Two days!—only two days!—and then, adieu, my dear friends at the Abbey;—adieu, my good Mr. and Mrs. Jenkings!—and you too, my friendly-hearted Edmund, adieu!
Welcome,—doubly welcome, every moment which brings me nearer to that when I shall kiss the hands of my honour’d Lady;—when I shall be able to tell you, in person, ten thousand things too much for my pen;—when you will kindly say, Tell me all, my Fanny, tell me every secret of your heart.—Happy sounds!—pleasing sounds! these will be to your grateful and affectionate
Miss WARLEY to the same.
From Mr. Jenkings’s.
Now, my dear Lady, am I ready for my departure:—Sir James and Lady Powis reconciled to my leaving them;—yet how can I call it reconciled, when I tear myself from their arms as they weep over me?—Heavens! how tenderly they love me!—Their distress, when I told them the day was absolutely fix’d; when I told them the necessity of my going, their distress nothing could equal but my own.—I thought my heart would have sunk within me!—Surely, my Lady, my affection for them is not a common affection;—it is such as I hear your dear self;—it is such as I felt for my revered Mrs. Whitmore.—I cannot dwell on this subject—indeed I cannot.
I almost wish I had not kept the day so long a secret.—But suppose I had not,—would their concern have been lessen’d?
I would give the world, if Mr. Jenkings was come home:—his wife is like a frantic woman; and declares, if I persist in going, I shall break the heart of her and her husband.—Why do they love me so well?—It cannot be from any deserts of mine:—I have done no more than common gratitude demands;—the affection I shew them is only the result of their own kindness.—Benevolent hearts never place any thing to their own account:—they look on returns as presents, not as just debts:—so, whether giving or receiving, the glory must be their’s.
I fancy Mr. Smith will not be here ’till to morrow, his Lady having wrote me, he intended spending the evening with an acquaintance of his about six miles from the Abbey.