are, he thinks, difficulties to be overcome. Let him think it:—his happiness will be more exquisite when he is undeceiv'd.—Distribute my dutiful respects to Sir James, Lady Powis, and Miss Warley; next to yourself and our dear Edmund, they are nearest the heart of your truly affectionate husband

JENKINGS."

I will make no comments on this letter; it cannot concern me,—What can I do about seeing Mr. Jenkings before I go?—

Lord bless me! a chaise and four just stopp'd; Mr. Smith in it.—Heavens! how my heart throbs!—I did not expect him 'till to-morrow: I must run to receive him.—How shall I go up to the Abbey!—how support the last embrace of Sir James and Lady Powis!

Ten at Night, just come from the Abbey.

Torn in pieces!—my poor heart torn in pieces!—I shall never see them more;—never again be strain'd to their parental bosoms.—Forgive me, my dearest Lady, I do not grieve that I am coming to you; I grieve only that I go from them.—Oh God! why must my soul be divided?

Another struggle too with poor Mrs. Jenkings!—She has been on her knees:—yes, thus lowly has she condescended to turn me from my purpose, and suffer Mr. Smith to go back without me,—I blush to think what pain, what trouble I occasion.—She talks of some important event at hand. She says if I go, it will, end in the destruction of us all.—What can she mean by an important event?—Perhaps Lord Darcey—but no matter; nothing, my dear Lady, shall with-hold me from you.—The good woman is now more calm. I have assured her it is uncertain how long we may be in London: it is only that has calm'd her.—She says, she is certain I shall return;—she is certain, when Mr. Powis and his Lady arrives, I must return.—Next Thursday they are expected:—already are they arrived at Falmouth:—but, notwithstanding what I have told Mrs. Jenkings, to soften her pains at parting, I shall by Thursday be on my voyage;—for Mr. Smith tells me the Packet will sail immediately.—Perhaps I may be the messenger of my own letters:—but I am determin'd to write on 'till I see you;—that when I look them over, my memory may receive some assistance.—Good night, my dearest Lady; Mrs. Jenkings and Mr. Smith expects me.