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.