Part 14 (1/2)

Now, my dearest Lady, am I again perplex'd, doubting, and embarra.s.s'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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 Ladys.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s'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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 G.o.d, what a situation am I in!--That the Dead could hear my pet.i.tions!--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 G.o.d!--thank G.o.d! 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.

I attempted to speak.

Don't speak yet, he cried;--don't make yourself ill again: thank heaven, you are better!--This is some sudden chill; why have you ventur'd out without clogs?

How delicate,--how seasonable, this hint! Without it could I have met his eye, after the weakness I had betrayed?--We had now no more interesting subjects; I believe he thought I had _enough_ of them.