Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1813], Sarah, or, The exemplary wife (Charles Williams, Boston) [word count] [eaf330].
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LETTER I. SARAH TO ANNE.
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London, May 19, 1775.
YES! Anne, the die is cast—I am a wife. But
a less cheerful bride, one who looks forward
with less hope, perhaps never existed. You
were surprised, you say, to hear to whom I had
relinquished my hand and heart—leave out the
latter, Anne, it had nothing to do with the transaction.
Why were you not here, you say, to
have prevented a union which you are morally
certain will not conduce to my happiness? You
cannot be more certain of it, than I am; but
what could I do? Frederic gone to India; hemmed
round with persuasive meddlers, who, I am
more than half convinced, urged me to this
measure, fearful I should be burthensome to
them; and I was also told it was necessary
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for the preservation of my reputation that I
should accept Darnley. I had no natural protector;
my father so far distant he was the same
as dead to me; Frederic gone; my health not
sufficiently established to enable me to undertake
the journey I meditated before you left England;
my finances reduced to a very small portion, and
though most earnestly entreated to forbear,
Darnley continuing his visits. I found I must
accede to his proposals, or be thrown on the
world, censured by my relations, robbed of my
good name, and being poor, open to the pursuits
and insults of the profligate. One thing which
encouraged me to hope I might be tolerably happy
in the union was—though my heart felt no
strong emotions in his favor, it was totally free
from all partiality towards any other. He always
appeared good humored and obliging; and though
his mind was not highly cultivated, I thought
time might improve him in that particular. However,
I was candid with him; told him the situation
of my heart, and asked if he could be content
with receiving attentions which would be
only the result of principle. He seemed to
think this only maidenish affectation, and perfectly
convinced within himself that I loved him
already.
I have read and heard much of the hilarity of
a wedding day. Oh, my dear Anne, when my
aunt entering my chamber told me it was time
to rise, my souls sunk within me, and like a condemned
wretch who hears the bell announce the
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last hour of his existence, an involuntary ejaculation
arose, that I might escape from what on
its near approach seemed more terrible than
death itself.
My aunt Vernon, who had invited me to her
house a few days previous to the one which determined
my fate; and when she was convinced
I should soon have a house of my own, was very
officious about dressing me; she observed the
languor of my looks, and the redness of my eyes,
and attempted to rally me; my spirits could not
bear it. I burst into tears, “Oh why!” said I,
in an agony, “have I given my assent to a transaction
which my better reason disapproves.
Aunt, dear aunt, indeed I do not love this man;
and I fear”—“Nonsense!” said she hastily, “you
are a silly romantic girl, you are too young yet
to know any thing about love; marry him first,
you will learn to love him afterwards” “But
should I see one I may like better?”—Her
look petrified me—“Impossible,” said she, “impossible,
a woman whose passions are kept under
the dominion of reason, will never let a
thought wander to another, when once she is
married, though she may not love her husband,
she will not love another.” “I am very ignorant
in this respect,” I replied, “and I hope God
will enable me to do my duty in the state I am
about to enter.” I endeavored to assume a
tranquil appearance when I went down to
breakfast; Darnley was there; he rose, put a
chair to the breakfast table, seated himself beside
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me and took my hand. Why, my dear girl, said
he, your hand is as cold as ice. It is not colder
than my heart, said I, and even now, Mr. Darnley,
I think you would consult your own happiness
by declining this union. I know better,
said he, what will promote my own happiness
than you do; I love you, I cannot live without
you; and I will compel you to love me; nay, you
do love me now. A coach was at the door; I
strove to swallow a cup of tea; it was impossible;
the moment was arrived when I must dash at
once into the tempestuous sea of wedlock; or
recede and perish in the flames of calumny, reproach
and ignominy, that would burst upon me
from all sides. I rose hastily; Darnley led me
to the coach, my aunt and her daughter followed.
At the church we met two gentlemen and
the mother of Darnley. I strove to repress my
emotions as I knelt before the altar; I prayed
for grace to fulfil the duties which would be required
of me: Tears rose to my eyes; I endeavored
to chase them back to my swelling heart;
I succeeded, but the consequence was worse than
had I suffered them to flow; for just as the clergyman
pronounced us man and wife, my nose
gushed out with blood; my handkerchief and
clothes were suffused with the crimson torrent;
it seemed to relieve the poignancy of my feelings,
for my temples had throbbed violently, and my
bosom seemed swollen almost to bursting. I felt
a faint sickishness come over me, but a glass of
water and the air prevented my appearing like
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a foolish affected girl by fainting. The derangement
of my dress obliged a return to my aunt's.
When I got into my chamber I begged to be left
one hour to myself to compose my spirits. The
moment I was alone, I threw myself on
my knees by the bed, side, and covering my
face in the bed clothes, gave a free vent to my
tears. I cannot describe my feelings. I did not
pray; I could not collect my thoughts. Oh! that
I could call back the last hour, said I—but I cannot,
I have vowed; I must, I will submit.
The remainder of the day was spent at Windsor;
when we returned to town, an elegant supper
was provided at Darnley's own house, and I
was placed at the head of the table as its mistress.
Henceforth it is my home. I have not
seen much company. I have been considerably
indisposed; my hectic complaints have returned;
I was for a fortnight confined to my chamber; I
am now convalescent. Darnley loves society—I
must not make his house a dungeon—I will rouse
myself from the lethargic stupor which has for
more than two months pervaded every sense. I
see I may be tolerably happy if I do not wilfully
shun the path that leads to peace. Perhaps,
Anne, my heart was not formed to be agitated
by those violent emotions which some experience.
It is probable the passions so forcibly portrayed
by the pen of the fabulist, dramatist, or
historian, are merely the children of romance,
and exist only in a heated imagination. You tell
me you shall not return to England until
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autumn. I anticipate the moment of your return
as the moment in which I shall taste pure unmixed
felicity. Adieu, my dear Anne; may the
pleasures that hover round your head and wait
upon your steps, be equal to the purity and integrity
of your heart.
S. S. D.
LETTER II. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, Nov. 1775.
DEAR MADAM,
I AM pleased to find by your favor of the
13th, that you are pleased with your situation.
The pleasure I enjoyed in your society during
our journey from Brussells, and our little voyage
across the channel, has made me anxious to preserve
the esteem of a person so amiable. I
have no doubt but Lady M—d, will be more
than satisfied to have so capable a woman take
the charge of her infant daughters. She must
soon learn justly to appreciate your value, and
by every proper attention endeavor to secure to
them, as they advance in life, a continuance of
your valuable instructions enforced so powerfully
by your example. I will confess, dear madam,
that I am so much of an English woman, as to
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prefer my own country women, in almost every
respect; especially where the education of the
young mind is concerned, and where the future
happiness and respectability of life depends greatly
on the morals, manners and general habits
of those with whom the early period of youth
is past. I am delighted with the vivacity of the
French ladies; I am convinced their manners
are more captivating than those of the English;
but while I have been charmed by their wit, almost
fascinated by the very high polish of their
manners; I could not help secretly wishing it
had been tempered and corrected by the modest
reserve, the inobtrusive delicacy, which always
characterises a well bred English woman. You,
my dear madam, by a long residence abroad,
have most agreeably blended the vivacity of the
one, with the chaste propriety of the other, and
your perfect knowledge of the French and Italian
languages, joined to an extensive knowledge of
your own, renders you a very able instructor in
all. I presume you will accompany the family
to town after Christmas, when I shall have an opportunity
of renewing an acquaintance so pleasantly
commenced, and which I trust will ripen
into a lasting friendship. But in the mean time,
I am not forgetful of your request to be informed
of the principal events in the life of Mrs. Darnley,
who so much interested you, the few times
you saw her previous to your journey into Berkshire.
I do not hesitate to enter on the subject
very freely, because there is no incident in her
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short life, which she could wish concealed, and
many that redound to her honor. I fear she is
not happily married; but being of a disposition
to bear all things with patience, to look on the
bright side of the picture, and not think of an approaching
storm, while there is one gleam of
sunshine left, I think it possible she may draw
comfort from various sources, which the irritable
or discontented mind would entirely overlook;
and be more than contented where another would
be little less than wretched.
Mrs. Darnley is the daughter of a gentleman
who held a post under government which yielded
him above a thousand pounds per annum. She
lost her mother at a very early period, and her
father's household was conducted by a maiden
sister of her father's, forbidding in her looks,
rigid in her principles, and harsh and unbending
in her manners. She had herself enjoyed little
of the advantages of a polite education, thinking
and asserting at all times, that if a woman could
read, write, execute various needlework, superintend
domestic arrangements, understood the
etiquette of the dining table, and drawing room,
knew how to give every person their proper
place, and pay them the proper degree of respect
due to their rank or wealth, she had attained
the summit of female excellence. Having no
taste for the fine arts herself, she laughed at as
ridiculous every pursuit of the kind, and as to a
learned woman, she treated the idea as a mere
chimera, or if existing, a monster in nature,
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which, though wonderful, was only laughed at
by one sex, feared and shunned by the other.
Sarah, for so I shall call her, shewed early talents
for music and drawing, and was delighted with
reading the best English poets. I have heard
her father say, that at ten years old, she read
with propriety, and seemed fully to comprehend
all the beauties of Pope's Homer, Dryden's Virgil,
and other works of the same tendency;
Spenser and Shakespeare were great favorites
with her. Sarah is an only child: she inherited
from her mother a small patrimony, about fifteen
hundred pounds. It was in the funds, and the interest
would have been sufficient to keep her at
a very genteel school, but her father had an
utter aversion to schools; she was therefore attended
by masters in all the polite branches, her
aunt documented her about economy, sewing,
flourishing muslin, &c. &c. but the larger part of
her time, (her father being engaged in business
or pleasure, her aunt in scolding the servants,
dressing, and paying or receiving visits),
Sarah was left to amuse herself with the servants,
or read any books which her father's library
afforded, or chance threw in her way,
without any one to direct her choice, or correct
her taste. Possessed of an ardent imagination, it
may easily be conceived that works of fancy were
read with uncommon pleasure: but this was not
the worst; she read books of religious controversy,
nor did the pernicious writings of fashionable
sceptics escape. Her mind, eager in the
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pursuit of information, embraced it with avidity,
in whatever shape it offered itself. Nor is it
surprising that from such a heterogeneous jumble,
her ideas became a chaos of romantic sensibility,
enthusiastic superstition, and sceptical
boldness; yes, contrary as those sentiments are,
they each in turn, predominated in the mind of
Sarah. Her father saw a great deal of company,
chiefly gentlemen. A girl sensible, witty, and
with an understanding uncommonly expanded
for her age, introduced into the company of men,
becomes early accustomed to the delicious and intoxicating
poison of adulation, and too often falls a
victim to the sentiments those flatterers awaken
in her soul, before reason and fixed principle
have power to counteract and repel the powerful
impulses of youthful passion. Had Sarah been
of a temperature easily called into action, she
could not have escaped contamination in the
scenes to which she was too often a witness.
Her father was not a man of strict morals; he
had supported a woman as a mistress for many
years, and was frequently so imprudent as to
take his daughter with him, in his visits to this
woman. But Sarah's soul naturally revolted at
the approach of vice, and when she understood
the character of her father's chere amie, she
resolutely refused ever again to enter her house.
Her aunt was so far serviceable to her that she
early inspired her with a love of virtue, and a
veneration for religion, which I have no doubt
through her life, in spite of her eccentricities,
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will ever be the leading trait in her character.
She was just turned of thirteen when I became
acquainted with her, and though there were seven
years difference in our age, her sense was so matured,
her conversation so superior to the generality
of women, even at a more advanced period,
that I courted her friendship, obtained it,
and found her tender, ardent, and sincere, (if I
may be allowed the expression,) even to a fault.
Totally unacquainted with the world, she believed
it to be such as the books she had read represented;
she believed every profession of love or
regard made to her, and would give her last farthing
to relieve an object of distress, without
staying to inquire whether the distress was feigned
or real. I have said her father was dissipated;
he was, besides, thoughtless to a superlative degree
in his expenses, so that when Sarah had
reached her seventeenth year, involved in debt,
severely blamed by his friends, and deserted
by his dissolute companions, she saw him deprived
of his place, the duties of which he had for
some time scandalously neglected. About six
months previous to this deplorable change in her
situation, Sarah had buried her aunt; and when
her father, to avoid his creditors, went off to India,
she found herself cast unprotected on the
world, for having declared her resolution to
liquidate the most pressing of her father's debts,
the moment she could sell out money sufficient
for the purpose: her relations declared their
disapprobation of a conduct which they plainly
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saw would leave her a very small stipend, and
were cautious of inviting to their houses, a person
likely to become in some degree a burthen
to them. I spoke to Sarah on the subject; her
answer was, “I am fully aware, Anne, that no
one can oblige me to pay these sums, and that
by retaining my little fortune, I shall be secure
from dependence; but one of my father's creditors
is a poor tradesman, who has a large family
of children and a sick wife; another is a widow,
in very depressed circumstances; what right
have I to retain my fortune, while they, whose
actual property I have helped to waste, are driven
to extreme necessity, when by paying them what
is lawfully their due, I restore them to a state of
comparative comfort.” This argument was unanswerable;
I did not attempt to dissuade her.
She sold out a thousand pounds at a considerable
loss, paid those she thought were most in need
of the money, and remitted the remainder to her
father. If you still feel interested in my narrative,
I will renew it in a short period; but do not
expect any romantic scenes, flaming lovers, or
cruel false friends; what I have to relate, are
incidents, perhaps, frequently to be met with in
common life; but I love Sarah, and all that concerns
her is interesting to me. Adieu, my dear
madam.
Believe me yours, with esteem,
ANNE.
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LETTER III. ANNE TO ELENOR.
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London, Dec. 19, 1775.
YOU flatter me by the satisfaction you express
at the receipt of my last. I am at once gratified
by the praises bestowed on my friend, and the
approbation you so delicately conveyed, of the
style of the narrator; for I will frankly own I
possess a good portion of that self love, which
occasions my heart to dilate with pleasure, when
I am applauded by those whom I respect, and of
whose discriminating judgment I have an high
opinion.
Sarah having thus discharged those duties
which the strong sense she entertained of moral
rectitude imposed on her, began to think of
some method to enlarge her income by industry,
and thus prevent her becoming troublesome to
her friends; I earnestly entreated her to live with
me, but in vain. “What is the reason,” said she,
“that I must not be allowed to support myself?
Why should I become a charge to you? It is
kind of you to offer it, but what right have I to
avail myself of your generosity? when I have
health and abilities to render myself independent?
You have a mother to support, and not
the most plentiful fortune to do it with; you have
also a brother who can always find employment
for any little sums you have to spare; continue
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to me those sentiments of esteem which it has
been my honor to excite, and my pride to endeavor
to deserve, and I shall be happier in eating
the bread of industry, than I could possibly
be in dependent idleness.”
Her plan was to get recommended as a teacher
in a boarding school. Her aunt strongly opposed
it—“I wonder, Sarah,” said she to her one
day, “you have not more pride, than to be
willing to live in a state of servitude; I am
ashamed, I blush for your meanness of spirit.”
“I should have more cause to blush for myself,
aunt,” she replied—“were I, with the education
I have received, to become a useless burthen to
my friends. That is poor pride indeed, which, to
avoid active employment, sinks into a servile
being, who, to purchase the necessaries of life,
must cringe to a benefactor, take the lowest
place in the room, never speak but when spoken
to, and be required to perform fifty menial offices,
which, were that being in any other but a
state of dependence, would be rejected with disdain.”
Mrs. Vernon colored deeply, and Sarah
was allowed to follow her own plan. A
young women, whose mind was so highly cultivated
as Sarah's, whose manners were so captivating,
and who had abilities to be so eminently
useful, was an acquisition to any school, and it
proved that to the one in which she engaged,
she was so in a superlative degree. The governess
was not possessed of many engaging qualities;
she could speak French, and understood
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something of the fashionable needlework; and
these were the vast stock of qualifications with
which she presumed to take upon herself the
care and instruction of young ladies. She had
been brought up in rather a low walk in life;
had married a reputable tradesman, and at the
age of forty-five, was left a widow, with very
little provision, but a house full of handsome
furniture; for having been of an expensive turn,
she had found means to dissipate money as fast,
and sometimes faster, than her husband could
accumulate it. She had one daughter rather
more accomplished than her mother, for she
could play on the harpsichord, and make filligree.
