Miss WARLEY to the same.
_From Mr. Jenkings's_.
Now, my dearest Lady, am I again perplex'd, doubting, and
embarrass'd:--yet Lord Darcey is gone,--gone this very morning,--about
an hour since.
Well, I did not think it would evermore be in his power to distress
me;--but I have been distress'd,--greatly distress'd!--I begin to think
Lord Darcey sincere,--that he has always been sincere--He talks of next
_Thursday_, as a day to unravel great mysteries:--but I shall be far
enough by that time; sail'd, perhaps.--Likely, he said, I might know
before Thursday.--I wish any body could, tell me:--I fancy Sir James and
Lady Powis are in the secret.
Mr. Jenkings is gone with his Lordship to Mr. Stapleton's,--about ten
miles this side London, on business of importance:--to-morrow he
returns; then I shall acquaint him with my leaving this place.--Your
Ladyship knows the motive why I have hitherto kept the day of my setting
out a secret from every person,--even from Sir James and Lady Powis.
Yesterday, the day preceding the departure of Lord Darcey, I went up to
the Abbey, determin'd to exert my spirits and appear chearful, cost what
it would to a poor disappointed heavy heart.--Yes, it was
disappointed:--but till then I never rightly understood its
situation;--or perhaps would not understand it;--else I have not
examin'd it so closely as I ought, of late;--Not an unusual thing
neither: we often stop to enquire, what fine feat _that?_--whose
magnificent equipage _this?_--long to see and converse with persons so
surrounded with splendor;--but if one happen to pass a poor dark
cottage, and see the owner leaning on a crutch at the door, we are apt
to go by, without making any enquiry, or betraying a wish to be
acquainted with its misery.--
This was my situation, when I directed my steps to the Abbey.--I saw not
Lord Darcey in an hour after I came into the house;--when he join'd us,
he was dress'd for the day, and in one hand his own hat, in the other
mine, with my cloak, which he had pick'd up in the Vestibule:--he was
dreadfully pale;--complain'd of a pain in his head, which he is very
subject to;--said he wanted a walk;--and ask'd, if I would give him the
honour of my company.--I had not the heart to refuse, when I saw how ill
he look'd;--though for some days past, I have avoided being alone with
him as much as possible.
We met Lady Powis returning from a visit to her poultry-yard.--Where are
my two runabouts going _now?_ she said.--Only for a little walk, madam,
reply'd Lord Darcey.
You are a sauce-box, said she, shaking him by the hand;--but don't go,
my Lord, _too far_ with Miss Warley, nodding and smiling on him at the
same time.--She gave me a sweet affectionate kiss, as I pass'd her; and
cried out, You are a couple of pretty strollers, are you not!--But away
together; only I charge you, my Lord, calling after him, remember you
are not to go _too far_ with my dear girl.
We directed our steps towards the walk that leads to the Hermitage,
neither of us seeming in harmony of spirits.--His Lordship still
complaining of his head, I propos'd going back before we had gone ten
paces from the house.
Would Miss Warley then prevent me, said he, from the last satisfaction!
might ever enjoy?--You don't know, madam, how long--it is impossible to
say how long--if ever I should be so happy again--I look forward to
Wednesday with impatience;--if that should be propitious,--_Thursday_
will unravel _mysteries_; it will clear up _doubts_;--it will perhaps
bring on an event which you, my dearest life, may in time reflect on
with pleasure;--you, my dearest life!--pardon the liberty,--by heaven! I
am sincere!
I was going to withdraw my hand from his: I can be less reserv'd when he
is less free.
Don't take your hand from me;--I will call you miss Warley;--I see my
freedom is depleasing;--but don't take your hand away; for I was still
endeavouring to get it away from him.
Yes, my angel, I will call you _Miss Warley_.
Talk not at this rate, my Lord: it is a kind of conversation I do not,
nor wish to understand.
I see, madam, I am to be unhappy;--I know you have great reason to
condemn me:--my whole behaviour, since I first saw you, has been one
riddle.
Pray, my Lord, forbear this subject.
No! if I never see you more, Miss Warley,--this is my wish that you
think the worst of me that appearances admit;--think I have basely
wish'd to distress you.
Distress me, my Lord?
Think so, I beseech you, if I never return.--What would the misfortune
be of falling low, even to the most abject in your opinion, compared
with endangering the happiness of her whole peace is my ardent
pursuit?--If I fail, I only can tell the cause:--you shall never be
acquainted with it;--for should you regard me even with pity,--cool
pity,--it would be taking the dagger from my own breast, and planting it
in yours.
Ah! my Lady, could I help understanding him?--could I help being
moved?--I was moved;--my eyes I believe betrayed it.
If I return, continued he, it is you only can pronounce me happy.--If
you see me not again, think I am tossed on the waves of adverse
fortune:--but oh think I again intreat _you_,--think me guilty. Perhaps
I may outlive--no, that will never do;--you will be happy long before
that hour;--it would be selfish to hope the contrary. I _wish_ Mr. Powis
was come home;--I wish--All my wishes tend to one great end.--Good God,
what a situation am I in!--That the Dead could hear my petitions!--that
he could absolve me!--What signifies, whether one sue to remains
crumbled in the dust, or to the ear which can refuse to hear the voice
of reason?
I thought I should have sunk to see the agony he was work'd up to.--I
believe I look'd very pale;--I felt the blood thrill through my veins,
and of a sudden stagnate:--a dreadful sickness follow'd;--I desir'd to
sit;--he look'd on every side, quite terrified;--cry'd, Where will you
sit, my dearest life?--what shall I do?--For heaven's sake speak,--speak
but one word;--speak to tell me, I have not been your murderer.
I attempted to open my mouth, but in vain; I pointed to the ground,
making an effort to sit down:--he caught me in his arms, and bore me to
a bench not far off;--there left me, to fetch some water at a brook
near, but came back before he had gone ten steps.--I held out my hand to
his hat, which lay on the ground, then look'd to the water.--Thank
God!--thank God! he said, and went full speed, to dip up some;--he knelt
down, trembling, before me;--his teeth chatter'd in his head whilst he
offer'd the water.
I found myself beginning to recover the moment it came to my lips.--He
fix'd his eyes on me, as if he never meant to take them off, holding
both my hands between his, the tears running down his face, without the
contraction of one feature.--If sorrow could be express'd in stone, he
then appear'd the very statue which was to represent it.