“Then,” said I, cursing myself once again for my folly in rejecting the happiness that had once been mine for the asking, “I must ask you, madam, to make clear for me a certain matter. ’Tis told me that my cousin entertains a preference for a gentleman whose name is unknown to me. Who is this person? and where did Mrs Brandon fall in with him if not in company?”
But upon this Mrs Skipwith seemed confused and out of countenance.
“I’ll answer for’t that she han’t met with him in company,” was all I might prevail upon her to say.
“But pray, madam,” says I, “how am I to discover this gentleman if you won’t be good enough to tell me his name? Must I ask it of my cousin herself?”
“Sir,” says she, “I can’t doubt but you’ll find that your best course, for I hold no authority to give you any news of this person.”
“Pray, madam,” says I, somewhat angry, “am I to understand that my cousin hath forbid you to touch on this topic with me?”
“Truly, sir,” quoth she, “you wan’t far wrong in understanding that I am promised to tell you naught of Mrs Dorothy’s private matters.”
“But surely, madam,” said I, “the mere name of her servant——”
“And pray, sir, an’t that Mrs Dorothy’s private matter?” says she, and I could not deny it. Wherefore I found myself compelled to resort to Dorothy herself for that I did desire to know, since none of her friends would vouchsafe to tell it me, and this I did most especially dread, lest in treating of her love I should reveal my own, and thus disturb and trouble her. But since this measure could not be avoided, I resolved that it should be undertook on the morrow, and so rid abroad a long way in the afternoon, seeking to escape from myself and my own thoughts, and succeeding not at all in either design. Then in the evening, having twice begun my game of chess with Mrs Skipwith, and been routed with great loss, so that she declared I was surely losing my intellectuals, and I was fain to believe the same, I left trying to play, and sat in a corner staring at Dorothy, not knowing that I did it until I saw her turn from red to white and change countenance before me. And upon this I was mightily ashamed, and leaving the parlour, went out into the stormy night, and began walking up and down the fir-walk in the darkness by myself, hearing the branches of the trees creak in the wind overhead, and watching, though without any purpose of so doing, the dark clouds scud across the face of the moon. And thus walking, I did begin to rebuke myself very heartily.
“Come, Ned Carlyon,” says I to myself, “is this your courtesy towards this poor woman, to stare her out of countenance until she can’t so much as lift her eyes in your presence? An’t it your desire to carry yourself as a gentleman, as the person that loves Dorothy Brandon (though without any hope of winning her favour) should do? What right have you, that owe all your miseries to your own blindness, to endeavour to involve her in ’em? Be a man, and find your happiness in hers. If the contemplation of so lovely and gracious a creature enjoying all the felicity that she deserves can’t content you, you are a sorry fellow, and the more that ’tis in your own power in some measure to bring about and ensure this felicity. Be thankful, then, for that, and accept of your troubles as your rightful punishment. Remember the sweetness and cheerfulness wherewith the viscount, your friend, endured the long separation from his love—nay, the noble constancy and equanimity of Madam Heliodora herself—and model your actions upon ’em.”