Mrs. Harrop was advised to take a school;
and, as in seminaries of this kind, the teachers
have all the care and labor while the governess
takes all the credit to herself; her want of abilities,
either natural or acquired, was no obstacle
to her following the counsel. They had been
settled in a very fine situation about five miles
from London, nearly three years, when having
lost their head teacher by her accepting a more
advantageous offer, Mrs. Harrop heard of Sarah's
design, and having had her character very
favorably represented by a gentleman who was
intimate in her father's family, she made application
to her to take the superintendance of the
school. Her offers were liberal, and Sarah having
consulted me, determined to wait on the
lady, to settle preliminaries; and I, fearing my
young enthusiastic friend would engage to
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perform more than her strength would support, resolved
to accompany her. This visit produced
some singular circumstances, and indeed, as
things have terminated, may be termed the great
period which gave the coloring to my dear Sarah's
future life. You have observed the dignity
of Sarah's carriage—at that period it was more
conspicuous than it is at present. At times when
she supposed herself not treated with proper respect
by those whose wealth or situation in life
gave them a fancied superiority, it would rise
into something like hauteur; but to her equals
she was ever affable, and to her inferiors, her
manners were so sweetly conciliating, that while
they forgot the disparity custom and education
made between them, the affectionate respect
her conduct inspired, never permitted them to
treat her with improper familiarity. Her dress
was always the habit of a woman of fashion, without
the smallest affectation of finery. As I knew
to visit a school during the hours of study must
be an interruption, I ordered it so as to arrive
at Mrs. Harrop's, about twelve o'clock. Miss
Julia received us with a profusion of civility. We
were conveyed thither in a handsome job coach,
and I made my own foot boy mount behind, being
aware how much first appearances strike, so
much so, that frequently the impressions made
on a first interview, are never after entirely
effaced. The young lady having ushered us into
the drawing room, with many obsequious courtesies,
requested to be honored with our
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commands; I perceived her mistake, and simply replied
we wished to speak with Mrs. Harrop on
particular business. She immediately rose, and
said she would inform her mamma, who would
come to receive our orders, and left the room.
I laughed, Sarah smiled, and observed, that she
was wondrous polite. Yes, my dear, said I, a
great deal more so, than she would have been,
had she guessed the nature of our business. Here
we were interrupted by the rustlidg of silk, and
Madam la Governante entered in all the consequence
of rich padusoy, lace ruffles, and an enormous
head, where gauze, wire, pompoons, and
ribbon, strove for pre-eminence. She was a tall,
masculine figure, dark complexioned, her cheeks
just lightly tinged with best vegetable rouge,
large black eyes, and very strong brows of the
same color, meeting over her nose, which was
inclined to the aquiline. “Pray be seated, ladies,”
said she, seating herself at the same time, “I am
extremely honored by this visit, and I hope, upon
the inspection of the work, &c. that has been
executed in the school, you will be so far satisfied,
as to give me the preference, in the placing any
young lady from home for the purpose of education.
To be sure, I have unfortunately lost my
head teacher; but I have great hope of having
her place supplied by a young person, who has
been strongly recommended as a young woman of
taste, genius, and respectability; for you know,
ladies, we cannot be too cautious who we engage
in such a situation.” I perceived the vermilion of
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Sarah's complexion begin to heighten, so interrupted
the loquacious governess with, “True,
madam, and I flatter myself my friend, Miss
Osborn here, will do honor to those who spoke so
favorably of her.”
The broad face of Mrs. Harrop now resembled
the tints of a full blown pioni. “Madam,” said
she, “did I understand you—this the young—”
“Yes, madam,” said Sarah, bowing with composure
and dignity, “I am the young person to
whom you addressed this letter; I feel myself competent
to the business therein mentioned, and shall
only add, that if I engage in the situation, I shall
strive to discharge my duty conscientiously.”
“Upon my word, well to be sure, I thought,”
said the confused lady, then rising hastily, she
rung the bell, and then seating herself familiarly
on the sofa, between Sarah and myself—“I
dare say, my dear,” she continued addressing
Sarah, “you will do very well; Mr. Lewis said
you had a great deal of taste, was patient and
good natured.” “I am so, I trust, madam,”
said Sarah, coloring, “when not imposed on.”
“Certainly, no one likes to be imposed on,” said
Mrs. Harrop, a little disconcerted by the firmness
of her reply; a servant just then entering,
relieved her—“Bid Miss Julia send some of the
work and painting into the back parlor; we'll
go down, child, and you can judge if you think
you can teach in the same manner.” But before
this proposal could be complied with, steps
were heard ascending the stairs. The door
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opened, and George Darnley and his mother entered;
Mrs. Darnley had a daughter at the
school, whom they had come to visit. As I
wished to converse with Sarah, before she made
any positive engagement, I made a motion to go.
“We will see you again in the evening, Mrs.
Harrop,” said I. “Permit me, ladies,” said
Darnley, with a respectful bow, “to call up your
carriage, and do me the honor,” presenting his
hand to Sarah! she accepted it, and with a
slight courtesy to the governess, and one more
respectful to Mrs. Darnley, tripped down stairs,
and left Mrs. Harrop to explain to her visitor,
who and what she was, at her leisure. Are you
weary? No—you say! well, but really I am—
so peace be with you, until the next post.
ANNE.
LETTER IV. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, Jan. 4, 1776.
A PRETTY good period of time, you say, I
have taken, before I bring Miss Osborn back to
Mrs. Harrop's, though I only left that lady to
take a few hours ride with my little friend.
Well, I hate apologies when a person from either
inclination or necessity, has been remiss in a
correspondence; where indeed is the use of
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them? If inclination caused the silence, the excuses
will appear forced and awkward; if necessity
has occasioned it, we must have but a very
poor opinion of the friend who would need an
apology for what they must know is as painful
to ourselves as to them; this, by way of preamble—
and now to proceed with my narrative.
When young Darnley had handed Sarah into
the carriage, the bow of profound respect which
accompanied the action, and the fixed attitude
in which he remained on the steps of the door,
until the carriage drove off, occasioned me to
smile, and ask her if she knew the gentleman?
and if she did not think him handsome? “I am
sure I don't know,” answered she gravely,
“whether he is handsome or ugly; I never saw
him before, and have no wish ever to see him
again.” “I am much mistaken, Sarah,” said I,
“if he is quite so indifferent in regard to seeing
you again.” “Do not let us talk like a couple
of girls,” said she, with a half smile, “who never
received the smallest degree of polite attention
from a man in their lives before.” She then
turned the conversation upon Mrs. Harrop, Miss
Julia, the work, &c. “I am much deceived,”
said she, “if I do not shew them some work and
painting, at the end of the next term, superior
to the daubs she so ostentatiously displayed:
the work is very well, but there is a want of
taste in the arrangement of the colors, the flowers
want that lightness which is the greatest
beauty of needlework.”
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I then gave her the necessary hints for not
engaging to perform more than her strength
would admit; she replied, “that if she was paid
for her time, it would become a duty not to
waste a moment, but to fill it up assiduously for
the benefit of her employer.” We dined with a
friend, and in the evening returned to Mrs. Harrop's,
made the necessary arrangements, and
it was agreed that Sarah should take her new
situation on the Saturday following.
She had not long superintended the school,
before Mrs. Harrop discovered what a treasure
she had got; the scholars naturally attached
themselves to her, especially those who had been
accustomed to associate with well bred persons;
her manners were so gentle, yet commanding;
her language and appearance were so superior
to the governess and her daughter, that they
loved, while they dared not disobey her. But
this, while it enhanced her value, created a kind
of envy in the bosoms of both the mother and
Miss Julia, which sometimes shewed itself unpleasantly;
and when Sarah would give her
opinion, which she often did, contrary to that of
these ladies, a degree of fretfulness apparent in
their answers, would evince their consciousness
of her superiority; yet though they opposed her
arguments, they generally adopted her plans.
During her residence here, she was frequently
seen by George Darnley; his sister was extremely
attached to her; his mother was pleased with
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
her attentions to her daughter, and George himself
fancied he was in love with her.
George Darnley had, in early life, been remarkable
for the heaviness of his intellect, and
the extreme difficulty with which he attained
even useful acquirements. As he advanced toward
manhood, he shewed a propensity for expensive
pleasures, mixed with an unwillingness
to procure them for himself; for dearly as he
loved pleasure, he loved money better; every
scene of amusement was joined with eagerness,
if at the expense of another. Such a disposition
was by no means likely to please Sarah; her
chief pleasures were retired; she loved society,
indeed, but did not often mix in it, because she
could not often meet with such as afforded her
satisfaction.
I have mentioned that she had no brother.
There was a young man whom Mr. Osborn had
educated, and got into the navy, by the name of
Frederic Lewis; indeed, it was thought he was
her natural brother, but of this her father never
gave her any intimation. This young man felt
all the fraternal love for her, which a man of
sense might be supposed to feel for a sister like
her; he thought her one of the most superior
women the world afforded, and when on returning
from a three year's station in the West-Indies,
he found the great change which had taken
place in Mr. Osborn's family, saw his sister (for
so he always called her) employed as a teacher
in a boarding school—his sensations were
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
poignant beyond description; but alas, Frederic was
but a lieutenant, and what could he do? His pay
was scarcely sufficient to support the appearance
of a gentleman; and prize money was not to be
obtained in the service he had been engaged in.
I am interrupted, adieu for the present.
ANNE.
LETTER ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, Jan. 5, 1776.
EXACTLY what I apprehended, came to
pass: Sarah, anxious to exert herself for the advantage
of her employers, went beyond her
strength, was constantly at her needle or pencil,
when the cessation of school business might even
have allowed her recreation. She uniformly
declined visiting any where, except now and
then spending a day with me; her aunt's family,
pretending offence at her entering into what
they termed a servile employment, were, whenever
she chanced to see them, cold and distant;
it was not therefore likely that she could reap
much satisfaction from visiting them; her other
acquaintance had, some of them, chosen to
forget her, and the rest treated her with a
haughty familiarity, inquiring into the
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
employments, and lamenting the fatigues of her new
situation, sometimes mingling with these humiliating
questions and observations, oblique sarcasms
on her father; which her high sense of
filial duty could ill brook. This being the case,
she frequently undertook the business of the
other teacher, in order that she might reap the
benefit of time, which, to Sarah herself, was of
no value; that is, of no value to be employed as
usual with persons in her situation Such unwearied
application, added to little air, and less
exercise; at least proper exercise, weakened a
constitution not naturally robust, and extreme
languor, difficulty of breathing, and a hectic
cough were symptoms too alarming to be beheld
by me with indifference; but she herself treated
them lightly, and would smiling say, “I am not
sick; you want me to play the fine lady, which
would be very unbecoming in a person in my
station;” and when I have remonstrated, her
reply would be, “Dear Anne, tell me where
would be the loss of such an atom in creation as
I am? Who would miss me, except Frederic
and yourself? And to your affectionate hearts I
am only a source of constant anxiety. Unconnected
in the world as I am, my early prospects
clouded, my future ones dreary aud comfortless,
what is there to make me wish existence lengthened?
Do not think me discontented, or quarrelling
with life because the path I am to tread
is not marked out exactly as I could wish it; no,
I am very sensible that I enjoy many comforts,
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
which thousands more deserving than myself
are deprived of; but feeling as I do, my desolate,
unprotected state, though God forbid that I
should by wilful neglect of my health, or any
other means, hasten the moment of my release;
yet I cannot form the smallest wish that its approach
should be retarded.”
Miss Darnley had, at her mother's desire, invited
Sarah to pass a few months with them at a
small house they had at Turnham Green, and
said her daughter should continue her studies at
home under her inspection; but this, from the
consideration of young Darnley's pointed assiduities,
she positively, though politely, rejected;
nor did I blame her.
Among the many who visited the school, to
inspect the improvement of pupils, whom they
had placed there, was Lady Bentley; she had two
children sent from the West-Indies to her care,
and having had some slight personal knowledge
of Sarah Osborn, during her father's prosperity,
hearing that she was the principal teacher at
Mrs. Harrop's, gave that school the preference.
This amiable and worthy woman saw with regret
the visible alteration in her interesting countenance.
“My dear young lady,” said she one day,
when they were alone in the drawing room, “you
are not well; I wish you had some situation
that would be less fatiguing, and more congenial
to your nature. Sir James Bentley was well acquainted
with your father, and regretted to me
the other day, that the daughter of his old friend
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
was not placed in some family of rank, where
she might meet associates, such as she has been
accustomed to, and be useful to society, by imparting
her fine talents to two or three pupils at
most, without, by incessant application, endangering
her health. Tell me, Miss Osborn,
could such a situation be found, would it meet
with your approbation?”
This was addressing Sarah, in the style which
was to lead her to whatever was desired. Tears
started to her eyes, she acknowledged Lady
Bentley's goodness; the mention of her father's
name, accompanied with expressions of respect,
was so soothing to her heart, that she readily
agreed to do whatever might be thought necessary
for the establishment of her health. A Mrs.
Beaumont, a widow lady, with two daughters,
one twelve, and the other fourteen years of age,
was going for the winter to Bath. Lady Bentley
thought it would be the very thing for Sarah;
the lady wanted a companion, who would case
her of the constant care she thought necessary
to be paid to girls of the age of her daughters.
To be with them at the hours when their masters
attended them; walk with them, visit with
them, read and work with them—all which Mrs.
Beaumont found it inconvenient to do herself, as
(though not a dissipated woman) she kept a good
deal of company, and the late hours of the preceding
evening often prevented her rising in time
to superintend their morning studies, or accompany
their morning rambles.
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
She was a woman of a lively disposition, conciliating
in her manners, perfectly well bred, and
not likely to make any person feel a state of dependence.
She was introduced to Sarah, was
charmed with her demeanor, and made her such
offers as were honorable to her own liberal nature,
and highly advantageous to my friend. Mrs. Harrop
was thunderstruck when she found Miss Osborn
actually intended leaving her; yet she could
not but be sensible that her health required it.
She strove to draw her into a promise to return
to her in the spring, but this Sarah was too wise
to accede to. Previous to her taking her journey,
she spent three weeks with me, and Frederic
being with us, the lively parties and excursions
he was continually contriving, helped to
restore a great portion of her health and cheerfulness.
Mr. Lewis himself was much better
pleased with his sister's situation; he had been
with her on a morning visit to Mrs. Beaumont,
and was satisfied, that she was a perfectly wellbred
woman; which to a person of a delicate
mind, is one guarantee for happiness; for it is a
certainty, no person accustomed to the forms of
good breeding, and to that suavity of manners,
which is dictated by a polished understanding, especially
when accompanied by even the smallest
portion of good nature, can be happy in the society
of ill bred persons. Of her situation
during her stay at Bath, I refer you to her own
letter, which I enclose.
ANNE.
-- 030 --
LETTER VI. SARAH TO ANNE.
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
Bath, December 17, 1773.
YOU are dissatisfied with my short letter,
what can I say to fill a long one? I am in better
health than when I left London; Mrs. Beaumont
is attentively polite, her daughters are pleasant
children, and could I spend my time wholly with
them, I should be extremely happy; yet, even as
it is, I am far from being unhappy. I love company,
but it must be the company of my equals.
You will say, are not those with whom you associate
so? Yes, but the generality of them think
themselves so vastly my superiors, and when they
pay me any civility, let me know in such a
pointed manner, that I owe their attentions entirely
to my connection with Mrs. Beaumont,
that I sometimes feel inclined almost to reject
their supercilious kindness. I have been to the
rooms; I would gladly have been excused, but
no apologies would be admitted. I was particularly
careful that my dress should be as simple
as possible; I never loved finery, and in my
present circumstances, the smallest appearance
of it, would be highly ridiculous; yet, simple as
my appearance was, I was unfortunate enough to
attract attention. Now, could I find it in my
heart to play the romantic girl, and write you
the whole occurrences of the evening, tell you
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
how elegantly I danced, and how finely I was
complimented; describe the dresses of half the
company, some from memory, and supply the
rest by invention; tell you of the handsome men,
and affected women; but I do so despise the general
style of girlish letters, and hear them so
often and so deservedly ridiculed by men of understanding,
that the very fear of having a letter
of mine meet the eye of a man of discernment,
will ever keep me from writing nonsense. Observe
the compliment I pay myself, in supposing
I can at any time write sense. Anne, last post
brought me another letter besides your valued
favor—that Darnley—what does he write for?
I wish he would not trouble himself about me.
Have you seen Frederic lately? When does he
sail? Dear worthy Frederic, how anxious he is
about my health and ease, how gladly would he
sacrifice all his little earnings to place me in
what he calls independence? But his ideas and
mine, on that subject, are different; while by
any laudable exertion of my own, I avoid being
a burthen to my friends, or a tax upon society
in general, I am, in my own opinion, perfectly
independent.
Last week, Mrs. Beaumont went with a party
to Clifton, and left me with my little companions
to pass the time as I pleased, and a delightful
time I had. As soon as the morning lessons
were over, I sallied out to the library, provided
myself with a good quantity of books, in the instructive
yet amusing style, and ordering a fire
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
in my own apartment, took out my drawing apparatus,
and sat down to copy a beautiful landscape
which I had transported from the drawing
room for that purpose, while Eliza and Lucy
read to me alternately. The day passed charmingly,
we never left the room but to dine, and
take tea; after which, music filled up the time
till nine o'clock, when my companions retired to
rest, and after an hour's indulgence with Spenser's
“Fairy Queen,” I followed their example.
