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.
It is well Lady Elizabeth stands portress at the door of my heart:—there is such bustling and pushing to get in;—but, notwithstanding her Ladyship's vigilance, Miss Powis has slipp'd by, and sits perch'd up in the same corner with Darcey.
If you go back to Lady Mary's dressing-room, you will find nobody there:—but give a peep into the dining-parlour, and you will see us just set down at dinner;—all smiling,—all happy;—an inexhaustible fountain of pleasure in every breast.
I will go down to Slope Hall;—give Lady Dorothy a hint that she has it now in her power to make one man happy;—a hint I believe she never had before.—A snug twenty thousand added to my present fortune,—the hand of Lady Elizabeth,—and then, Risby, get hold of my skirts, and you mount with me.
Next Tuesday prepare, as governor of the castle, for a warm siege.—Such a battery of eyes,—such bundles of darts,—such stores of smiles,—such a train of innocence will be laid before the walls, as never was withstood!—No; I shall see you cap-à-pée open the gates to the besiegers.—Away goes my pen.—I write no more positively.
MOLESWORTH.