Oh! quite well, my Lord; withdrawing my hand carelessly.

For heaven’s sake, take more care of yourself, Miss Warley; this might have been a sad affair.

Depend on that, my Lord, for my own sake.

For your own sake! Not in consideration of any other person?

Yes; of Lady Mary Sutton, Sir James and Lady Powis, good Mr. Jenkings and his wife, who I know would be concerned was I to suffer much from any accident.

Then there is no other person you would wish to preserve your life for?

Not that I know at present, my Lord,

Not that you know at present! so you think you may one day or other?

I pretend not, my Lord, to answer for what may happen; I have never seen the person yet.  I was going to say something further, I have really forgot what, when he turn’d from me, and walked up and down the room with a seeming discomposure.

If you are sincere in what you have said, Miss Warley; if you are really sincere, I do pronounce—­Here he burst open the door, and flew out the instant Sir James and Lady Powis entered.

When the tea was made, a footman was sent to Lord Darcey; but he was no where to be found.

This is very strange, said her Ladyship; Lord Darcey never used to be out of the way at tea-time.  I declare I am quite uneasy; perhaps he may be ill.

Oh! cry’d Sir James, don’t hurry yourself; I warrant he is got into one of his old reveries, and forgets the time.

I was quite easy.  I knew his abrupt departure was nothing but an air:—­an air of consequence, I suppose.—­However, I was willing to be convinced, so did not move till I saw the Gentleman sauntering up the lawn.  As no one perceived him but myself, I slid out to the housekeeper, and told her, if her Lady enquir’d for me, I was gone home to write Letters by to-morrow’s post.

You have enough of it now, I believe, my dear Lady; two long letters by the same packet:—­but you are the repository of my joy, my grief, the very inmost secrets of my soul.—­You, my dear Lady, have the whole heart of

F. WARLEY.

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.