The next day, and the following, we took long
walks on the parade and the crescent, and I will
own, agreeable as Mrs. Beaumont is, I almost
regretted when Saturday brought her home; for
now we are going on as usual, dressing, visiting,
and turning night into day; for though the public
rooms are not allowed to keep open later than
twelve o'clock, yet there are constantly large
private parties. I have some suspicion that the
gay and amiable widow will ere long again enter
the hymeneal pale, and that with a person
much younger than herself. Her kind friends
sneer at the attentions he pays her, but for my
own part I do not wonder at the preference
given her by the men in general; her person
still retains much fascination, her face is handsome,
her manners engaging, her understanding
highly cultivated, and her temper uncommonly
good. This is not the only professed admirer
who dangles after us to the theatre, dances attendance
at the tea-table, and lounges with us
at the libraries and pump-rooms—a Sir Watkin
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
Alden, a baronet, young, rich, handsome, and a
libertine. I can see the title has no charms
with Mrs. Beaumont. The native unadorned
merit of Mr. Frankly has made a serious impression
on her mind, and without being what is
called in love, I believe she is very sincerely attached
to him. And now I am on this subject,
I feel myself impelled to mention a circumstance
which has given me some pain, because
it has humbled me. This Sir Watkin has dared,
(shall I confess it, even to you, dear Anne?) whilst
openly addressing Mrs Beaumont, to make professions
of love to your humiliated friend; and
when my replies were such, as affronted delicacy
and wounded honor dictated, he laughed in
my face, and asked me what I meant to do with
my pretty person, high breeding, and splendid
accompl hments? The men are not in haste to
marry, except interest impels. “Oh that I were
a man,” said I, and my indignant passion so
choked me that I could not utter another syllable,
and could with difficulty restrain my tears.
“Why, what would you do?” said he, catching
my hands as I was rising to quit the room—
“Strike you to the earth, for your base, your
unmannerly conduct.” “Would you so, fair
tyrant?” cried he, insultingly. “But, my dear,
if you were a man, recollect, I should not give
you this cause for anger.” “Wretch!” cried I,
in a stifled voice, and wrenching my hands from
his grasp. In the exertion I made to disengage
them, my right hand suddenly burst from his hold
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
and struck his face. The blow was not intentional,
but it was not a light one; his nose gushed out with
blood. I darted out of the room, and left him to
make what excuses he could to Mrs. Beaumont,
whose footsteps I heard ascending the first flight
of stairs as I hastily ran up the second. This man's
insolence has given such a wound to my sensibility,
to my pride, and self love, that the remembrance
embitters all my moments of retirement
and reflection. What can I have done or
said, what action of my life can have given him
leave to hope he might succeed in his unworthy
attempts upon my honor? Heaven be praised,
my heart is not made of inflammable matter; it
is a quiet, rational kind of heart, and has never
yet fluttered at the fine speeches of a handsome
man, or bounded at the pressure of a hand, sending
its vital fluid to kiss the fingers which enfolded
mine. Yet, these are sensations I have heard
described by others; have read of in romances
and novels. Perhaps you will say he might have
succeeded in awakening these emotions, had he
proceeded cautiously. I do not think he would;
I believe I have a very sure guard against imbibing
any foolish passion—I am poor, Anne, but I
am proud, very proud—Oh, my full heart!—
Pardon my troubling you with this silly affair;
but it gave me pain, and I know you ever sympathize
in the pains and pleasures of your honored
and obliged,
SARAH.
-- 035 --
LETTER VII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
London, January, 1776.
YOU perceive by the letter I enclosed in my
last, that my young friend's situation was not
entirely congenial to her feelings, though she
would not complain. She says she is proud; it
is true, she is so, but it is that kind of proper
pride, which is the safeguard of female virtue.
I heard from an acquaintance, who was at Bath
at the period she was there, that she was an object
of admiration, ill nature and envy. This
you will say is a strange assertion, yet it was
actually so. The simplicity and frankness of
her manner, the brilliancy of her understanding,
and high cultivation of her talents, made her
society courted by the men, and rendered her an
object of general dislike to the women, for it is a
humiliating circumstance to confess, that beauty,
wit and talents, are by no means possessions to
secure a friend in our own sex. Why is this?
Why do women suffer that degrading quality
envy, to predominate in their bosoms? Men
naturally esteem those who are most worthy
esteem; to be brave, generous, learned, magnanimous,
will gain a man the respect, the
veneration of all; his society is courted, his
friendship thought an honor, even though his
person should not be a perfect model of the Apollo
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
Belvidere . But no, I beg your pardon, I recollect
a celebrated wit and satiric modern poet,
avers that,
Superior virtue, or superior sense,
To knaves, and fools, will always give offence.
And here is no particular sex aimed at, it is
then the wicked, the weak and the vain of both,
who envy merits they strive not themselves to
acquire. But I am running from my subject.
Sarah, so far from being flattered by the attentions
of the men, was, as she herself forcibly
expresses it, humbled; the situation of her mind,
together with the irregular hours Mrs. Beaumont
kept, rendered the medicinal virtues of the
Bath waters of no effect. You may ask perhaps
why did she not decline parties so prejudicial to
her health? She did on her first entering the
family make an effort to that purpose; but Mrs.
Beaumont, who thought society necessary to
amend the spirits of her young companion, pressed
so earnestly, that there was no opposing her
desires without rudeness, and let her have been
up ever so late at night, she always rose in time
to attend the young ladies at their lessons. In
March they returned to London. But I was
shocked at the appearance of Sarah; every bad
symptom was evidently increased, and I was
assured by a physician whom I had requested to
call as by accident to see her, nothing but quiet
and regular living would have any chance of
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
restoring her. Mrs. Beaumont was unwilling to
part with her, said she should not be plagued
with the children, she would send them to school.
Sarah smiled. The dear children, madam, said
she, are my comforts; I could not have remained
with you so long, had not my heart been strongly
drawn towards those interesting young ladies.
I am honored by your friendship, venerate and
respect your virtues, am grateful for the many
favors you have conferred on me; but neither
my health, spirits, nor situation in life, render it
proper for me to be continually mixing in scenes
to which your rank make you familiar, and of
which you are an ornament. And this fine flattering
speech, replied Mrs. Beaumont, is to gild
over the positive rejection of my proposal, and
let me know as politely as possible, you are determined
to leave me; well, I must submit, only
belive me, should you ever want a friend, you
will be sure to find one in me. When Sarah left
this amiable woman, she presented her with an
elegant pocket book, which on opening, was
found to contain a note of fifty guineas, together
with a most affectionate letter, recommending
her to a widow lady, who resided at Islington,
who would be glad to take her as a boarder, where
she might enjoy pure air, quiet, and the exercise
of walking, whenever she felt inclined, in a large
garden. I should have insisted on her going with
me on some tour of pleasure, but business of an
important nature obliged me to visit Paris, and
the speed with which I was obliged to travel, as
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
well as the length of the journey, made it impossible
she should accompany me thither. The
evening before my departure, I passed a few hours
with her at her new habitation, and discovered
that the old lady with whom she had taken up
her abode, was a distant relation of the Darnley
family. This was an unpleasant circumstance to
Sarah, but she was every way else so comfortably
accommodated, and reflecting wherever she
was, Mrs. Darnley would claim a sight of visiting
her, she made no attempt to remove. Whilst I
was sitting with her, we were greatly surprised
by the entrance of Frederic Lewis, who had
returned unexpectedly from a cruise, and I left
her in better spirits, than I otherwise should,
from the idea that she had in him a proper and
affectionate protector. His ship was coming up
to Deptford, to undergo a thorough repair; he
would therefore be enabled to visit her every
two or three days, and would, I was certain, in
case of increasing ill health, suffer her to want
neither medical, nor other assistance, which he
had the power of procuring for her. She had a
prospect,should she be restored to health,of being
placed in a family of rank, as governess to the
children, and to reside entirely with them, at
the family seat in Merionethshire. I remained
on the continent six months, and added to the
satisfaction of having completed the business
for which I took the journey the felicity of
forming an acquaintance with you, dear madam,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
an acquaintance which time has ripened into a
tender esteem, and has laid the foundation of a
friendly intercourse, which I flatter myself is
equally pleasurable to both.
I received several letters from Sarah, during
my residence abroad; the last I received previous
to my leaving Paris shocked me by announcing
her marriage with George Darnley. I
enclose the letter,[1] as it will best inform you of
her motives, her prospects, her feelings and
anxieties, at this eventful period.
Yours with esteem,
ANNE.
Footnotes
eaf330.n1[1] The reader is referred to Letter I.
LETTER VIII. SARAH TO ANNE.
London, June, 1777.
WHY do you tarry so long from town, dear
Anne? Yet I need not inquire; you find health
and pleasure in the retired shades of Wiltshire,
nor once let your fancy wander to the smoke,
noise, and confusion of London. Not once, do I
say? Pardon me, Anne; you sometimes think
on me, mentally inquire how I do, what I am
about, and whether I am happy.
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
I want you in town, I want your advice—yet
cannot wait to receive it. I will tell you what
has happened, what I have heard, and what I am
about to do; and though before you receive this, I
shall have done it past recal, I pray you do not
spare me if you think I have erred, speak to me
in the language of sincerity, correct my faults,
severely lash and ridicule my follies, for it is my
firm opinion, Anne, that more than half the vices
and follies with which this sublunary sphere so
plentifully abounds, owe their origin to the want
of truth, in the intercourse between the animated
atoms with which it is peopled; every vice
that can disgrace humanity, is dignified with
some specious name, and decorated with such
tinsel finery, that it almost assumes the appearance
of a virtue. Why can we not speak plain,
openly avow the detestation we feel toward a
deviation from rectitude, and treat profligacy of
all kinds, with the contempt it deserves. But
this is not proceeding in a direct line with the
story I was about to commence; no matter, mariners
say there is more pleasure in traverse sailing,
when by dexterous management they reach
in safety the intended port, than in proceeding
in a straight course with a fair wind.
Last Monday evening, Darnley was gone to his
club. Anne, I don't like these clubs; they smoke,
drink and dispute, until they fancy themselves
statesmen, heroes, and demigods, and go home
to their wives in a state little removed from brutality;
preach about the prerogative and dignity
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
of man, the great lord of creation, and expect
their simply rational companions to bow with
submission, and acknowledge their supremacy.
Well, Darnley, was at his club. Mary Melbourn
had past the evening with me; she is
on a visit of two or three months to Darnley's
mother, and having a bad head ache, had retired
early. I had played until I was weary, and was
sitting in a kind of listless half sleep and awake
manner, when a single rap at the street door
made me start; the servant, who was sitting up
in the kitchen, ran to the door, but had the precaution
to put the chain across before she opened
it. “Does not Mr. George Darnley live here?”
said a faint female voice. Betty replied in the
affirmative. “Is he at home?” asked the same
voice. “No,” she replied, “but my mistress is.”
“Your mistress, what, Mr. Darnley's mother?”
“No, his wife.” “His wife?” she exclaimed shrilly,
and seemed choked with an hysteric affection,—
then pausing a moment or two, she said,—
“I am to blame—I have business of importance,
young woman, to transact with your master;
pray give him this letter, and request him
not to fail coming early in the morning, to the
place I have mentioned, for I am come off a long
journey,fatigued, ill, distressed, and can only look
to him for comfort and repose.” At every sentence
the agitated female uttered, I had drawn
nearer and nearer the head of the stairs, and when
she had finished the last, was actually half way
down, but before I could speak, she was gone,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
having left the letter in Betty's hands. The girl
met me on the stairs, and offered to give me the
folded paper: that almost irresistible propensity,
which undid madam Eve, had nearly compelled
me to take it; but before I had touched it I recalled
my better reason. “Go,” said I, “put it
in the card racks in your master's counting house.
I will go to bed,”—and I actually did go to bed,
lest I might be tempted to pry into a letter which
might be only on business, and in no way whatever
concern me. There was something strange
in the woman's coming at that hour of the night,
for it was past ten o'clock; her voice, too, seemed
the voice of wounded sensibility. These reflections
kept me waking, and when Darnley
came home, I told him of the letter, and bade
the maid bring it to him. I am interrupted.
Adieu until next post.
SARAH.
LETTER VIII. SARAH TO ANNE. [In continuation. ]
London, June, 1777.
I WAS unable to restrain the inclination I felt
to watch the countenance of Darnley, whilst he
perused the letter; he appeared considerably
agitated; he crumpled it up, and turning hastily
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
to me, asked, “Who brought this letter?” “A
woman.” “Did you see her?” “No, I did not,
but if I could judge from the tone of her voice,
she was in great distress.” “She is in great distress,”
he replied. “I hope then, you will do
what you can to serve her.” “You hope, Sarah?”
“Yes, Mr. Darnley; are you surprised at
my expressing an interest for an afflicted woman?”
“No, but she is an entire stranger to
you, and why should you wish or care about
her?” “Only as a distressed fellow creature.”
“Well, I shall think about her in the morning.”
“And visit her, won't you? She seemed very
anxious to see you.” “Yes, and visit her, if you
desire it.” I perceived he was in one of those
kind of humors, which only waits the opportunity
of saying ill natured things, and is ready to
catch and repeat every word, in order to cavil
at it, so imagined I should shew most prudence
in remaining silent. You have never been married,
Anne; so cannot inform me whether it is so
or not, but if every married man is so captious,
and petulant, so angry at their wives' only expressing
a difference in opinions in the mildest
words: I wonder how any woman can be so passionately
attached to them. But, perhaps, that
passionate attachment prevents their seeing any
fault in them, and they, supposing all the man,
thus idolized, says, does, or thinks is right, never
take the trouble of contradicting him; assent
implicitly to his opinions, however absurd, and
will not exert their own mental powers to think
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
or decide for themselves. Happy beings! but
this is a kind of felicity in which I shall never be
a partaker. Yet Darnley is not what the world
calls an ill tempered man, nor of the lowest order
in point of understanding; and heaven is my
judge, I try to view every action, every word, in
the fairest point of view, and I really think if he
was to take a different method from what he
does, I should in time teach my heart to feel for
him every sentiment, which it is necessary to
form a complete system of permanent happiness,
at least, as far as it depends on a mutual interchange
of kind offices, and that solicitude to promote
each other's peace of mind, which ought
to be constantly kept in view, by persons residing
continually under the same roof, and destined
to pass their lives together. But to return, I
have reason to think that neither of us passed a
very pleasant night. Darnley was restless, and
slept little, sighed frequently, and seemed anxiously
watching for daylight, as he arose several
times, and unclosed the shutter to look out;
this being the case, it cannot be supposed I
rested very well; however, about four o'clock,
I fell into a sound sleep, and on awaking at half
past eight, found he was risen and gone out. I
dressed hastily, that I might be ready for breakfast
when he returned: it was near ten o'clock
when he came in. “Well,” said he, throwing
his hat into a chair, “why have you waited
breakfast? I have been to see Mrs. Romain, and
have breakfasted with her.” “Been to see who,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
cousin George?” said Miss Melbourn, looking
hastily up from a book, which she had been reading.
“Mrs. Romain, my pretty Polly,” said he,
facetiously chucking her under the chin, “you
know she was formerly a flame of mine.” “So
the world said,” replied Mary, her face in a glow,
and her large black eyes speaking a vast deal
more than she permitted her tongue to utter.
“Well, cousin Mary, don't you be jealous, if my
wife gives me leave to visit an old sweetheart,
surely you will not forbid me, and upon my honor,
the last words she said to me last night, was
to desire me to visit Mrs. Romain early.” “And
I am very glad, my dear,” said I, “you obeyed
my commands; and though you have breakfasted
with her, seeing you are in such an obedient
humor, I command you now to sit down and
breakfast again with me.”
He sat down, and took up the newspaper. I
I did not intend to have said a word more concerning
the letter or lady, I felt no uneasiness;
if she had once been a favorite, he had given a
positive proof that I had been preferred, and why
should I teaze him with an affectation of jealousy,
which, when proceeding from affection, however
it may be thought a proof of the wife's love, pays
the husband's integrity, a very ill compliment?
But Mary Melbourn could not let the matter
rest. “How long has Mrs.Romain been in town?”
said she, addressing Darnley. “She arrived late
last night from Dover.” “I heard she was gone
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
to be a boarder in the convent of St. Omers.”
“So she was, but her husband is lately dead? she
has therefore no longer a tyrant to immure her
in a prison she detested.” “I heard Romain
was dead, but think she had better have remained
where she was; I never saw her but once in my
life, I was not then pleased with her, and from
what the world has said, I think the more I had
known her the less I should have liked her.” “I
do believe, Sarah,” said he, turning laughing towards
me, “our cousin Mary here is in love with
me, she seems so uneasy at the return of Jessey.
But what will she say, when she knows I have
offered her and her child an apartment in my
family until she can get some business settled,
which a friend of mine at Calais, has written to me
to transact for her concerning her late husband's
effects?” “I have nothing to say to it,” said she,
“if Mrs. Darnley has no objection to such a companion,
it can be no business of mine; besides, I
return to your mother's today, and leave town
on Saturday.” “So soon?” said he, carelessly.
“Yes,” was the reply, and the subject was dropped.
When she had finished her breakfast, I
told Mr. Darnley, that I hoped he had not from
my silence imagined I should not be glad to receive
any person he should think proper to invite
to his house; and would, if he thought it necessary,
wait on the lady in question, and second his
invitation, as without that, she might be unwilling
to avail herself of it.” “Will you be so very
good, my kind hearted Sarah?” said he; “it will
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
indeed gratify me very much; she is a distressed
woman, has been calumniated by the world, and
ill treated by her husband's relations, who are
endeavoring to wrest the little property her
husband left, from her and her infant daughter,
in order to secure it to her son, whom they
have taken from her. Your countenancing her,
will give her an air of respectability, and restore
her to that rank in society, from which she has
unjustly been driven by the ill nature and jealousy
of a brutal husband.”
