LETTER XXXVI.
The Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH to RICHARD RISBY, Esq;
Dover.
Darcey bears the joyful surprise beyond imagination:—it has brought him from death to life.—
Hear in what manner I proceeded;—You may suppose the hurry in which I left Dover:—I took no leave of my friend;—his humane apothecary promis'd not to quit him in my absence:—I gave orders when his Lordship enquir'd for me, that he should be told particular business of my own had call'd me to town express.—It happen'd very convenient that I left him in a profound sleep.
Away I flew,—agitated betwixt hope and fear:—harrass'd by fatigue;—not in a bed for three nights before;—nature was almost wore out, when I alighted at the banker's.
I accosted one of the clerks, desiring to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Delves[[A]]:—the former not at home, I was immediately conducted to the latter, a genteel woman, about forty.—She receiv'd me politely; but before I could acquaint her with the occasion of my visit, the door open'd, and in stepp'd a pretty sprightly girl, who on seeing me was going to retire.—Do you want any thing, my love? said Mrs. Delves. Only, Madam, she replied, if you think it proper for Miss Warley to get up.
The name of the banker.
Miss Warley! exclaim'd I.—Great God! Miss Warley!—Tell me, Ladies, is Miss Warley really under your roof?—Both at once, for both seem'd equally dispos'd to diffuse happiness, answer'd to my wishes.
I threw myself back in my chair:—the surprise was more than I could support.—Shall I tell you all my weakness?—I even shed tears;—yes, Dick, I shed tears:—but they were drops of heart-felt gladness.
The Ladies look'd on each other,—Mrs. Delves said in a tone that shew'd she was not without the darling passion of her sex,
Pardon me, Sir; I think I have heard Miss Warley has no brother,—or I should think your emotion I saw him before me.—But whoever you are, this humanity is noble.—Indeed, the poor young Lady has been extremely ill.
I am not her brother, Madam, return'd I.—It is true, she has no brother;—but she has parents, she has friends, who lament her dead:—their sorrow has been mine.
I fear, Sir, return'd she, it will not end here.—I grieve to tell you, the Miss Warley you speak of is not with me;—I know nothing of that Lady:—my Miss Warley has no parents.
I still persisted it was the same; and, to the no small gratification of both mother and daughter, promis'd to explain the mystery.—But before I began, Miss Delves was sent to desire Miss Warley would continue in bed an hour longer, on account of some visitors that had dropp'd in accidentally.
Soon as Miss Delves return'd, I related every particular.—I cannot tell you half that pass'd;—I cannot describe their astonishment:—but let me tell you Miss Powis is just recover'd from the small-pox;—that this was the second day of her sitting up:—let me tell you too her face is as beautiful as ever.—On mature deliberation, it was determin'd, for the sake of Miss Powis's health, she must some time longer think her name Warley.
I din'd with my new acquaintance, on their promising to procure an interview for me with Miss Powis in the afternoon.
It was about five when I was admitted to her presence.—I found her in an elegant dressing-room, sitting on a sopha: her head a little reclin'd.—I stepp'd slow and softly: she arose as I enter'd.—I wonder not that Darcey adores her, never was a form so perfect!
My trembling knees beat one against another.—My heart,—my impatient heart flew up to my face to tell its joyful sensations.—I ventur'd to press her hand to my lips, but was incapable of pronouncing a syllable.—She was confus'd:—she certainly thought of Darcey, when she saw his friend.—I took a chair next her.—I shall not repeat our conversation 'till it became interesting, which began by her asking, if I had heard lately any accounts from Barford Abbey?—Lord Darcey, Madam, I reply'd, has receiv'd a letter from Sir James.
Lord Darcey! she repeated with great emotion.—Is Sir James and Lady Powis well. Sir?
His Lordship, reply'd I, awkwardly, did not mention particulars.—I believe,—I suppose.—your friends are well.
I fear, said she sighing, they will think me an ungrateful creature.—No person, Mr. Molesworth, had ever such obligations to their friends as I have—This family, looking at the two Ladies, must be rank'd with my best.—Their replies were polite and affectionate—Can you tell me, Sir, continued she, if Lord—here her face was all over crimson—heavens! I mean, if Mr. Powis and his Lady are at the Abbey?—Why did she not say Lord Darcey? I swear the name quiver'd on her lips.
I answer'd in the affirmative;—and sitting silent a moment,—she ask'd how I discover'd her to be still in England.—I said by means of a servant:—true enough, Dick:—but then I was oblig'd to add, this servant belonged to Mr. Delves, and that he accidentally happen'd a few hours since to mention her name whilst I was doing business in the shop.—She was fond of dwelling on the family at the Abbey;—on Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings;—and once when I mention'd my friend, when I said how happy I should make him at my return;—pleasure, the most difficult to be conceal'd of any sensation, sprang to her expressive eyes.
I suppose she will expect a visit from his Lordship.—If she is angry at being disappointed, no matter: the mistake will be soon clear'd up.
The moment I left her, I stepp'd into a chaise that waited for me at the door, and drove like lightning from stage to stage, 'till I reach'd this place;—my drivers being turn'd into Mercuries by a touch more efficacious than all the oaths that can be swore by a first-rate blood.
I did not venture into Darcey's apartment 'till he was inform'd of my return.—I heard him impatiently ask to see me, as I stood without the door. This call'd me to him;—when pulling aside the curtain he ask'd, Who is that?—Is it Molesworth?—Are you come, my friend? But what have you seen?—what have you heard?—looking earnestly in face.—I am past joy,—past feeling pleasure even for you, George;—yet tell me why you look not so sorrowful as yesterday.—
I ask'd what alteration it was he saw:—what it was he suspected.—When I have griev'd, my Lord, it has been for you.—If I am now less afflicted, you must be less miserable.—He started up in the bed, and grasping both my hands in his, cry'd. Tell me, Molesworth, is there a possibility,—a bare possibility?—I ask no more;—only tell me there is a possibility.
My Lord,—my friend,—my Darcey, nothing is impossible.
By heaven! he exclaim'd, you would not flatter me;—by heaven she lives!
Ask me not farther, my Lord.—What is the blessing you most wish for?—Suppose that blessing granted.—And you, Risby, suppose the extasy,—the thankfulness that ensued.—He that is grateful to man, can he be ungrateful to his Maker?
Yours,
MOLESWORTH.