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.