“I think, Mr. Darnley,” said I, “that the respect
due to your own honor, will prevent your
wishing to asseciate your wife with a person
whose good name had been tarnished by any wilful
act of guilt; in that confidence I shall cheerfully
do what seems to be so agreeable to your
wishes. If you will accompany me at twelve
o'clock, I will pay the proposed visit, and while
I see no cause to think Mrs. Romain guilty or
imprudent, every mark, every office of kindness
in my power, I shall be happy to shew her.”
When I went up stairs to arrange my dress,
Mary tapped at the dressing-room door; when
she entered, I perceived that her eyes were red
with weeping. “What is the matter, Mary?”
“Matter, nothing, only I don't like George's design
of bringing that woman here; the world
has been very loud in their censures of her.”
“The world often censures the innocent; but
even supposing she has been imprudent, may
she not have seen her errors, and may she not,
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
if countenanced by women of character, return
to rectitude?” “Did you never hear of her before
you were married?” “No.” “Well, the
world said she was very liberal of her favors to
cousin George.” “Again I repeat, the world
often says more than is true; but were that
even the case, as she is now situated, she had
better be under my protection, than thrown entirely
on his.” Mr. Darnley at that moment
called me; I went with him, gave the requested
invitation; it was accepted, and last evening she
became an inmate of my family. Her person
is fine, though she is past thirty; her manners
graceful, and her mind highly accomplished.
I hope and trust the world have censured her
unjustly. I shall be anxious to hear from you;
write soon, for your approbation is, next to that
of my own heart, of the utmost importance to
SARAH.
LETTER IX. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, July, 1777.
I ENCLOSE you two letters, which I have
received from Mrs. Darnley, and they will sufficiently
account for my not paying you my intended
visit. You will perceive when you have
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
perused them, that all is not right in the family
of our friend. I am angry with Darnley; he has
led his wife into an improper connexion, and I
strongly suspect his motives are not such as
would bear a strict scrutiny. I am not better
pleased with the officious meddling of Miss Melbourn.
She might, and indeed ought to have
hinted to her cousin, the impropriety of his introducing
a woman to his wife whose character
was suspicious; and who had been sent into
France by her husband, because he had reasons
to suppose that too great an intimacy subsisted
hetween her and Darnley. This, I say, would
have been a duty; but she ought by no means
to have awakened suspicions in Mrs Darnley's
bosom derogatory to her husband's honor. There
might have been methods taken to have shamed
him out of his folly, (not to give it a harsher
name,) without interrupting the peace of his
wife. I do not think Sarah is of a jealous temper,
but the inuendos of Mary Melbourn
might awaken suspicion; and where suspicion is
once called into action, every word, look and
movement is considered through a false medium,
and even the most innocent, construed into
proofs of guilt I am convinced that more than
half the uneasinesses that subsist between married
persons have originated in meddling friends
of either sex; but to our shame, I must own, I
believe our own sex more addicted to this folly
than the other. Let persons think what they
will, unless they have proofs beyond the
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
possibility of doubt, they ought to be silent;
and even in that case, it is better to reason
with the offending party, than to hint their
discoveries to the husband or wife, whom either
ardent affection, or perfect indifference, may
have rendered blind; for though in the latter
case, there is no fear of lacerating the heart of
the person to whom the information is given;
yet wounded pride will often, nay, perhaps oftener,
lead to fatal consequences than slighted
affection.
This Mrs. Romain bears the character of a
very artful woman. Her husband was a Frenchman,
and she herself, having been educated in
that country, had imbibed much of that lightness
and flippancy which frequently characterize the
women of that nation. Her mind is cultivated;
but it did not in early life receive a proper bias.
She had no kind parent to restrain the exuberance
of her vivacity, to teach her to keep her passions
under the subjection of reason and religion. Natural
consequence followed; the former hurried
her into imprudencies, the latter plunged her
into guilt. I say guilt, because there is no reason
to doubt of her criminal intimacy with Darnley.
The summer before he became acquainted
with Sarah, this woman had a small house near
the summer residence of Darnley's family. Her
manners being polished, her temper naturally
sweet, her cheerfulness exhilarating to all with
whom she associated, she soon became a favorite
with Mrs. Darnley, who, having met her several
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
times at visits in the neighborhood, invited her
to her house, and an intimacy ensued. Mr. Romain
was considerably older than herself, but
his affection to her was evident in all his actions.
The difference in their age was not so great as
to make their union appear preposterous; he
might have been fifteen years the elder; but he
was a man whom any woman might respect, and
when treated by him as his wife ever was, whom
it would, one would imagine, be next to impossible
not to love. He was sensible, had the manners
of a gentleman; was of an easy temper,
and unbounded benevolence. Mrs. Romain, at
the time she became intimate in Mr. Darnley's
family, was the mother of a fine boy, and on the
eve of again becoming a parent. Indulged by a
fond husband, to whom she owed every thing, in
every wish of her heart, adored, caressed; never
opposed; is it not wonderful that she could be
so depraved, as wilfully to throw from her this
inexhaustible mine of happiness, and court ruin
and infamy? I write not from hear-say; I write
from incontestible proofs. My mother's sister
lived in the next house, and was unwillingly
made a party in the scene of confusion which
followed the discovery of her lapse from virtue.
Mr. Romain having confided some papers to her
care, when first he began to fear his wife's affections
were estranged from him, without mentioning
his suspicions; when those suspicions
were fully confirmed, relieved his almost breaking
heart, by relating many circumstances, which
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
might otherwise have never transpired. My
aunt never mentioned the affair until after Darnley
was married to my friend Sarah; and then
a sudden exclamation, that he was unworthy so
good a wife, led to the relation. I will continue
my narrative next week. Adieu.
ANNE.
LETTER X. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, July, 1777.
THE autumn of the summer mentioned to you
in my last, business of a very particular nature,
took Mr. Romain to Paris. His wife having
just recovered from her confinement, was not
able to undertake the journey with him; though
her perfect state of convalescence was evinced
very shortly after his departure. George Darnley
had visited there frequently, while the husband
was at home; his visits were, after he was
gone, as frequent as ever; this would not have
been noticed by the neighbors had it rested there;
but he took her often out to ride in a chaise, perhaps
as often as twice a week; sometimes they
would go out in the morning and remain out all
day; sometimes he waited on her to the play,
to the opera, and once to a masquerade, from
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
whence they did not return until day light in the
morning.
In October, Mrs. Darnley and her family returned
to London, but George found various
pretences for sleeping in the country, and at
length they were so lost to all sense of propriety,
that he passed every night at her house, alleging
by way of excuse, that as the nights grew long,
she was afraid to sleep alone in a house so far
from town, to which place, her health and that
of her infant, (who was indeed extremely indisposed)
would not permit her to return.
Thus the autumn, and almost the whole winter
wore away: in February, Mr. Romain came
unexpectedly home. It was evening when he
arrived, and expressed some astonishment at
seeing George Darnley there, quite in a family
way, for as it was late, he had his slippers on.
But whatever he might think, he said but little.
A few days after his arrival, he called on my
aunt, and putting a packet of papers into her
hands, requested her to keep them until he called
for them, saying, they were of great consequence,
and he would not have her part with
them to any person whatever.
My aunt had very little commerce with Mrs.
Romain, but now and then, she would come of a
morning, and sit an hour or two when the
weather prevented her from making longer excursions,
or perhaps, when she wished to avoid
any company whom she had reason to think
would call at that time. In one of these chance
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
visits, she informed my aunt, that Mr. Romain
had thoughts of removing to St. Omer's; that
he had a sister settled there, and wanted his
family to be near her. “I do not want to go,”
continued she, “his sister is a stiff, formal old
maid, who has lived all her life in a convent,
though she is not a nun; he only wants to be
there, that she may be a spy upon my conduct;
and when he makes a journey, he may clap me
into the stupid nunnery; for he says no woman
ought to remain in society, receiving and paying
visits, and going to public places, when her husband
is absent.”
My aunt could make no reply to such a remark,
she had thought herself that Mrs. Romain
would have shewn most prudence by remaining
more at home, and not admitting young Darnley
to be so constantly with her: she had thought
her conduct very reprehensible, but she was not
upon such intimate terms as could authorize a
remonstrance, which, however, delicately given,
or friendly designed, might have been deemed
impertinence.
Mr. Romain had been home but a short time,
when the death of their youngest child seemed
to recal the mother to some degree of reflection,
for several weeks she led a retired life, and
all company was excluded the house. But the
heart that has once become the slave of a depraved
affection, soon grows insensible to those
which do honor to humanity. A retirement with
a husband who almost idelized his children, and
who most severely felt the death of this little girl,
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
by no means suited the levity of her disposition.
She had made some acquaintances with women of
doubtful reputation; her husband remonstrated,
but she was incorrigible, and persisted even in
appearing with them in public. This hastened his
preparations for a removal, though in the mean
time, he harbored the most tormenting suspicions;
these suspicions were at length fully confirmed.
It was late one evening, my aunt was just
preparing to retire for the night, when Mrs. Romain's
upper servant came running into the
house, and with a terrified aspect, begged her
to go to her mistress, whom she believed was
dying—“There has been dreadful work at our
house, ma'am,” said the young woman, “but
master begs you will come in.” My aunt threw
on a shawl hastily, and followed the maid. She
found Mr. Romain pale, and dreadfully agitated,
leaning over a sofa, on which lay his imprudent
wife, deprived of sense and motion. “Come,
madam,” said he, in a voice almost choaked with
contending passions, “come, and do something
for this unhappy woman, whom fear, shame, and
anxiety for an unworthy villain, whom I have
horsewhipped out of my house, have thrown into
this situation.” They applied volatiles to her
nose, temples, and wrists, loosened her clothes,
and in about half an hour, she began to have
some recollection: the moment she saw her husband,
who had been, spite of his injuries, anxiously
assiduous about her, while in a state of
insensibility; she raised her hands, clasped them
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
in an agony, covered her face, and burst into
tears. “Do not leave her, madam, I entreat
you,” said the distracted husband, “I cannot
speak to her now, but will endeavor to regain
some composure, and return to her in an hour
or two.” He left them, and shut himself up in
his study. Mrs. Romain was led to her bed
chamber; she spoke not a word, but her tears
flowed so violently, that it appeared like hysterical
affection. They prevailed upon her to take
some wine and water, into which they put a few
drops of a composing nature, which my aunt had
sent for from her own house; this, in a measure,
stilled the agitation of her frame, and towards
morning, she dropped into a broken slumber.
At day light, Mr. Romain sent a request to speak
to my aunt; she went to his study, giving the
servant a strict charge not to quit her mistress.
“You see, madam,” said he, as my aunt entered,
“a man almost driven to distraction, by
the infidelity of a woman he adores; when I
brought you those papers some few weeks since,
I had great reason to suppose my wife had forfeited
her good name, and made a sacrifice of
my honor on the altar of illicit passion. I had
picked up a paper folded in the form of a letter,
but without superscription or signature, I thought
the writing to be that of Jessey's; but the hand
was so disguised, I could not be certain. This
infamous scrawl expressed a thorough dislike to
one person, whom I suspected was myself, and
a most passionate regard for another, whom I
imagined to be that insidious villain, Darnley.
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
It expressed a strong desire to be released from
the fetters which bound the writer to one, and
set her at liberty to devote herself to the other;
an offer to quit her legal protector, and go to
any part of the world with her paramour; concluding
with saying, she could take with her papers,
which would secure her independence.
This, I imagine, referred to the writings of an
estate, which, previous to our marriage, I had
settled on Jessey. I shewed her this diabolical
paper; but she denied all knowledge of it, with
such asseverations, and resented my suspicions
with such an appearance of conscious innocence.
that I almost doubted the evidence of my own
senses, which had noticed familiarities between
her and Darnley, which were very unbecoming a
virtuous, married woman. Determined to put the
writings mentioned beyond her reach, I placed
them with you. The death of our poor little
girl, whose decease I now rejoice in, as she was
snatched from the obloquy which ever attends
the daughter of a vicious mother; I say, madam,
the death of her child made some alteration in
her conduct, which was very pleasant to me;
and I began to hope she would see the folly and
guilt of her past behavior.”—
Elenor, I know you are interested in this narrative,
but I must drop my pen for the present.
It is a beautiful evening, and my charming little
friend Sarah waits at the door in a coach, to
take me to Kensington gardens. Adieu!
ANNE.
-- 058 --
LETTER XI. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
London, July, 1777.
I PURSUE my subject. Suppose Mr. Romain
again speaking. “Last night, madam, I was
fatally convinced, all my suspicions were just;
suffer me to remain silent concerning the scene
to which I was an excruciating witness. I rushed
into the room, with a horsewhip in my hand,
(for I had rode from town,) and made the dishonorable
reptile feel its lash pretty severely.
It is my firm resolution never to live with my
lost Jessey again; but I will not expose her to
the world. I will not drive her from me, and by
so doing, plunge her into the abyss of shame and
infamy; I am resolved to protect her against her
will. I have feared, and I am now convinced,
that a living witness of her defection will appear.
But my friends in France will know nothing of
what has passed, and I will place her in the convent
at St. Omer's, where my sister has been
from choice many years a boarder; here she may
remain until the unfortunate little being sees the
light. I will then consider what is best to be
done. I shall leave this place, and if possible,
England, this very day; aud must request you to
see to the packing of the plate, linen, &c. in
order to their being sent after us. I shall empower
a person to sell the furniture, and remit
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
me the proceeds. I think it will be best not to
take any of our present domestics, as they are
but too well acquainted with Jessey's frailty; I
have sent to the inn for a post chaise, and must
beg you to go and prepare the unhappy woman
for her removal.”
My aunt returned to Mrs. Romain; she found
her awake and rising. It was an awkward task
to inform her of her husband's resolution. She
stood with her face from my aunt while she was
speaking; but when she found she was silent,
she turned and thus addressed: “I am obliged
to you, madam, for the trouble you have taken;
I understand you have been in the house all night;
and I have no doubt but it is to your advice I owe
this hastly determination of Mr. Romain. I
must confess I think you have been unnecessarily
officious, and must beg the few moments I have
to tarry in my house, I may remain unmolested.”
As she was speaking, the chaise drove up to
the door, and Mr. Romain entered the room.
“Come, madam,” said he to his wife in a solemn
voice, “give orders to your servant to pack up a
change of clothes, and do you prepare yourself
for a journey; breakfast is ready in the parlor;
take from your drawers what you want, and
then deliver your keys to this lady, who will take
care that every thing is sent after you.” “Sir,”
said she in a haughty tone, “I do not choose that
any stranger should have the liberty of examining
my drawers.” “If, madam,” he replied, in a firm
and pointed manner, “you have any thing is
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
them you are afraid or ashamed of having seen,
it were best you removed or destroyed it before
you went away; but I desire you to be quick, as
I must depart within the hour.” She colored;
a few tears forced themselves down her cheeks;
while in an unsteady voice, she begged to be left
alone ten minutes; her request was complied
with; she then came down stairs, with a forced
appearance of composure, habited ready for her
journey. She drank a cup of chocolate with
difficulty; and, when her husband inquired if she
was ready to go, arose from her seat, saying,
“No—neither ready nor willing; but it is your
pleasure, and I must obey.” She trembled so,
she could scarcely stand; the color left her
cheeks, and it was with unequal steps, and a
bosom that throbbed almost to suffocation, that
she seated herself in the chaise. Mr. Romain
drew up the glasses; and a few hours took her
out of England; to which, had she been prudent,
she would never have returned. These circumstances,
being made known to me, when it was
too late to prevent Sarah from forming a connexion
which, I greatly fear, will prove the ruin
of her peace, I thought best not to mention them;
nor have I, since my return, permitted her to
think I am in the least acquainted with any circumstance
concerning Mrs. Romain. But I am
determined to keep a strict eye upon her, and if
I see her laying any plans to regain her ascendancy
over Darnley, I shall speak my mind both
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
to him and her, in a manner that will not be very
pleasing.
Mrs. Darnley, at present, seems inclined to
think all the reports which she has heard, were
groundless. Jessey, (as I shall henceforth call
her,) is a specious woman; very insinuating in
her manner; and my dear Sarah, with all her
good sense, is very credulous, and open to deception;
but I do earnestly hope that the film
will not fall from her eyes on this occasion; for
what situation in life is more mortifying, than
that of a neglected wife? A knowledge of
treachery on the part of her husband, would
awaken all her resentment. I know her, she
would never reproach him; she would never consider
his breach of duty as an apology for any
failure of her own. She would continue immoveable
in the path of rectitude; but such an exertion
would cause her many bitter tears; and her
sufferings would be more poignant, because she
would conceal them in her own bosom, and wear
the mask of serenity over a lacerated heart. I
shall let you know what discoveries I make; I
shall not be inquisitively prying, but I shall observe
and draw conclusions from those observations,
not to gratify any impertinent curiosity, but
in order to guard the peace of the invaluable
Sarah.
