Vane had been dispirited, and apparently
self-discontented; but at night he went home in a state of mental
intoxication. His poetic enthusiasm, his love, his vanity, were all
gratified at once. And all these, singly, have conquered Prudence and
Virtue a million times.
She had confessed to him that she was disposed to risk her happiness on
him; she had begged him to submit to a short probation; and she had
promised, if her confidence and esteem remained unimpaired at the close
of that period--which was not to be an unhappy one--to take advantage of
the summer holidays, and cross the water with him, and forget everything
in the world with him, but love.
How was it that the very next morning clouds chased one another across
his face? Was it that men are happy but while the chase is doubtful? Was
it the letter from Pomander announcing his return, and sneeringly
inquiring whether he was still the dupe of Peg Woffington? or was it that
same mysterious disquiet which attacked him periodically, and then gave
way for a while to pleasure and her golden dreams?
The next day was to be a day of delight. He was to entertain her at his
own house; and, to do her honor, he had asked Mr. Cibber, Mr. Quin and
other actors, critics, etc.
Our friend, Sir Charles Pomander, had been guilty of two ingenuities:
first, he had written three or four letters, full of respectful
admiration, to Mrs.
Pages:
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81