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.