London, at this period, is not very pleasant;
Darnley talks of taking a lodging at Islington;
I think I see through his plans; his wife acquiesces
in all that he proposes; she is pleased with
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
the idea of being in the country—I hope it will,
in the end, contribute to her felicity; but I
greatly fear it will not. One remark I have
made since my return is, that Darnley lives very
freely, and has a number of men always after
him, who look like professed gamblers; they
are ill bred, and by no means society fit for his
delicate, gentle wife. Adieu.
I am in truth,
Yours, affectionately,
ANNE.
LETTER XII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, October, 1777.
THIS Jessey is more artful than I believed
her to be; she has gained such an ascendancy
over Sarah, that she leads her into all manner of
dissipation and extravagance. She is ever on
the wing, always in a crowd; a good way, you
will say, of making her inattentive to her own
particular conduct. The autumnal amusements
have commenced, and the play, the opera, or
some fashionable party occupies every evening;
this leads to great expenses, constantly appearing
in public requiring numerous changes of dress.
Sarah, indulged from infancy in elegant habiliments,
though her own taste prevents her
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
dressing fine, is thoughtlessly extravagant; elegant
laces, rich satins, with gloves, caps, shoes, &c.
suitable, are not procured for a trifling sum in
the course of a year; and Sarah is, perhaps, not
so careful of her clothes, or attentive to the expenditures
of her house keeping as she ought to
be; her heart is naturally liberal; she has no
idea of being imposed on by her servants, and
when sometimes a slight suspicion will cross her
mind, that her provisions are wasted, or her
clothes wilfully lost, any plausible excuse will
quiet her, and from a native love of peace, she
will cease to inquire concerning her domestic
concerns, or appear satisfied, when in faet, she
is not convinced; she exerts but little authority
in the management of her family: dressing,
making and receiving visits, late hours at night,
and, consequently, late mornings, have, in appearance,
totally altered the character of the
late interesting Sarah.
She gives dinners and suppers in very high
style, and is herself the very soul of the parties
she draws around her; while Jessey, satisfied
with having persuaded or flattered her into these
follies, with an assumed humility, declines joining
the parties, and I am well convinced, has more
than once instigated Darnley to blame Sarah for
a conduct, which I acknowledge very reprehensible.
But she should be remonstrated with
mildly, and not vulgarly reproached, and taunted
with having all the extravagant propensities of a
fine lady, without having brought any fortune to
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support them. Yet this unmanly reproach was
made to the humiliated Sarah, in my presence,
a few days since. To which she replied, with
more sincerity than prudence: “You knew my
poverty, and wilfully burthened yourself with a
woman, who can neither feel nor think as you
do. Yet, Mr. Darnley, let me add, if you had
treated me with the confidence due to a wife,
you would have always found me conformable in
my dress and pursuits, to the circumstances of a
husband, whom it is my duty, and would be my
pride, to honor if he would let me.”
This occasioned a violent altercation. He told
her, it was not because he could not afford it,
but because he did not choose, that she should
lead so gay a life, that he found fault. She flew
out of the room, and gave vent to her full heart
by tears, (which she ever endeavors to restrain
in his presence) in her own apartment. Thither
the officious, intrusive Jessey followed her, and
I was astonished when we met at dinner, for I
was passing the day with her, to find her dressed,
and hear her declare, she meant to join a party
to the play, from whence she was going to
a card party, and that she meant to sup out.
She entreated me to accompany her; but I
very good naturedly felt at that moment a strong
propensity to stay and keep Mrs. Romain company.
And stay I did, much to the mortification
of that amiable lady, and her more amiable
chere amie.
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I found a new novel in Sarah's dressing room,
and bidding the maid fetch Mrs. Romain's work,
told Darnley we did not want him, so he
might as well follow his wife to the play; and
having partly laughed, and partly satirized him
into some sense of shame, I had the pleasure to
see him depart, and very composedly begun and
finished the novel before twelve o'clock; at
which hour, Jessey being no longer able to command
her impatience, and pretend pleasure,
when in truth she was bursting with vexation,
said she was sleepy, rang for candles, and with
a profusion of civility, bade me a good night.
About two o'clock Sarah returned, and Darnley
with her; he was very petulant, and taking
a candle, went immediately to his room. Sarah
threw herself on the sofa, and burst into tears.
“What is the matter, my dear?” I asked.
“Nothing of consequence,” said she, “I am
ashamed of myself, but—” “I am afraid, my
dear Sarah,” said I, in a softened, almost hesitating
voice, “that you are somewhat to blame, in
the little disagreement of to-day; you must not
be offended, you have even given me leave to be
sincere with you; why, when Mr. Darnley expressed
a dislike to your leading so dissipated a
life, why did you immediately dress and go out?
My dear friend, you must snbmit a little.”
“Anne,” said she, wiping away her tears, “I feel
you are right, but I cannot command my temper
at all times. I know it is wrong to complain, the
die is cast, and I must be silent and unresisting.
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But, my dear Anne, why does he not treat me
with confidence? Why am I kept a stranger in all
his concerns? I know not whether he can afford
the style in which we live, or whether he is
worth a single guinea; sometimes he will give
me money unasked; sometimes buy me finery
in profusion; at other times, he grudges every
thing, and will rail at me for wearing his presents,
though it was solely to do him honor that
I put them on. It is the last time, Anne, I will
ever speak on the subject; but my lot is not a
very happy one, even at the best; and, had I
entertained the smallest idea of the misery, the
certain misery that must attend a woman, married
to a man from whom her nature shrinks repugnant;
whose every word, opinion and action,
is an outrage to her sensibility, I would
have submitted to the most menial day labor,
before I would have taken upon myself duties I
have not the patience and fortitude to fulfil as I
ought. Heaven knows,” continued she, and her
lips began to tremble, and her voice to falter,
“Heaven knows I strive to consider him with
respect; to behold him with affection; but how
can I compel my heart to love a man, who one
hour treats me with rudeness and contempt, and
the next, with a disgusting fondness, even more
repulsive to me than his ill nature? Anne, I
have spoken with sincerity; I ever considered
you as a second self, and must now entreat you
to bury what I have said in your bosom When
you see me acting wrong, as I know I have done
-- 067 --
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to-day, do not hesitate to reprove me; but in regard
to him, I pray you be silent; he is apparently
good natured, liberal and cheerful; the world
believes me happy, I would not undeceive them.”
“I will implicitly regard your prudent injunction,”
I replied, struck with the magnanimity of
her resolution, “but will you allow me to mention
one thing more, which I really think it my
duty to point out to you, as I believe much of
your happiness in future will depend on your attending
to my advice on this subject. Be upon
your guard against Mrs. Romain; do not let her
persuade you to act in opposition to your husband's
will, and gloss such a conduct over with
the name of spirit, resolution, and proper independence.”
“Anne,” said she, “do you apprehend
that Jessey has any interested views in
sowing dissention between us?”
I perceived her drift, and, rising, said, “I
think nothing, only that Mrs. Romain is not a
woman whom I could wish to see the friend of
Sarah Darnley. She has a strong tincture of
foreign manners, and what is dignified with the
appellation of a masculine mind; but she has not
one quality which should give her an ascendancy
over such a mind as yours Good night,” said I,
kissing her cheek, “let me see you good friends
with that unaccountable being, your husband, to-morrow;
and while you have yourself every
disposition to make your fetters easy, do not suffer
officious meddlers to render them galling.
-- 068 --
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Act always from the impulse of your own heart,
and I am sure you will act right.”
The next morning I had the pleasure to see
them quite composed and civil to each other;
and to prevent any interposition that might again
stir up discontent, I insisted upon Mrs. Romain's
going to spend a few days with me. She went
home yesterday, and I have not heard from Sarah
since.
Yours, in sincerity,
ANNE.
LETTER XIII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, March 20, 1778.
IT is some time since I wrote to you. My
time has been variously occupied, and that not
in the most agreeable manner. Mrs. Darnley
has suffered much during the period in which
my pen has lain dormant, and I have given myself
up to her comfort. Darnley has lost his
mother; she was an amiable woman, and in her
soicety Sarah often found solace for her afflicted
heart. I look upon this bereavement as peculiarly
unfortunate for her, as the respectability of
his mother's character, her steady, though unassuming
love of virtue, made George anxious to
preserve some respect to decency; but that
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
slight restraint removed, he will no longer regard
appearances. He is going, I fear, the high road
to ruin. The sums he lavishes on Jessey are
astonishing, while a tradesman is allowed to call
repeatedly for his money to no purpose. Sarah's
thoughtlessness and folly (for I must give it that
harsh term) increases; the more agonized her
heart, (and agonized it is I am certain in a very
high degree,) the more dissipated her conduct;
and to see her in company, you wonld suppose
her the happiest of the happy. When alone,
she either sits pensive and unemployed, except
in reading some work of fancy, or applies to
her music, playing and singing the most plaintive
airs, while tears roll down her cheeks, and
she seems lost to all but exquisite sensibility.
Yet from such a state of depression, she will
start suddenly up, dress, and fly to some scene
of pleasure; often losing very considerable sums
at cards, and seldom or ever returning until very
late at night—sometimes she is favored with her
husband's company, but oftener she is left to
herself. I am almost continually with her; for
I do not think a young and prepossessing woman
can be placed in a more perilous situation,
than to be neglected by her husband, and
yet constantly mixing in that kind of society
which abounds with libertines and flatterers, who
think such a woman ever an object of illicit pursuit.
Not that I doubt Sarah's principles, I
know she loves virtue for its own sake; but she
is imprudent, and might inadvertently fall into
-- 070 --
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situations, which may ruin her reputation, and
perhaps her peace of mind for ever. I am going
this evening to her house, to remain a week
with her, and shall not finish my letter until
I retire for the night.
The veil is at length rent, Sarah can no longer
even pretend blindness to the insult her husband
has offered her. How she will conduct on this
trying occasion, I cannot think, nor can I dare
to advise; I can only commiserate her situation,
and weep, not with, (for she has not shed a
tear,) but for her. My mind is so agitated, and
has been so, since the discovery was made,
that I could not write last night, and even now,
I hardly know how to frame my account, for
the scene of last evening seems in my memory
but as the traces of a horrid vision. But I will
endeavor to proceed with some degree of regularity.
I have already told you, I was to go to Mrs.
Darnley's last evening, with a design to spend a
week. I had appointed to meet her in a large
party, at a friend's house in Berkley-street, and
was to proceed home with her after the party
broke up. She was not there when I arrived,
but came soon after accompanied by Mrs. Romain.
“Where is Darnley?” said I, when she
was seated beside me. “He had the head ache,”
she replied, “and will not come out to-night.”
“Then why, my dear Sarah,” said I, “did you
come out?” “Why, Anne,” she replied, rather
petulantly, “you know my company affords him
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
no pleasure; his conversation is only fit for the
gaming table, the race ground, or a worse place.
I cannot, will not listen to discourse so offensive
to my ears, so degrading to my feelings; and he
will listen to no other.”
I knew well enough this was the case, and
therefore could say no more. She seemed a moment
after to recollect herself, and said, “I do
not mean to stay late.” However she sat down
to a commerce table, and forgot her good intentions
until near one o clock; I then seeing the
pool was out, and that she was preparing to join
another party, reminded her of the hour. Mrs.
Romain had been engaged in a whist party in
another room; we now inquired for her, and
found she had been sent for above two hours before,
a message coming that her child was ill.
I must own my heart sunk at this discovery, and
I thought a flash of awakened suspicion kindled
upon the check of Sarah. It was full half an
hour before the coach could get up to the door,
and even when it did, and we were seated in
it, whatever were the thoughts of either, we
seemed mutually resolved to restrain them
within the bounds of silence. When we arrived
at home, just as the carriage drove up to the
door, it was opened by one of the maids who
was letting a visitor out; this prevented the
usual rap at the door. “Where is Mrs Romain?”
said Sarah, impatiently. “In the drawing
room,” said the maid. “How is your
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
master?” “Better, I believe, he has been in bed
these two hours.”
Sarah opened the drawing room door, the
candles were burning on the table, but the room
was empty. “I will go up and see how Darnley
is,” said she, taking a chamber candle from
the servant, “and will see you again for a few
minutes before I go to bed.”
She ran hastily up stairs, she is very light of
foot, besides which, the stairs are carpeted, so
that her ascent seemed no more than the gliding
of a shadow. I sat down by the fire; in less than
two minutes she returned, her face pale, and
positively gasping for breath. Her limbs scarcely
supported her to the sofa, where I was
sitting, on which she sunk almost insensible.
Alarmed, I rang for water; she swallowed a little,
and then speaking with difficulty, bade the
servant go to bed; she could undress herself,
she said, and as she knew where to find her
night clothes, there was no occasion for her to
go into the room. The poor girl, who suspected
what was the matter, began to speak, but Sarah
waved her from the room with an emphatic
“Go,” and a motion of the hand, which, in her,
carries with it positive command.
When the maid was gone, she turned to me,
and laying her hand on my arm, said, “Jessey is
a serpent—Darnley is a wretch.” What could
I say? I pressed her cold trembling hand, and
remained silent. “I will not expose the unprincipled
woman, nor humiliate myself by
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
reproaching the man who can thus convince me on what
a degrading passion his boasted attachment to
me was founded. I hardly know on what to determine,
but this I believe to be my duty, not to
permit Jessey to remain another day under my
roof. I will go into your room,” said she, rising
mournfully, “and undress; perhaps I may lie
down a few moments beside you.” This she
did, but neither of us slept, I believe, for one
moment.
About eight o'clock we heard Darnley's bell
ring violently; she immediately left my chamber
without speaking. It is almost incredible, yet a
certain fact, the treacherous husband had the
inhumanity to endeavor to veil his own conduct
by arraigning that of his innocent wife. “Where
the devil have you been all night, madam?” said
he, in a loud, imperious tone. “In Anne's
chamber.” “And what is the reason you did
not come to your own?” “Because,” she replied,
in a steady, firm voice, “my place was
pre-occupied.” “It is a lie,” said he, vociferously,
“but I see your aim; you are jealous,
you are envious; but by heaven, if you dare to
breathe a word”—“Mr Darnley,” said she,
“I never loved you well enough to be jealous of
you. I told you before our ill fated union took
place, that our hearts could never beat in unison.
I am now more than ever convinced of it.” “But
pray, madam,” said he, “what put it into your
head that your place was occupied; which of the
cursed meddling servants?” “Neither of them,”
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
said she, “my own eyes convinced me; I came
up the moment I returned, and the first thing I
saw was Jessey's shoes—” “By the bed side,”
said he, interrupting her, “and so that is all the
reason you have for thinking Jessey was in your
place; but, madam, Jessey has twice the tenderness
in her nature that you have. When she
came home, she found me very ill, advised me
to go to bed, made me some whey, brought it
up herself, and fearing her shoes might make a
noise, put them off her feet; sat down, and
bathed my temples in hot vinegar: but you,
madam, are a wife, you could go gallanting
about, while your husband was sick at home;
but I suppose you found more agreeable company
and employment abroad, than nursing your
husband.” “If I loved you, Darnley,” said she,
what a miserable being I should now be? But
thank heaven, that is an agony from which I am
spared.” She then left him, returned to me,
ordered breakfast in my room, and when she
heard him go out, went to her own, in hopes of
obtaining a few moments' repose. I have taken
the opportunity to write thus far, but as I now
hear her voice, I must conclude. You shall
hear from me again soon.
ANNE.
-- 075 --
LETTER XIV. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
London, March 25, 1778.
DARNLEY's dinner hour is four o'clock, the
usual time for dining with all mercantile persons.
Sarah kept her room until near three. Mrs.
Romain had never ventured down. Darnley
had been out all the morning. I really so much
dreaded the general meeting at dinner, that I was
almost ill; one moment my blood ran cold;
another, my face flushed like fire: the least stir
below made my heart beat quick, and my whole
frame tremble.
About a quarter before three, Sarah came into
my room; she was dressed as usual for dinner;
and from her countenance, no indifferent person
could have judged she had been discomposed: it
was marked with a peculiar kind of sadness,
which rendered it interesting; but to me, who
knew her, the effort she made to conceal her
emotions, was very evident. “Anne,” said she,
“I am determined to see and speak to Jessey,
before Darnley's return. How will it be best?
to go up into her room, or send for her into my
dressing room?” I gave my opinion for the latter
She thought a verbal message might have a
rude appearance, but wrote on a slip of paper:
“Mrs. Darnley requests Mrs. Romain to favor
her with a few minutes conversation previous to
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
their meeting at dinner.” The maid went with
it, and, after remaining up stairs about ten minutes,
returned with the following answer:
“After the suspicions of the night, and the
pointed neglect of the morning, Mrs. Romain
cannot suppose a personal interview can be desirable
to either party; she begs to be excused
seeing Mrs. Darnley, and also declines appearing
at dinner; Mrs. R. will not intrude in Mrs. D's
family, longer than she can procure a lodging.”
Sarah's countenance changed as she perused
this haughty scrawl, for the uneven letters betrayed
the tremor of the hand that wrote them;
she tore off the back of the billet, and wrote with
her pencil:
“Madam, a personal interview is not sought
from any expected pleasure it may afford, but because
I think it necessary to speak a few words
to you. I must insist on seeing you; if you cannot
come down, I will come to you.
