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 tête-à-tête 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.