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.