S. D.”
The servant brought a verbal message, saying,
“As Mrs. Darnley was in her own house, she had
a right to go into every apartment, if she pleased;
therefore, if she insisted upon coming up,
she (Mrs. Romain) must submit.”
Sarah walked once or twice across the room.
“Anne,” said she, “you must go with me; I hope
I shall not forget myself; I hope I shall remember
I am a rational being, and a christian, and
that though this unhappy woman has injured me,
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
I am not myself free from error, and have therefore
no right to treat her with unmerciful
contempt.”
I do assure you, madam, when the magnanimous
woman uttered this sentence, I could not
help gazing at her, as a being of a superior order.
“Heaven support your good resolves, my dear
Sarah,” said I, and was obliged to turn from her,
to hide my own rising emotion. “Do not be a
child, Anne,” said she, taking my hand, “or you
will make a fool of me, and I am weak enough
already, heaven knows.”
I followed her up stairs without answering.
She tapped at Jessey's door; the little girl opened
it, and being extremely fond of Sarah, gave an
instant exclamation of joy, saying, “Come in,
ma Darny; Lyza glad, Lyza want kiss ma Darny.”
I feared this innocent prattle would be too
much for my friend, but I had judged erroneously;
she stooped, kissed the child, and, ringing
the bell, bade the maid take her down and
give her an orange.
Jessey had risen from her seat. I saw, from
her flashing eye and crimson cheek, that she expected
reproaches; but this mild, dignified manner
humbled her to the dust; she turned pale,
and her eyes were absolutely full. Sarah seated
herself, we followed her example; a pause of
about a minute ensued, in which period I am not
certain but I felt more than either the injurer or
the injured. I perceived that Sarah's heart beat
high, she struggled for composure; she attained it.
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“I come not, Mrs. Romain,” said she, in a low,
but impressive voice, “to recapitulate past events,
or to awaken resentful emotions by reproaches.
Whatever were the circumstances which took
place last evening, I wish them to be buried in
eternal oblivion. I am, from a sense of what is
due to myself, under the necessity of informing
you, we cannot longer both reside under the same
roof; but as I do not desire the private concerns
of my family, whether pleasant or otherwise,
should become the theme of public animadversion,
I wish the removal to take place as quietly
as possible. I do not intend that even the domesties
should know on what account you quit
the family; but I must request you will procure a
lodging as early as you can. It is for the respectability
of all parties, that the subject be not
spoken of, and particularly for your interest.
You may rest assured from me, it shall never
transpire, and I can answer for this young lady,
that through her it will never be made public;
but, should such circumstances take place again,
I cannot answer for the discretion of others;
and you must permit me to say, in that case your
reputation will be entirely lost; nor will any
woman of character countenance you.”
“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Romain, in a tremulous
voice, “any misunderstanding should have
dissturbed your peace of mind.” “Do not labor
under a mistake, madam,” said Sarah, “you have
not wounded my peace, though I greatly fear you
have forever banished your own; but let us talk
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
no more. I must request you to appear at dinner,
and let our separation, when it takes place, preserve
the appearance of good breeding.” So saying,
she left the room, and went to her own,
where she remained until dinner was served.
Darnley sent word he should dine out; Mrs. Romain
came down, but we ate little, and spoke
less. In the evening, Jessey sent for a coach, and
having thanked Sarah for all favors, and received
her wishes for her health, went to a lodging.
The next morning her trunks were sent after
her; but the occurrences of that day must be
the subject of another letter.
ANNE.
LETTER XV. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, April 6, 1778.
THE morning following, the eventful day of
which I gave you an account in my last, Sarah
appeared at the breakfast table with a pale, languid
countenance; she had retired early the night
before, and I was in hopes would have obtained
some quiet repose—a refreshment which her
agitated frame and tortured mind seemed greatly
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
to stand in need of. I learnt that Darnley had
not been home all night; he had come home
early in the morning, and changed his clothes,
but told the maid he did not wish to have her
mistress disturbed.
“I am afraid,” said she, “he fears reproaches,
and so avoids his home; but he need not: if he
is content to be silent, I am sure I shall not broach
the detestable subject; he is now in the compting
house, has sent me word he is very busy, and will
have his breakfast sent thither. What can I
do? Some method must be taken to make him
banish this fear of again meeting me. I had
thought of writing a note, dictated in terms which
may tend to a reconciliation; for while he retains
these fears of reproaches which conscience tells
him he deserves, he will hide them under ill
nature; and suspecting I shall accost him in
taunting language, will, to prevent it, load me
with the most illiberal abuse.”
I approved the idea, and she wrote while eating
her breakfast, the following.
“It is certainly painful to me, Mr. Darnley,
to find you voluntarily avoid my society. Perhaps
I can divine the cause, and by removing it
the effect may happily cease. You think my
sex and situation will lead me, when we meet,
to recapitulate some late events, and make disagreeable
remarks thereon. Such a recapitulation
is by no means necessary. Let us meet as
though no such events had ever taken place:
let the whole pass into eternal oblivion: trust
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
me, it shall not be my fault if it does not. I hope
you will dine at home to day; Anne is engaged,
and if you should dine out also, I shall dine
alone.
S. DARNLEY.”
This letter was evidently what it appeared to be,
the effect of principle; she would perhaps rather
have dined alone, than with her husband in his
present frame of mind, but she felt it was her
duty to endeavor to draw him back to domestic
scenes and domestic peace. No answer was returned
until past one o'clock, when one of the
clerks brought up the following:
“You are very much mistaken, Mrs. Darnley,
if you suppose I dread your reproaches: I
know, with all your boasted forbearance, you
dare not utter any, or it is not your regard to
me would prevent you; but pray understand,
madam, if I am not master of my own house, I
am of my actions and person, and shall go out
when and where I please, without consulting
your pleasure; mind your own business, and
don't trouble yourself about me; you have got a
comfortable home, and may go out or come in,
as you please. But you cannot suppose, after
the very polite method which you took to turn
Jessey out of doors, that I can see you with any
degree of temper; and since you have withdrawn
from her your protection, I feel doubly
bound to afford her mine. She is a woman whom
I esteem; she loves me with her whole soul;
she has given incontestable proofs, that her
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
affection for me supersedes all other considerations;
and had she sooner been freed from her matrimonial
shackles, you would never have been
the wife of
G. DARNLEY.”
Sarah gave vent to her swollen heart in a flood
of tears, when she had perused this unmanly
epistle; she wrote a few lines, which as near as
I can recollect, I subjoin:
“That I am your wife, Mr. Darnley, is more
my misfortune, than my fault. But you are under
a mistake, in supposing Jessey loves you.
No woman can be under the influence of that
sacred passion, (whose power I can conceive,
though as yet I have never felt its influence) who
degrades herself below even the pity of a man of
principle, and for self gratification plunges the object
of her pretended adoration into infamy, by
inciting him to repeated breaches of every sacred
and moral obligation. You say I have a comfortable
home; can that home be so, from
whence domestic peace is banished? You are
your own master—It is well you are so. Would
to God I was as free.
S. DARNLEY.”
He went out at two o'clock; I saw Sarah sinking
under her mental sufferings, and put off my
engagement to remain at home with her. It
was nearly the close of evening, when a message
came, saying, Mr. Darnley was going a journey,
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
and desired clothes to be put up to last a
fortnight. This was immediately complied with.
We sent the next day to inquire for Jessey, and
found they were gone together!—that she
passed for his wife in the house where they lodged,
and went by the name of Hayley; that the
maid and child were left at home; and that they
said they were going a tour of pleasure.
They having thus exposed themselves to open
censure, I no longer hold myself bound to withhold
the whole procedure from you. I intend
remaining with Sarah during his absence. She
has regained her composure, and mixes again
in society; but she assures me, there is now no
tie between Darnley and herself, but the strong
sense she entertains of what is due to moral rectitude.
How they will behave to each other on
his return, I cannot divine. I have no doubt but
he will endeavor to incense her so far, as to make
her wish a separation; but she will never do
that, as there is no state in the world she thinks
so humiliating and pitiable, as a woman in a
state of separation from her husband; the world
ever ready to condemn, does not fail ever to
attach some share of blame to the conduct of a
wife who is slighted and forsaken by her legal
protector.
I was interrupted an hour since, by the arrival
of a letter from Scarborough, where my brother
has been for some time; he is dangerously ill—
I must leave Sarah immediately; she has promised
to write often, you shall have copies of all
-- 084 --
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her letters, as she has allowed me that liberty.
Farewell, may heaven bless you, ever prays
Your friend,
ANNE.
LETTER XVI. SARAH TO ANNE.
London, May 10, 1778.
THE receipt of your letter, which assured me
of your health and safe arrival at the end of your
journey, was welcome, but I have felt little inclination
to write, as I had no pleasant subject to
employ my pen. You have engaged me to write
all that occurs in regard to Darnley and Mrs.
Romain; it is an ungrateful subject, yet when
the heart is overflowing with anguish, it naturally
seeks relief by pouring out its complaints to one
who sympathizes in its pains, and ever was ready
to increase and partake its joys. Ah! my dear
Anne, how many of the former, how few of the
latter have fallen to my share. I review my past
life, and strive to recall some pleasing remembrance;
but it is in vain; for even in my happiest
hours, when the vivacity of youth, united
with the ease and plenty which reigned in my
father's house, might have been expected to have
crowned every hour with felicity, the unkindness
of my aunt, and some other painful circumstances,
-- 085 --
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prevented my youth passing with that hilarity,
which in general is the attendant of that gay
season At present, the uncertainty I am in, in
regard to the fate of my father, does not a little
increase the painful solicitude of my situation.
Had he not left England, I should never have
been what I am. And indeed, when I dare think
at all, I can only wonder how I ever voluntarily
put on a chain, which had not even the shadow of
a rose to hide the points and goads with which
every link was armed. As to Frederic, I am
happy he is not here; were he to return at this
period, I know not what would be the consequence;
but of this I am certain, he would call
Darnley to a very severe account; and I should
become the object of public animadversion; perhaps
public censure; and certainly (humiliating
idea) of public pity. Anne, to be pitied for the
neglect of a husband, is something so nearly bordering
on contempt, that I think were Darnley's
delinquency very generally known, I should wish
to shrink into oblivion, and hide myself in the
shade of obscurity.
But while I am thus blaming Darnley, may not
the fault have been in some measure my own?
Yes! yes! I feel the fault is mine, and mine be
it submissively to bear the punishment. You
wonder, perhaps, to hear me thus criminate myself.
My friend, was it not highly criminal to
promise to love, honor and obey—when my
heart sunk cold in my bosom and refused to ratify
the sacred oath? It is true, I have endeavored
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to conform to his humor, to make his home the
happiest place; but I ought to have known our
thoughts, opinions, propensities, and pursuits
were so diametrically opposite, that they could
never meet in one point. I think it is not improbable,
had he married a woman more similar to
his own disposition, a woman, who loving him
with her whole soul, would have not discovered
his errors, or have been ready to overlook them,
he might have made a more respectable member
of society; but I have thrown away my own
happiness, and embittered his. Why was he so
precipitately ardent? And why, oh! why, was
I so pusillanimously weak and tame? Had he
been at liberty when Jessey became a widow, he
would undoubtedly have married her, and both
would have been saved from that gulf of infamy
and perdition into which they are now plunged.
But I forget I have as yet given you no information
concerning the time and manner of his
return; it was as extraordinary as his departure.
After you left me, I remembered your advice,
and did not accept many of the invitations that
were daily poured upon me; nor could any entreaty
prevail on me to stay in a party after the
close of the evening, lest I should lay myself
open to the officious attendance of some person
whose company might not be altogether pleasing,
or proper. My time did not pass heavily:
for I knew the necessity of endeavoring to bend
my mind to my circumstances; and felt among
other things, how happy I was, since free from
-- 087 --
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tender feelings towards the person to whom duty
and propriety would direct them, I had not been
so unfortunate as to experience them towards any
other, for that must be the height of human
misery; to be wretched, and involuntarily
guilty, to know you daily err, yet feel the
total incapacity to suppress that error. From
such a state, may Heaven, in its mercy, ever protect
me. Ardent as my feelings are, what would
be my sufferings? I say, the error is involuntary,
because I believe it is not in our own power
to awaken affection; and if we cannot call it into
existence, it follows of course, when accident or
an intercourse with a person of similar disposition
with ourselves, or whose various attractions
have aroused it, it is not in our power to annihilate
it.
Yet do not misunderstand me; I am by no
means an advocate for those who suffer themselves
to be hurried away by their passions, and
plead an inability to conquer them. No, Anne,
this is the spirit of romance and folly. That the
emotions of our hearts are not always in our own
power, I allow, but our actions always are; besides,
I do not think but that those who rush into
guilt, and plead love as an excuse, are mistaken
in regard to the passion by which they are actuated.
Darnley says Jessey loves him; he is
deceived; I cannot believe it possible for a woman,
who loves a man with that pure, yet sacredly
tender emotion, which I at present imagine
real love to be, to suffer him to degrade
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himself in the eyes of the world, break the
commands of his Creator, and infringe every
moral obligation. Nor would she, I am certain,
unless self gratification was the motive, render
herself, by a breach of the first great feminine
virtue, chastity, an object of contempt to the
man she professes to love, and whose affection
must in that case form her whole felicity But
how tedious I am, how unwilling to commence
the tale you wish to hear; and so it is ever,
when we have any thing to communicate that
humbles us, and mortifies our self love.
Darnley had been absent early three weeks,
when one morning, when I descended to breakfast,
I perceived him sitting with his back towards
the door, reading the paper, apparently
with as much nonchalance, as if he had been at
home all the time, and nothing disagreeable had
taken place. I felt an involuntary shudder, and
something like indignation arose in my bosom,
and burnt upon my cheek—but prudence bade
me repress these emotions, and receive him with
that complacency, as might make him feel I had
forgiven past transactions, and wished to live in
peace.
“You are welcome home, Mr. Darnley,” said
I, half extending my hand towards him. He
arose, took it with an appearance of cordiality,
and saluting me, said, “he was glad to see me
look so well. I came into town very late last
night,” said he, “and would not disturb your repose
by knocking you up at three o'clock”—
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(very considerate all at once, was he not, Anne?)
I smiled, and inquired if he had had a pleasant
journey? “Yes,” was the reply, “only he was
detained by some disagreeable business longer
than he expected.” We chatted on indifferent
subjects during breakfast, with much complacency
on both sides; he told me he had invited a large
party of gentlemen to dinner. “I will order preparations
to be made,” said I, “but now I have
an opportunity, Mr. Darnley, permit me to mention
that our house-keeping bills run very high;
the trades-people want their money; and some
of them are quite importunate. I have received
no money on that account for some time, and am
really entirely out of cash.” “You must be very
extravagant then,” said he, petulantly, “how
much do you think you owe?” “I cannot tell
exactly, but I believe between three and four hundred
pounds.” “And where the devil, Sarah,
do you thing I can get three or four hundred
pounds? I did not expect you owed more than
one.” “I am sorry you think me extravagant,
but”—“Oh, you have an excuse ready, I dare
say; women are never at a loss for that; but I
will not be teazed and dunned in this manner
whenever I am at home. When it is convenient,
I will pay the people; until then, they must be
patient. There are ten guineas”—continued he,
throwing the money on the table; “make the
most of it; for I do not know when I can give
you any more.”
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He then took his hat, and went immediately
out I went into the kitchen to give the necessary
orders for dinner—as I came up the stairs, I
met the head clerk in much consternation; he
followed me into the breakfast parlor, and entreating
my pardon for the pain he was about to
give me, said he was afraid Mr. Darnley was
likely to break—for that bills had been presented
the day before, to a great amount; and that
he had gone out this morning, without giving any
orders how they were to be provided for
I hear Darnley below—I will resume my pen
to-morrow. Adieu,
SARAH.
LETTER XVII. SARAH TO ANNE.
London, July 2, 1778.
YOU say you are uneasy; I do not wonder at
it; yet I had neither spirit nor power to write
before. When I closed my last letter, it was
my full intention to resume my pen the next
morning; but when that morning came, I could
only add a promissory line, and send it away. I
have now set down with a head and heart so full,
that when I would begin, thought whirls with
such rapidity through my brain, that I am at a
-- 091 --
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loss where to commence, or how to frame my
narrative. You will not think that strange, when
I tell you, I am actually writing in a spunging
house. My unhappy —, by what name shall
I call him?—no matter. Mr Darnley is sleeping—
yes, Anne, sleeping profoundly; he has
steeped his senses in the Circean bowl, and lies
in unfeeling torpor. I would moralize, but
where would be the use? I would preach of patience,
but alas! alas! I am feelingly convinced
to preach is easier than to practise.
I will take up my narrative from the time when
I broke off my last. The clerk's information
alarmed me, and I resolved, whatever might be
the consequence, to speak to Darnley again upon
the subject of pecuniary concerns, the very first
opportunity. He brought home ten gentlemen
to dinner; we did not sit down until near five,
and they continued drinking until seven; when
they all started the idea of going to Vauxhall,
and unaccountable as it may seem, Darnley insisted
on my accompanying them. It was in
vain I pleaded the want of a female companion;
that was obviated by one, who said he would go
and bring his sister to go with us; and another
went for two cousins; but neither sister nor
cousins were women to my taste; and I shrunk
from the idea of appearing publicly with such
companions; but to argue was vain.
