“I will relieve his Lordship of both,” said I. “I beg to decline your Ladyship's generosity and his Lordship's kindness, with the self-same feeling of respect.”
“My dear Captain Forester, wait one moment,” said Lord Netherby, taking my arm. “Let me speak to you, even for a few moments.”
“You mistake him, my Lord,” said my mother, with a scornful smile, while she arose to leave the room,—“you mistake him much.”
“Pray hear me out,” said Lord Netherby, taking my hand in both his own. “It is no time, nor a case for any rash resolves,” whispered he; “Lady Wallincourt has been misinformed,—her mind has been warped by stories of one kind or other. Go to her, explain fully and openly everything.”
“Her Ladyship is gone, my Lord,” exclaimed I, stopping him.
Yes, she had left the room while we were yet speaking. This was my last adieu from my mother! I remember little more, though Lord Netherby detained me still some time, and spoke with much kindness; indeed, throughout, his conduct was graceful and good-natured.
Why should I weary you longer? Why speak of the long dreary night, and the longer day that followed this scene,—swayed by different impulses,-now hoping and fearing alternately,—not daring to seek counsel from my friends, because I well knew what worldly advice would be given,—I was wretched. In the very depth of my despondency, like a ray of sunlight darting through some crevice of a prisoner's cell, came your own words to me, “Be a soldier in more than garb or name, be one in the generous ardor of a bold career. Let it be your boast that you started fairly in the race, and so distanced your competitors.” I caught at the suggestion with avidity. I was no more depressed or down-hearted. I felt as if, throwing off my load of care, a better and a brighter day was about to break for me; the same evening I left London for Plymouth, and became a volunteer.
Before concluding these lines, I would ask why you tell me no more of Miss Darcy than that “she is well, and, the reverse of her fortune considered, in spirits.” Am I to learn no more than that? Will you not say if my name is ever spoken by or before her? How am I remembered? Has time-have my changed fortunes softened her stern determination towards me? Would that I could know this,—would that I could divine what may lurk in her heart of compassionate pity for one who resigned all for her love, and lost! With all my gratitude for your kindness, when I well-nigh believed none remained in the world for me,
I am, yours in sincere affection,
Richard Forester.