LETTER XVIII.
Lord DARCEY to the Honourable GEORGE MOLESWORTH.
Barford Abbey.
Ruin'd and undone, as I hope for mercy!—undone too by my own egregious folly!—She is quite lost,—quite out of my power.—I wish Lord Allen had been in the bottom of the sea;—he can never make me amends;—no, if he was to die to-morrow and leave me his whole fortune.—
I told you he was to dine here yesterday.—I cannot be circumstantial.—He did dine here;—to my utter sorrow he did.
Oh what a charming morning I spent!—Tho' my angel persisted in going to France, yet it was in a manner that made me love her, if possible, ten thousand times more than ever.—Good God! had you seen how she look'd!—But no matter now;—I must forget her angelical sweetness.—Forget did I say?—No, by heaven and earth—she lives in every corner of my heart.—I wish I had told her my whole soul.—I was going to tell her, if I had not been interrupted.—It is too late now.—She would not hear me: I see by her manners she would not hear me. She has learnt to look with indifference:—even smiles with indifference.—Why does she not frown? That would be joy to what her smiles afford.—I hate such smiles; they are darts dipp'd in poison.—
Lord Allen said he heard I was going to be marry'd:—What was that to him?—Sir James look'd displeased. To quiet his fears I assured him—God! I know not what I assured him—something very foreign from my heart.
She blushed when Sir James asked, to whom?—With what raptures did I behold her blushes!—But she shrunk at my answer.—I saw the colour leave her cheek, like a rose-bud fading beneath the hoary frost.
I will know my fate.—Twill be with you in a few days,—if Sir James should consent.—What if he should consent?—She is steeled against my vows—my protestations;—my words affect her not;—the most tender assiduities are disregarded:—she seems to attend to what I say, yet regards it not.
Where are those looks of preference fled,—those expressive looks?—I saw them not till now:—it is their loss,—it is their sad reverse that tells me what they were. She turns not her head to follow my foot-steps at parting;—or when I return, does not proclaim it by advancing pleasure tip-toe to the windows of her soul.—No anxiety for my health! No, she cares not what becomes of me.—I complain'd of my head, said I was in great pain;—heaven knows how true! My complaints were disregarded.—I attended her home. She sung all the way; or if she talked, it was of music:—not a word of my poor head;—no charges to draw the glasses up going back.