The evening was fine. We took water at Old
Swan Stairs, and entered the gardens about half
past eight o'clock. We had scarcely made two
-- 092 --
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circuits round the walks, when I observed a party
of three or four women, dressed in high ton,
escorted by an officer of the guards, and amongst
them, Mrs. Romain. As they passed us, I turned
my head the opposite way, and pretended
not to see her; but Darnley touched my arm,
and said, “did you not see Jessey?” “Where?”
said I, looking another way. “She is past now,”
he replied, “but we shall meet her again presently,
and she must not pass again unnoticed.”
I observed he laid an emphasis on the words
must not; and unwilling to do or say any thing
which might awaken the curiosity of my companions,
I resolved, when we met again, civilly
to give her the compliments of the evening. We
met, I courtsied with a manner formally polite;
but judge my surprise, when, advancing with an
air of freedom, she took my hand, and cried,
“My dear madam, how glad I am to see you?
and you wretch,” cried she, turning to Darnley,
“where have you been these hundred years? I
protest I thought you had taken a journey to
the antipodes.” “Probably he has, madam,”
said the young officer, sarcastically, “for he has,
I think, been at your feet.” She looked—but
she made no reply. “Are you going to sup
here?” said she to me, with the most easy effrontery.
“I believe not,” said I, faintly. “But
I believe yes,” said Darnley, rudely. “It is as
you please,” I replied; and, my dear Anne, I
could hardly restrain my tears. “Yes, it is as I
please, and I shall please to stay pretty late, so
hold your tongue.”
-- 093 --
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As this passed we had turned, and Jessey's
party had actually joined us. Oh! my friendly
Anne, how I wished for your supporting presence:
I think, had you been present, he would
not have dared thus to insult me. Jessey, at
least, would have avoided your penetrating eye;
but surrounded by a gay, unfeeling or unthinking,
(for they are the same as to sympathy) throng,
my very soul sunk within me; and when I saw
the triumphant, scornful looks of that unprincipled
woman, I felt so humiliated, that I wished
the curtain of everlasting oblivion to fall over
me. One of the young ladies who accompanied
us, left the arm of her companion, and coming
round, took hold of mine. “You look ill, Mrs.
Darnley,” said she, “the crowd and heat are too
much for you; let us turn down one of the unfrequented
walks, you will breathe freer and feel
more air.” I gladly accepted her proposal; we
had taken one turn, and were preparing to join
our party, when we met Darnley. “What have
you left your company for?” said he, “are they
disagreeable to you?” “Mrs. Darnley was oppressed
by the heat in that crowded walk,” said
my good natured companion, “and I advised her
to come here to recover.” “Oh! I am obliged
to you, madam,” said my tormentor, “for being
so attentive to her delicate feelings; she has at
command, at all times, the most refined sensibility.”
“Well, Darnley,” said I, endeavoring to
laugh, as if I took what he said in pleasantry, “I
will take care my delicacy intrudes not to
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[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
interrupt your evening's pleasure; but if it should,
you must make allowances for the weakness of
human nature, and do as you would be done by.”
“D—n,” said he, in an under voice, and being
on the opposite side to my female companion,
he actually struck my arm with his open hand.
The blow was not heavy, but it was a blow; and
I felt that it had broken the last small link that
remained between us. Dishonored—insulted—
struck! Anne, Anne! I am a woman; the law
will not redress my grievances, and if it would,
could I appeal publicly? No; I can suffer in
silence, but I could not bear to appear openly
as the accuser of the man I had once sworn to
honor.
My heart is full. I have sat down to write
you a long letter; but it must be done at hours
when Darnley sleeps Heavy as my soul is, I
feel at present something like the torpor of sleep
stealing over my faculties; I will indulge it.
Adieu.
SARAH.
-- 095 --
LETTER XVII. SARAH TO ANNE. In continuation.
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
London, July 2, 1778.
WHEN the soul is oppressed by calamity, how
little refreshment does sleep afford? The eyes
close, the senses lay dormant; but the soul, ever
active, finds no repose; it broods over past or
present misery, anticipates future, or again realizes
past pleasures. Could a rational being for
one moment doubt the immortality of that intellectual
spark which informs and animates this
mass of clay, let him ask himself, and clearly
answer this question—why, when excessive weariness,
or the natural exhaustion of nature, or
the more powerful effects of soporifie medicine,
has deadened, or suspended for awhile the animal
functions, the soul still preserves (if I
may be allowed the expression) its elasticity, and
bounds with joy, sinks with anguish, trembles
with horror, starts with terror, and that in so
great a degree, as frequently to force the body
to partake its emotions, and laugh, weep, and
even give articulation to the impulses, by which
it is then actuated? The deepest casnist could
not satisfactorily solve the enigma, and yet support
the doctrine of total annihilation at the
hour of death. And oh, my dear Anne, what a
blessing it is to the wretched, that it is not
-- 096 --
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possible for human sophistry to wrest from them
that sure, that supporting hope?
I return to the scene I was with my pen faintly
portraying, when I broke off to indulge the lassitude
of weary nature. We again joined our
party in the public walk, and soon after the orchestra
closed, we sat down to supper. Darnley
appeared to be in excellent spirits, but I shuddered
when I noticed the quantities of Madeira
he poured down, for a state of inebriation ever
rendered him more rude and insolent to me, as
he fancied the only way to shew his superiority,
and convince the world of his magisterial authority,
is to use positive will and won't upon all
occasions, without condescending to give any
reason why he will or won't. However, for this
time, he was so taken up with Mrs. Romain,
that I was totally unnoticed. To be sure, Anne,
I must acknowledge she appeared in all her fascinations,
her dress elegant, her fine eyes and
features beaming with animation, her manners
all life, all wit and whim, I could not help acknowledging
how superior she must appear in
the eyes of all surrounding, to the depressed,
heart-broken wife, who sat beside her. She
laughed, sung and displayed all her powers of
charming.
At a very late hour, the whole party arose to
quit the gardens. At the gate were a number
of carriages, and we were obliged to walk some
paces before we could get to the coach. Darnley
led Mrs. Romain, and I was obliged to
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accept the arm of the young officer, much against
my inclination; for being flushed with liquor, I
saw he was inclined to be impertinent.
We had proceeded but a very little way,
when I saw a man touch Darnley on the shoulder,
and heard Mrs. Romain exclaim, “Heavens,
what's the matter?” In a moment, all was confusion.
The bailiff, for such he proved to be,
obliged him to go into a coach which he had
ready, and into which I followed him, accompanied
by two of the most uncouth, vulgar looking
men that ever I beheld. Jessey either did,
or pretended to faint, as we drove away. We
were conveyed to a miserable house, kept by the
man who served the writ; a room was provided,
the hostess taking care to assure herself that we
had money to pay for it. Darnley threw himself
on the bed, and spite of his situation, spite of
the dreadful gulf of ruin which now gaped ready
to receive him, in less than twenty minutes was
in a profound sleep. I traversed the chamber
for some time, and eased my almost bursting
heart, by an uninterrupted flood of tears.
About daylight, I laid down for half an hour,
but the noise in the house and street soon chased
the slumber that had fallen on my heavy eyelids.
I perceived he was awake. “At whose
suit are you arrested, Mr. Darnley?” said I.
“At the suit of one of your tradesmen, madam,”
he replied, “I always thought your extravagance
would bring me to a prison.” “If there is no
deficiency but what my thoughtlessness may have
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
occasioned,” said I, “the amount of the whole is
so trifling, I should imagine it would not be difficult
to raise the requisite sum.” “But there
are deficiencies every where,” said he furiously,
“and I must be a bankrupt, house, furniture,
every thing must be given up; we must go to
lodgings, and God knows how we are to live
when we get there.”
He seemed a little softened at this reflection,
and continued in a milder key: “I think, Sarah,
you had better go home this morning; perhaps
the ruin has not reached so far as a general execution,
and you may snatch a few trifles for
yourself and me from the general desolation.”
“I will take a few clothes,” said I, “but I will
not touch any thing valuable; the sale of which
might assist in satisfying the creditors. As to the
future means of subsistence, I have no doubt but
some way will open, and you will again see prosperity;
I shall be willing to join your efforts.”
“Oh! to be sure,” he cried hastily,—“you are
very willing, and very able to work, you, who
are too proud to fetch water to wash your own
hands.” “But I could have done it, Mr. Darnley,
and will cheerfully perform that necessary office
for you and myself too, since we shall no longer
be able to keep a servant; and not only that,
but engage in any employment which might be
serviceable.” “And what the devil can you do?”
he replied, “come, I wish you would go home.”
I rang the bell. “What do you want?” said
he `Some one to call me a coach.' “Why cannot
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[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
you walk?” “What, at this hour in the morning?
In this dress?—nearly a mile and a half through
London streets?” “Aye, there it is, I suppose
this is a specimen of your humility and economy!”
“Good heavens, Mr. Darnley,” said I, “how can
you be so unfeeling? we are likely to be involved
in much actual misery, do not let us augment
it by our own fretfulness and impatience. I cannot,
will not walk this morning—In future,
you shall see I can bring myself to submit to
every situation in which it shall please Providence
to place me.”
LETTER XVII. SARAH TO ANNE. In continuation.
London, July 2, 1778.
A COACH being procured, I went home; the
domestics met me with tearful eyes, the clerks
looked grieved, and the whole house appeared
a scene of confusion; the glasses and china were
taken down in the parlor, and stood in heaps
on the tables. I ran up stairs; the drawing room
was in equal disorder; the young woman, who
more particularly was employed in my apartment,
came to me and begged me not to go up
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
into the bed-chambers; “it will break your heart,
ma'am,” said she. “When did this scene of desolation
begin?” I asked. “You had scarcely been
out an hour last evening,” she replied, “when
hearing a little noise in the compting-house, I
listened, and heard a man say, he had law for
what he did, and presently the head clerk came
and asked me if I knew where my master was
gone? `There is said work, Nancy,' said he, `there
is an execution come into the house; I hope Mr.
Darnley will not be out late; perhaps if he was
at home, something might be done to prevent
the depredations of these harpies of the law.'
But oh! dear ma'am, when one hour went away
after another, and you nor my master did not
come home, when I saw the day dawn, and the
sun rise, and heard soon after that master had
been arrested, and you were gone with him to
prison, I thought I should have cried myself sick.
If I had but known where to come to, I would have
brought you some morning clothes; do now,
ma'am, go to my mother's, and let me bring
your clothes to you.” “Do you not know, Nancy,”
said I, “that I have no clothes but what I
have on? the rest are all seized with the furniture
and plate of the house.” The poor girl
burst into an agony of tears; I bade her not fret,
and told her I would take care she did not lose
her wages. “That is not what I cry for,” she
replied, “you have been so kind to me, if I never
get a farthing more—but what will you do? Let
me go with you, ma'am, wherever you go; I
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will serve you for less wages than I would anyother
person.” The artless, pathetic strain of this
affectionate girl, I must own, strongly affected
my feelings; but I struggled to suppress the rising
burst of agony, and went up to my own apartment.
I perceived a seal had been put on all the
drawers, bureaus, &c. and upon summoning
courage to request permission to take a change
of clothes from a linen press, was positively refused.
Fortunately, Nancy recollected that there
was a considerable number of clothes at the
laundress's, and hastily went to procure me a
change, which she took to her mother's, who
lived in the neighborhood.
Coming out of my own room, I turned to take
a last look at the little white room, where you
always slept, and in making the furniture of
which, we were so cheerful and happy, forming
plans of amusement, sometimes working, sometimes
reading, and often chasing the hours with
music. The bed was taken down; the curtains
lay in a heap in the corner of the room, and an
ill looking fellow was taking down those drawings
with which I had decorated this favorite
room, and on which you were pleased to set so
high a value. “I should like to have those trifles,”
said I, “they can be of no value to the creditors,
and I have a friend who would prize them very
highly.” “You would like to have them, would
you,” said the unfeeling man, “perhaps you would
like to have this trifle also,” said he, taking my
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watch from his pocket, which I had unfortunately
left at the head of my bed when I went out the
day before. It was my mother's watch, and my
father's picture was suspended from it; I felt my
fortitude give way at this unprovoked insolence,
and turned away, that the man might not triumph
in my evident humiliation.
Nancy having returned from the laundress's, I
left my home—my dearly purchased home, and
went to her mother's; changed my clothes, and
taking her with me, with a bundle of linen for
Darnley, I walked back to his place of confinement.
I found he had been taking steps for his
liberation, several of his intimates had been with
him; a lawyer had been sent for, and things put
in a train for declaring him a bankrupt. But liberty
was not so easlly attainable as he imagined,
many detainers having been lodged against him:
it was thought advisable for him to remain where
he was, until his creditors were a little appeased,
and brought to a disposition likely not to oppose
his certificate being signed. It has been a miserable
period for me; I live in the hope of being
soon enfranchised; but until that event happens,
must endeavor to bear his ill humor as patiently
as I can; and when he is wrapped in the arms
of sleep, or carousing with companions as
thoughtless as himself in the public room, solace
myself with conversing in idea with my dear
Anne; nay, it is more than idea, it is reality;
only that I cannot hear the tones of that soothing,
comforting voice, which has so often said to my
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
perturbed spirits, “Peace, be still!” and like the
harp of the inspired musician, it caused the tempest
of the soul to subside into perfect calm.
Even now, distant as I am from you, the remembrance
of your firmness, mildness, and intrepid
resolution upon every occasion, animates me to
endeavor to emulate so bright an example. I
sometimes look back on my past life, and think
what I had been, had not you condescended in
very early life to notice, to reprove, to counsel
me; to teach me to respect myself; and in order
that I might be enabled so to do, warned me to
shun, with the utmost care, every action which
might lower me in my own estimation. Yes, I
feel, while I can with confidence say, I have done
nothing to forfeit the love of my friend; while I
act right, she will approve, she will respect me;
though I may have acute anguish of heart, I am
not entirely miserable.
I have just met with something which has
excited a smile. Darnley has been for some
days more than commonly out of spirits, though
not so churlish as I have known him; he has
condescended to be amused by my reading to
him, and not frequented the public room so
much. I was wondering what had wrought the
change, when a letter was brought him, which
he read in visible agitation, and then, as if unable
to conceal his feelings, exclaimed, “Jessey is
gone!” “Gone,” said I, “where?” “To France.”
“What, back to her convent?” “No—no convent
for her; Jessey, whether married or
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single, was not made for a nun.” “Well, has she
taken her children?” “One of them.” “And
where is the other?” “In the country, at Lord
G—'s seat.”
So, my dear Anne, by degrees I discovered
that the tender, fond, fainting Jessey, to pass
the wearisome hours while Darnley was in confinement,
had taken a trip to the continent with
lord G—. The ostensible reason alleged was
to place her son in some foreign seminary for education;
and if she could travel in a chariot and
four, with a footman, groom, and servant, out of
livery attending, it was certainly a prudent saving
of her own money, and a much more agreeable
mode of making the journey, than either in an
hired chaise or a stage coach.
Darnley was mortified. “Don't you think, my
dear,” said he, after he had been pacing the
room for about half an hour, biting his nails and
whistling, “that Jessey has behaved in a most extraordinary
manner?” “I see nothing extraordinary
in it,” said I, “she wanted an excursion of
pleasure, and a good opportunity to make one
offering, with a rich and handsome young nobleman
for a companion, she could not resist the
temptation.”
I do declare, Anne, when I had said this, I
was half frightened out of my wits, for he turned
pale with mingled anger and mortification. “And
I suppose,” said he, “you are glad she is gone?”
“Why, to tell the truth, Mr. Darnley, I am not
sorry, though I care very little about her, she is
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perfectly indifferent to me.” “Oh, very indifferent
indeed, only you were as jealous of her as
you could well live.” Here he affected a laugh.
I thought I had said enough, so did not venture a
reply, and he presently left the room. So there
is an end of his connexion with Jessey; and I
hope he will be convinced she did not love him
with all the fervor and enthusiasm she pretended.
Oh, how degrading to the passion of love it is,
that a woman, despising every moral tie, violating
every principle of virtue or decorum, should dare
to plead in excuse for her libertinism, that she
acted under its influence.
I will conclude my tedious epistle, by informing
you, I expect to leave this dreary abode to-morrow
or next day; I have been out and procured
a lodging; when I am settled in it, I will
write again. Heaven bless my dear Anne, and
increase her felicity, in proportion to the happiness
her friendship has given.
SARAH.
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LETTER XVIII. SARAH TO ANNE.
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London, August 1, 1778.
TWO small rooms, up two pair of stairs, at a
Stay-Makers in Greek-street, Soho, with a privilege
of cooking our dinner in the kitchen, belonging
to the family, is become the residence
of your friend. I have no servant; Darnley
cannot afford to keep one; and I think you
would laugh, could you take a peep at me in a
morning, and see me bustling about, getting
breakfast, sweeping the rooms, &c. &c. I am
awkward enough, Heaven knows; and as to
cooking, I make but a poor hand at it indeed.
