What decided me at this instant I cannot positively tell: whether it was the awkwardness of my own situation, or the grace of her ladyship’s manner: but all my prudential arrangements were forgotten, all my doubts vanished. Before I knew that the words passed my lips, I replied, “That her ladyship did me justice by such an acquittal; but that though I had no part in the contrivance, yet I felt irresistibly impelled to avail myself of the opportunity it afforded of declaring my real sentiments.” I was at her ladyship’s feet, and making very serious love, before I knew where I was. In what words my long-delayed declaration was made, I cannot recollect, but I well remember Lady Geraldine’s answer.
“My lord, I assure you that you do not know what you are saying: you do not know what you are doing. This is all a mistake, as you will find half an hour hence. I will not be so cruelly vain as to suppose you serious.”
“Not serious! no man ever was more serious.”
“No, no—No, no, no.”
I swore, of course, most fervently.
“Oh! rise, rise, I beseech you, my lord, and don’t look so like a hero; though you have done an heroical action, I grant. How you ever brought yourself to it, I cannot imagine. But now, for your comfort, you are safe—Vous voilà quitte pour la peur! Do not, however, let this encourage you to venture again in the same foolish manner. I know but few, very few young ladies to whom Lord Glenthorn could offer himself with any chance or reasonable hope of being refused. So take warning: never again expect to meet with such another as my whimsical self.”
“Never, never can I expect to meet with any thing resembling your charming self,” cried I. This was a new text for a lover’s rhapsody. It is not necessary, and might not be generally interesting to repeat all the ridiculous things I said, even if I could remember them.
Lady Geraldine listened to me, and then very calmly replied, “Granting you believe all that you are saying at this minute, which I must grant from common gratitude, and still more common vanity; nevertheless, permit me to assure you, my lord, that this is not love; it is only a fancy—only the nettle-rash, not the plague. You will not die this time. I will insure your life. So now jump out of the window as fast as you can, and unlock the door—you need not be afraid of breaking your neck—you know your life is insured. Come, take the lover’s leap, and get rid of your passion at once.”
I grew angry.
“Only a cloud,” said Lady Geraldine—“it will blow over.”