LETTER XXII.
Miss WARLEY to Lady MARY SUTTON
From Mr. Jenkings's
Now, my dear Lady, the time is absolutely fix'd for our embarkation; the 22d, without fail.—Mr. Smith intends coming himself, to accompany me to London.—How very good and obliging this!—I shall say nothing of it to Lady Powis, till Lord Darcey is gone, which will be Saturday:—he may go to France, if he pleases, but not with me.—
When I received Mrs. Smith's letter, he was mighty curious to know who it was from:—I found him examining the seal, as it lay on the table in Mr. Jenkings's parlour.—Here is a letter for you, Miss Warley, a good deal confus'd.—So I see, my Lord: I suppose from Lady Mary Sutton.
I fancy not;—it does not appear to be directed in the same hand with that my servant brought you last from the post-office.—I broke the seal; it was easy to perceive the contents gave me pleasure.
There is something, Miss Warley, which gives you particular satisfaction.
You are right, my Lord, I never was better pleas'd.
Then it is from Lady Mary?
No, not from Lady Mary.
From Mrs. Smith, then?—Do I guess now?—You say nothing; oh, there it is.—I could not forbear smiling.
Pray tell me, only tell me, and he caught one of my hands, if this letter does not fix the very day of your setting out for France?
I thought him possest with the spirit of divination.—What could I do, in this case?—Falshoods I despise;—evasions are low, very low, indeed:—yet I knew he ought not to be trusted with the contents, even at the expence of my veracity—I recollected myself, and looked grave.
My Lord, you must excuse me; this affair concerns only myself; even Lady Powis will not be acquainted with it yet.
I have done, if Lady Powis is not to be acquainted with it.—I have no right—I say right.—Don't look so, Miss Warley—believe I did flare a little—Time will unfold,—will cast a different light on things from that in which you now see them.
I was confus'd;—I put up my letter, went to the window, took a book from thence, and open'd it, without knowing what I did.
Complete Pocket-Farrier; or, A Cure for all Disorders in Horses, read his Lordship aloud, looking over my shoulder; for such was the title of the book.
What have you here, my love?
My love, indeed! Mighty free, mighty free, was it not, my Lady? I could not avoid laughing at the drollery of this accident, or I should have given him the look he deserved.—I thank God I am come to a state of indifference; and my time here is so short, I would willingly appear as little reserv'd as possible, that he might not think I have chang'd my sentiments since his declaring off: though I must own I have; but my pride will not suffer me to betray it to him.
If he has distress'd me,—if he has led my heart a little astray,—I am recovered now:—I have found out my mistake.—Should I suffer my eye to drop a tear, on looking back, for the future it will be more watchful;—it will guard, it will protect the poor wanderer.
He is very busy settling his affairs with Sir James:—three hours were they together with Mr. Jenkings in the library;—his books all pack'd up and sent away, to be sure he does not intend returning here again soon.
I suppose he will settle;—he talks of new furnishing his house;—has consulted Lady Powis upon it.—If he did not intend marrying, if he had no Lady in his eye—
But what is all this to me? Can he or his house be of any consequence to my repose?—I enjoy the thoughts of going to France without him:—I suppose he will think me very sly, but no matter.—
That good-natur'd creature Edmund would match me to a prince, was it in his power.—He told me, yesterday, that he'd give the whole world, if I was not to go to France.—Why so, Edmund?—I shall see you again, said I, at my return to England.
Ay, but what will somebody do, in the mean time?
Who is somebody?
Can't you guess, Miss Warley?
I do guess, Edmund. But you was never more mistaken; the person you mean is not to be distress'd by my absence.
He is, upon my honour;—I know he is.—Lord Darcey loves you to distraction.
Poh! Edmund; don't take such things into your head: I know you wish me well; but don't be so sanguine!—Lord Darcey stoop to think of me!
Stoop to think of you, Miss Warley!—I am out of all patience: stoop to think of you!—I shall never forget that.—Greatly as I honour his Lordship, if he conceals his sentiments, if he trifles in an affair of such importance,—was he the first duke in the kingdom, I hold him below the regard even of such a one as I am.—Pardon my curiosity, madam, I mean no ill; but surely he has made proposals to you.
Well, then, I will tell you, Edmund;—I'll tell you frankly, he never has made proposals:—and further, I can answer for him, he never will.—His belief was stagger'd;—he stood still, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Are you really in earnest, Miss Warley?
Really, Edmund.
Then, for heaven's sake, go to France.—But how can you tell, madam, he never intends to make proposals?
On which I related what passed at table, the day Lord Allen dined at the Abbey.—Nothing could equal his astonishment; yet would he fain have persuaded me that I did not understand him;—call'd it misapprehension, and I know not what.
He will offer you his hand, Miss Warley; he certainly will.—I've known him from a school-boy;—I'm acquainted with every turn of his mind;—I know his very looks;—I have observ'd them when they have been directed to you:—he will, I repeat,—he will offer you his hand.
No! Edmund:—but if he did, his overtures should be disregarded.
Say not so, Miss Warley; for God's sake, say not so again;—it kills me to think you hate Lord Darcey.
I speak to you, Edmund, as a friend, as a brother:—never let what has pass'd escape your lips.
If I do, madam, what must I deserve?—To be shut out from your confidence is a punishment only fit for such a breach of trust.—But, for heaven's sake, do not hate Lord Darcey.
Mr. Jenkings appeared at this juncture, and look'd displeas'd.—How strangely are we given to mistakes!—I betray'd the same confusion, as if I had been really carrying on a clandestine affair with his son.—In a very angry tone he said, I thought, Edmund, you was to assist me, knowing how much I had on my hands, before Lord Darcey sets out;—but I find business is not your pursuit:—I believe I must consent to your going into the army, after all.—On which he button'd up his coat, and went towards the Abbey, leaving me quite thunderstruck. Poor Edmund was as much chagrined as myself.—A moment after I saw Mr. Jenkings returning with a countenance very different,—and taking me apart from his son, said, I cannot forgive myself, my dear young Lady;—can you forgive me for the rudeness I have just committed?—I am an old man, Miss Warley;—I have many things to perplex me;—I should not,—I know I should not, have spoke so sharply to Edmund, when you had honour'd him with your company.
I made him easy by my answer; and since I have not seen a cloud on his brow.—I shall never think more, with concern, of Mr. Jenkings's suspicions.—Your Ladyship's last letter,—oh! how sweetly tender! tells me he has motives to which I am a stranger.
We spent a charming day, last Monday, at Lord Allen's. Most of the neighbouring families were met there, to commemorate the happy festival.—Mr. Morgan made one of the party, and return'd with us to the Abbey, where he proposes waiting the arrival of his godson, Mr. Powis.—If I have any penetration, most of his fortune will center there,—For my part, I am not a little proud of stealing into his good graces:—I don't know for what, but Lady Powis tells me, I am one of his first favourites; he has presented me a pretty little grey horse, beautifully caparison'd; and hopes he says, to make me a good horsewoman.
As I have promis'd to be at the Abbey early, I shall close this letter; and, if I have an opportunity, will write another by the same packet.—Believe me ever, my dearest Lady, your most grateful and affectionate
F. WARLEY.