LETTER XXXII
Captain RISBY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
My heart bleeds afresh—Her body found! Good heaven!—it must not,—shall not come to the knowledge of the family.—At present they submit with a degree of resignation.—Who knows but a latent hope might remain?—Instances have been known of many saved from wrecks;—but her body is drove on shore.—Not a glimmering;—possibility is now out of the question.—The family are determin'd to shut themselves out from the world;—no company ever more to be admitted;—never to go any where but to the church.—Your letter was deliver'd me before them.—I was ask'd tenderly for poor Lord Darcey.—What could I answer?—Near the same; not worse, on the whole.—They flatter themselves he will recover;—I encourage all their flattering hopes.
Mrs. Jenkings has never been home since Mr. Morgan fetch'd her;—Mr. Jenkings too is constantly here;—sometimes Edmund:—except the unhappy parents, never was grief like theirs.
Mr. Jenkings has convinc'd me it was Miss Powis which I saw at ——. Strange reverse of fortune since that hour!
When the family are retir'd I spend many melancholy hours with poor Edmund;—and from him have learnt the reason why Mr. Powis conceal'd his marriage,—which is now no secret.—Even Edmund never knew it till Mr. and Mrs. Powis return'd to England,—Take a short recital:—it will help to pass away a gloomy moment.
When Mr. Powis left the University, he went for a few months to Ireland with the Lord-Lieutenant; and at his return intended to make the Grand Tour.—In the mean time, Sir James and Lady Powis contract an intimacy with a young Lady of quality, in the bloom of life, but not of beauty.—By what I can gather, Lady Mary Sutton is plain to a degree,—with a mind—But why speak of her mind?—let that speak for itself.
She was independent; her fortune noble;—her affections disengag'd.—Mr. Powis returns from Ireland: Lady Mary is then at the Abbey.—Sir James in a few days, without consulting his son, sues for her alliance.—Lady Mary supposes it is with the concurrence of Mr. Powis:—his person,—his character,—his family, were unexceptionable; and generously she declar'd her sentiments in his favour.—Sir James, elated with success, flies to his son;—and in presence of Lady Powis, tells him he has secur'd his happiness.—Mr. Powis's inclinations not coinciding,—Sir James throws himself into a violent rage.—Covetousness and obstinacy always go hand in hand:—both had taken such fast hold of the Baronet, that he swore—and his oath was without reservation—he would never consent to his son's marrying any other woman.—Mr. Powis, finding his father determin'd,—and nothing, after his imprecation, to expect from the entreaties of his mother,—strove to forget the person of Lady Mary, and think only of her mind.—Her Ladyship, a little chagrin'd Sir James's proposals were not seconded by Mr. Powis, pretended immediate business into Oxfordshire.—The Baronet wants not discernment: he saw through her motive; and taking his opportunity, insinuated the violence of his son's passion, and likewise the great timidity it occasion'd—he even prevail'd on Lady Powis to propose returning with her to Brandon Lodge.
The consequence of this was, the two Ladies set out on their journey, attended by Sir James and Mr. Powis, who, in obedience to his father, was still endeavouring to conquer his indifference.—
Perhaps, in time, the amiable Lady Mary might have found a way to his heart,—had she not introduc'd the very evening of their arrival at the Lodge, her counter-part in every thing but person:—there Miss Whitmore outshone her whole sex.—This fair neighbour was the belov'd friend of Lady Mary Sutton, and soon became the idol of Mr. Powis's affections, which render'd his situation still more distressing.—His mother's disinterested tenderness for Lady Mary;—her own charming qualifications;—his father's irrevocable menace, commanded him one way:—Miss Whitmore's charms led him another.
Attached as he was to this young Lady, he never appear'd to take the least notice, of her more than civility demanded;—tho' she was of the highest consequence to his repose, yet the obstacles which surrounded him seem'd insurmountable.
Sir James and Lady Powis retiring one evening earlier than usual,—Lady Mary and Mr. Powis were left alone. The latter appear'd greatly embarrass'd. Her Ladyship eyed him attentively; but instead of sharing his embarrassment,—began a conversation of which Miss Whitmore was the subject.—She talk'd so long of her many excellencies, profess'd such sincerity, such tenderness, for her, that his emotion became visible:—his fine, eyes were full of fire;—his expressive features spoke what she, had long wish'd to discover.—You are silent, Sir, said she, with a smile of ineffable sweetness; is my lovely friend a subject that displeases you?—
How am I situated! replied he—Generous Lady Mary, dare I repose a confidence in your noble breast?—Will you permit me that honour?—Will you not think ill of me, if I disclose—No, I cannot—presumption—I dare not. She interrupted him:
Ah Sir!—you hold me unworthy,—you hold me incapable of friendship.—Suppose me your sister:—if you had a sister, would you conceal any thing from her?—Give me then a brother;—I can never behold you in any other light.
No, my Lady;—no, return'd he, I deserve not this honour.—If you knew, madam,—if you knew all,—you would, you must despise me.
Despise you, Mr. Powis!—she replied;—despise you for loving Miss Whitmore!
Exalted goodness! said he,—approaching her with rapture: take my heart;—do with it as you please;—it is devoted to your generosity.
Well then, said she, I command it,—I command it instantly to be laid open before me.—Now let it speak,—now let it declare if I am not the bar to its felicity:—if—
No, my good angel, interrupted he, dropping on his knees,—and pressing her hand to his lips;—I see it is through you,—through you only,—I am to expect felicity.
Before Lady Mary could prevail on Mr. Powis to arise, Sir James, whom they did not expect,—and who they thought was retir'd for the night, came in quest of his snuff-box;—but with a countenance full of joy retir'd precipitately, bowing to Lady Mary with the same reverence as if she had been a molten image cast of his favourite metal.
In this conversation I have been circumstantial, that you might have a full view of the noble, disinterested Lady Mary Sutton:—you may gather now, from whence sprang her unbounded affection for the incomparable, unfortunate Miss Powis.
You will not be surprised to find a speedy marriage took place between Mr. Powis and Miss Whitmore, to which none were privy but the Dean of H——, who perform'd the ceremony,—Lady Mary,—Mrs. Whitmore (the mother of Mrs. Powis),—Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings.—Perhaps you think Lady Powis ought to have been consulted:—I thought so too; but am now convinc'd she would have been the wretchedest woman in the world, had she known her son acting diametrically opposite to the will of his father in so material a point.
To put it out of the power of every person intrusted with this momentous secret to divulge it,—and to make Mr. Powis perfectly easy,—each bound themselves at the altar where the ceremony was perform'd, never to make the least discovery 'till Mr. Powis thought fit to declare his marriage.
What an instance have I given you of female friendship!—Shew me such another:—our sex are a test of their friendships.
How many girls have I seen,—for ever together arm in arm,—whispering their own, perhaps the secrets of all their neighbours;—when in steps a young fellow of our cloth,—or any other, it signifies not the colour,—and down tumbles the tottering basis.—Instead of my dear and my love, it is sly creature, false friend, could any one have thought Miss Such-a-one possess'd of so much art?—then out comes intrigues, family-affairs, losses at cards,—in short, every thing that has been treasur'd up by two industrious fair ones seven years before.
Don't think me satyrical:—I am nice;—too much so, perhaps.—The knowledge of such as constitute this little narrative, and some other minds like theirs, has made me rather too nice, as I said before;—a matter of little consequence, as I am situated.—Can I look forward to happy prospects, and see how soon the fairest felicity is out of sight?—This afflicted family, Molesworth, has taught me to forget,—that is, I ought to forget.—But no matter;—never again let me see Lady Sophia;—never lead me a second time into danger:—she is mortal; like Miss Powis.—Lord Darcey! poor Lord Darcey!
If recollection will assist me, a word or two more of Mr. and Mrs. Powis.
Lady Sophia—the deuce is in me! you know who I mean;—why write I the name of Lady Sophia?—upon my honour, I have given over all thoughts of that divinity—Lady Mary I should have said, a few months after the nuptials of her friends, wrote to Mr. Powis, who was then at Barford Abbey, an absolute refusal, in consequence of a preconcerned plan of operation.—Immediately after this, she set out with Mrs. Powis for London, whose situation made it necessary for her to leave Hillford Down.
You will suppose, on the receipt of this letter, how matters were at the Abbey:—Sir. James rav'd; even Lady Powis thought her son ill us'd; but, in consideration of their former intimacy, prevail'd on Sir James never to mention the affair, though from this time all acquaintance ceas'd between the families.
In order to conceal the marriage, it was inevitable Mr. Powis must carry his wife abroad;—and as he intended to travel before the match was thought of with Lady Mary,—his father now readily consented that he should begin his tour.—This furnish'd him with an excuse to go immediately to town,—where he waited 'till the angel that we all weep for, made her appearance.
But what, you ask, was Mrs. Powis's excuse to leave England, without being suspected?—Why, I'll tell you: by the contrivance of Lady Mary, together with Mrs. Whitmore, it was believ'd she had left the world;—that she died in town of a malignant fever;—that—but I cannot be circumstantial—Miss Powis, after her parents went abroad, was brought down by Lady Mary, and consign'd to the care of her grandmother, with whom she liv'd as the orphan child of some distant relation.
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Powis were travelling through Italy, he apply'd to his friend the Lord-Lieutenant,—and by that interest was appointed to the government of ——. It was here my acquaintance with them commenc'd: not that I suspected Miss Glinn to be Mrs. Powis, though I saw her every day.—Glinn was a name she assum'd 'till she returned to England.—A thousand little circumstances which render'd her character unsuspected, I want spirits to relate.—Suffice it to say,—the death of Mrs. Whitmore;—a daughter passing on the world for an orphan;—and the absence of Lady Mary Sutton;—made them resolve to hazard every thing rather than leave their child unprotected.—Alas! for what are they come home?
Nothing is impossible with a Supreme Being.—Lord Darcey may recover.—But why this ray of hope to make the horrors of my mind more dreadful?—He is past hope, you say.—
RISBY.