Darnley, who loves good eating as well as any
man I know, fumes and frets; well, he really
has cause—but I intend to try my best, and
learn all the profound mysteries of roasting,
boiling, stewing, frying and broiling; then the
compounding of puddings, pies, and rich sauces.
I beg your pardon; I forgot we shall have but
little to cook, and, therefore, a very slight degree
of knowledge in the culinary art, will
suffice.
Now, my dear Anne, do not think it an affectation
of fortitude, for it is not so; but I do assure
you, if it was only for myself, I could be as
happy in these small apartments, and even with
our confined income, as ever I was in my life.
I am not debarred the use of my pencil, or pen.
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To be sure, I miss my piano, but I have my guitar,
which, together with my watch, half a dozen
chairs, a small carpet, a bed and furniture, were
sent to my lodgings by one of Darnley's creditors,
the morning after he was set at liberty. I say,
if it was only myself: but Darnley is so mortified
if any of his acquaintance call in, (for we are
feelingly convinced that the word friendship, is
not to be found in a fashionable vocabulary.) I
am not mortified when these flutterers, from motives
of curiosity, or any other as powerful, come
in to stare, sneer, and take an inventory of our
poor furniture; I feel so independent of them,
and am so indifferent about their opinions, that
I care not what they think or say. There are
not more than five persons in the world, whose
good or bad opinion is of the smallest consequence
to my peace of mind, but of those few, I
am tenaciously proud; a word, a look of approbation
from one of whose judgment and sincerity
one can have no doubt, is more soothing to
the mind, more gratifying to one's self-love, than
the most labored panegyric from those accustomed
to praise indiscriminately, without being
able to assign a reason for so doing.
But, my friend, though I feel inclined to make
the best of my situation, there is one very important
circumstance, which renders it impossible to
be entirely easy. I could be content with a little,
but how is that little to be obtained? Some
method must be struck out; for, besides that, I
think it the height of dishonesty to be running in
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debt, when there are no probable means of discharging
those debts; and Darnley never sits
down to meat, without reckoning how much it
costs, and how soon our slender finances will be
exhausted; yet he cannot restrain himself from
his nightly visits to the tavern, and from thence,
often to the theatre. As to visitors, I am resolved
not to encourage any, by persevering in
the resolution of not returning any visits that
may be paid me; though I imagine I need not
trouble myself on that score, as we have no longer
the means of offering them the sumptuous
dinner, or nightly revel. When I reflect on the
short period that has elapsed since my marriage,
I cannot help considering it as a harassing, disturbed
dream, from which I would gladly
awake. Would to Heaven that I could do so;
but no! the feverish slumber must continue,
and I must be hurried from one scene of terror
to another without cessation, until the torpor of
death seals up each active sense.
I was interrupted just as I finished the last
sentence, and who do you think it was interrupted
me? my aunt Vernon. “Mrs. Darnley,”
said she, “I am extremely sorry to see you in
such apartments, and I am come to endeavor to
persuade you to separate yourself from Mr.
Darnley.” “Then pray, madam,” said I, gravely,
“spare yourself the trouble, for it would be to no
purpose.” `You are very positive, Sarah,' said she,
“one would think you could have no great predilection
for a man who has used you so ill, has
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run through all his property, and made himself
a beggar.” “I had very little predeliction for
him, madam,” I replied, “when in compliance
with your advice, and that of my other friends, I
married him; he was affluent then. If I bound
myself by a sacred oath at that time, contrary to
my own better judgment, to share his fortunes,
be they better or worse, I will not now, in opposition
to my sense of duty, forsake him in the
hour of humiliation.” “But the world says he
prefers other women to you.” “The world is
officiously meddling.” “Well, you ever was so
self-opinionated, so head-strong, Sarah!” “Had
I been properly so, on a certain occasion, aunt,
you would not have been under the necessity of
making that remark now. But setting that
aside, suppose I was willing to separate myself
from Mr. Darnley, how am I to exist in this
state of separation? What can I do? Who will
employ me? What friends have I, to countenance
and protect me?”
The reflection was so cutting, my dear Anne,
that I could not restrain my tears, and to my
great mortification, before I had dried them, Mr.
Darnley entered the room. “What, telling over
all your grievances, Sarah?” said he, with a sneer.
“No, she is not,” replied Mrs. Vernon, “she is
offended because I have been advising her, as
your affairs are so embarrassed, to try to do
something for herself, and for you to get some
employment; and in short, for you to live apart.”
“I think your advice very good, madam,” said
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Darnley, with the utmost indifference. “I believe
I could get into a counting-house; but merchants
do not like to employ married men, lest
their expenses exceeding their income, might
tempt them to be dishonest.” “I beg, Mr.
Darnley,” said I, “that I may be no hindrance
to your getting employment; I am willing to
provide for myself if any means can be pointed
out; but while I do nothing to forfeit the title of
your wife, to you I must, and will look for protection;
as for the rest, I will relieve you from
the trouble of providing for my necessities. I thank
you, madam,” turning to my aunt, “for having
pointed out a plan which I own I never should have
thought of adopting; but I perceive you are
better acquainted with Mr. Darnley's disposition
that I am.” Mrs. Vernon was disconcerted,
she took her leave in a few moments after; and
then Darnley, by way of apology, began talking
of the expenses of house-keeping, and how cheap
a single man could live, &c. &c. And will you
believe it, pleaded affection to me as the motive
which led him to wish a separation, as he could
not bear to see me employed in the servile duties
of a family. I had no patience to hear him.
Love me! No—he does not, and I am convinced
never did! I shall look round and try to find employment
of some kind; when I have, you shall
again hear from
SARAH.
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LETTER XIX. ANNE TO ELENOR.
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London, Sept. 20, 1778.
HAVE transmitted to you, my dear madam,
copies of our afflicted friend's letters, and I can
easily imagine what your feelings were during the
perusal of them; her last gave me more pain
than I can find words to express. I was divided
by my anxiety for my brother, whose weakness
daily increased, and for my friend, who I perceived
was bowed to the earth, by the unfeeling
conduct of those who ought to have protected her.
I wrote her; bade her, if she thought it best, to
leave her husband for a while, until more smiling
prospects should make him invite her home again,
and come to me. I received no answer; my anxiety
increased; I almost resolved to go to London,
and inquire after her, but I knew poor Henry's
situation was so precarious that we had been
more than a month, daily expecting his dissolution;
this deterred me from taking the journey,
though I need not have been absent more than
two days. I wrote again, no answer; and uneasy
as I was, I had no remedy but patience; indeed,
for the last three weeks, my feelings have been
so tortured by the sufferings and death of my beloved
brother, that I almost forgot even my valued
Sarah. This day week, his remains were
deposited at Scarborough, as it was his wish, that
his body should not be removed.
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The next morning I set off for London, and immediately
on my arrival, went according to her
directions, to Greek Street, Soho. I found her,
but how? In a very confined lodging, actually
employed in ironing her husband's shirts; she
looked very pale, but starting at my entrance,
the crimson tide rushed over her face, and
throwing herself into my arms, she seemed to
experience a kind of suffocating hysterical affection;
it was neither laughing nor crying, but a
mixture of both, which evidenced the depression
of her spirits and weakness of her frame. “Why,”
said she, as soon as she could speak, “why do
you come here?” To see you, my dear Sarah,”
said I, “why have you not answered my letters?”
“I had nothing either new or pleasant to write,”
she replied, “and I thought you must be weary
of a correspondent, whose whole topic was complaint.”
“You have been ill, Sarah,” said I, taking
her hand. “And you have been afflicted,” said
she, tenderly pressing my hand in both of hers.
The tone of her voice, and the recollection of
my loss, operated powerfully on my sensibility;
we wept in unison.
A pause of a few moments ensued, when she
arose from her seat, put her work into the next
room, stirred the fire, swept up the hearth, and
going down stairs, returned with the tea kettle;
which, having placed over the fire, she prepared
the tea things, toasted her muffins, and performed
every little necessary office, with the uncomplaining
meekness of a saint, and with the case
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of one who had been accustomed to such employments.
As I looked at her with a mixture of
admiration and pity, I could not but think, I had
never seen her rise so superior, appear so interesting,
as in these domestic avocations. I have
seen her move in a drawing room with infinite
grace; I have seen her trip in the light mazes of
a dance, with fascinating vivacity and ease: I
have witnessed the elegance and propriety of her
manners—when seated at the head of her table,
she has performed the honors of it to a numerous
and splendid company; but never did she appear
so engaging to me, as when having finished her
preparations, she said, “Come, Anne, the tea and
muffins are just as good now as they used to be,
only the servant is not quite so handy.”
While we partook of the pleasant repast, she
informed me that she had been in search of employment,
and at last heard of something which
she believed she should close with. It was to go
with an elderly lady to Ireland, to act in the
double capacity of companion to her and governess
to her grand-daughter, a spoilt girl of about ten
years old. “And will Darnley consent to your
going so far without a proper protector?” said I.
“He made but faint opposition to the plan,” she
replied, “and indeed, I am resolved to go, let the
opposition be what it may, my mind is too proud
to bear a state of dependence on any one; and
with all my faults, and I am very sensible I have
many, I cannot bear reproach; it irritates, it
drives me beyond myself; gentle remonstrance,
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mild reproof, will bend me to any purpose, turn
me from any plan, however I might have expected
gratification in the execution; but to be treated
either like a child, an idiot, or a slave, is what I
cannot, will not submit to.” I asked if she had
informed herself of the character of the person
she was going with. “Why, yes,” she replied,
“I have made some inquiries, and have learnt
that she is a woman of respectable character;
that she has a daughter very well married in Dublin,
and that she has in general resided with her;
but about two years since she came over on some
law business, and brought her grand-child with
her; that being now settled to her satisfaction, she
is returning to Ireland, and wants some person
who will assist her in the difficult task of governing
her (to her) ungovernable grand-daughter.
As to the old lady herself, she seems a shrewd,
sensible woman; her manners are not highly polished,
but she possesses some conversable powers,
and seems to have a thorough knowledge of
the world.”
I found any attempt of mine to alter her plan
would be ineffectual, for she was resolved no
longer to remain with a man, who had given her
such evident proofs of indifference and selfishness.
But I tremble for her. She knows not the world
into which she is about to plunge; open, sincere,
and without disguise herself, she suspects not deceit
in others. This is a disposition most liable
to imposition of any in the world, and where joined
to great sensibility, is the source of undescribable
anguish to the possessor.
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I have made some particular inquiries concerning
this Mrs. Bellamy, with whom Sarah is about
to embark for an another kingdom; I cannot reconcile
the idea to myself, that a tract of ocean
will divide us; that in distress or sickness I cannot
fly to her; that contrary winds may detain
her letters, even should she write on all occasions;
but even this she will not promise. “I will inform
you of my health,” said she, “but I shall
not plague you with all the little cross incidents
which may occur, while I am acting in my double
capacity of humble toad eater to grandmamma,
and madam governante to little darling.
You flattered me in your last, with the hope of
my seeing you in London; it will, I assure you,
be a very high gratification; but as you mention
January for the time of your proposed visit, I
fear Sarah will long ere that have been the inhabitant
of our sister island for some weeks, as
she thinks of departing the latter end of October.
ANNE.
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LETTER XX. SARAH TO ANNE.
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London, Jan. 9, 1779.
A MOST delectable voyage and journey I
have had; bad weather, bad accommodations in
the packet, bad roads, and bad tempered folks
to deal with. Now is not this a bad beginning?
Well, there is an old adage which says, “A good
beginning often makes a bad ending;” and why
not vice versa? We were six days crossing the
Channel, the wind blew tempestuously, and two
or three times, I thought we should have been
obliged to revisit the coast of Wales, whether we
chose it or not; and that not in the pleasantest
manner imaginable.
However, here we are, all difficulties of wind
and weather over; quietly set down in a very
respectable lodging, in one of the most public
streets in Dublin. This Mrs. Bellamy is a very
different woman on this side St. George's Channel,
to what she was on the other; and to deal
plainly, had I known as much before I left England
as I do now, I should never have thrown
myself on her protection; but as I am here, I
will remain a few months. I have no great prediliction
for another voyage, though ever so
short, during the season, when “the winds let
loose, lash the mad billows, until they foam and
rise; threatening even heaven itself.” Indeed,
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my dear, there is no scene that ever I witnessed
before, to be compared to the sublimely terrific
grandeur of a storm at sea. The horizon, contracted
by the black impending clouds; the angry
scud flitting with rapidity through the sky;
the liquid mountains rising to the topmast heads,
and from their summit, pouring with tremendous
roar; the white torrent, that as it falls,
threatens to whelm in its abyss, the fragile bark.
As the gloom of night approaches, to see on the
leeward quarter, the black coast o'er hung with
precipices, and fenced around with rocks, over
which, the rude surge incessant breaks; to hear
the wind howl through the rigging of the laboring
vessel, which scarce can bear the smallest
spread of sail; then to reflect, that perhaps, before
the morn returns, the vessel, crew, all! all!
may be enshrouded in a watery tomb! No one
can have an idea of the sensation that must, at
such a period, prevade the mind, even of the most
thoughtless, unless they have themselves been
present at such a scene. And to me, it seems an
impossibility, that any one who had once been in
such a situation, could ever disbelieve the existence
of a God, great, wise, powerful, and merciful.
Who, that has once contemplated his wisdom
and his power on the world of waters, would
wish to disbelieve, or for one single moment encourage
a doubt?
But I beg your pardon Anne, that after having
got you safe to Dublin, I have hurried you back,
to make you pass a stormy night at sea, with a
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dangerous coast on your lee; but as you have escaped
shipwreck, you may even come quietly
again to Dublin; and setting down by my elbow,
in a little room up two pair of stairs, which is
but superior to a closet, in a very small degree;
the furniture of which consists of a half testerbed,
a deal table, a small iron grate, that will
hold a handful of fire, and two rush bottom
chairs; now, is not the apartment most elegant?
Come sit down, and be quiet, and I will tell you
all about madam Bellamy, and her fair daughter
madam O'Donnel, and her sweet pretty, peevish,
petulant, perverse grand-daughter, Miss
Caroline O'Donnel.
The old dame does not want ideas in her head,
nor language to express those ideas; but she is
one of the most changeable, capricious beings,
that nature ever formed. Her manners have
been formed upon the scale of high life; and she
certainly has, in early days, sacrificed to the
graces; for even now, she can converse with condescending
affability, every word accompanied
by a fassinating smile; she can be cheerful even
to volability; persuasion will hang upon her
tongue, and the genius of taste, wit, and elegance
preside in her apartment. But see her two hours
after, you will not know her for the same woman;
her brow will lour, her large black eyes will flash
malignity, the demon of spite and slander take
possession of her tongue; and her language will
be such, as almost the lowest female would blush
to utter.
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But this is a part of her character, only
known to those, who are unfortunately inmates
in her family; those who visit her transiently,
and only see her in company, think her all perfection;
indeed, I had myself a very high opinion of
both her head and heart, until I became a daily
witness to her private conduct; so true it is, that
intimacy seldom improves our opinion of those
of whom, from a slight acquaintance, we might
be inclined to think extremely well; and I believe
it is pretty much the case with us all. We wear
our best looks, best manners, best clothes, before
strangers; but carelessly assume our every day
appearance before our intimates. No, there is
one who, the more she is known, the more she
must be esteemed and beloved; it is my dear,
friendly Anne, whose face and manners are ever
the same; only that those who are so happy as
to see her in her most retired moments, will see
her most amiable. Forgive me, you know I never
flatter, but speak as I feel. I will own, that I may
be partial; self-love incites in us affection for those
who are continually shewing us marks of friendship;
and we are apt to think highly of the discernment
and understanding of those, who discover
merit in us. Now this is not by way of
apology for loving you, and discovering all your
excellencies; no, it is to make peace with you for
daring to tell you of them.
Madam O'Donnel is a handsome, tasty, shewy
belle; dresses to the extreme of the mode, rouges
high, and says any thing she thinks of at all times
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and seasons. Now do not call me scandalous;
I have not as yet seen squire O'Donnel, but
I shrewdly suspect—But madam calls; so my
pen and my suspicions must rest until another
opportunity.
SARAH.
LETTER XXI. SARAH TO ANNE.
Dublin, Jan. 19, 1779.
THIS elegant apartment, to which I had just
invited you, when I was obliged to relinquish my
pen, you must not think, is a sample of the rest
of our lodging. Madam's apartments are, in
reality, very genteelly furnished, and consist of a
handsome parlor, drawing room and bed-chamber;
within which last, there was a very pretty
room, intended for a dressing room, but in which
a bed was fixed for Miss Caroline. Here Mrs.
Bellamy wished me to sleep; but as I do not intend
to have the hours I devote to rest, broken
in upon by any one, I preferred taking up my
quarters in the room I have described. Here,
when all are wrapt in the arms of sleep, and a
dull silence reigns around, save when the drowsy
watchman drawls the hour, or the footstep of
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the nightly reveller, returning to his neglected
home, breaks upon the ear, I sit and muse, and
write, and sometimes weep. Yet why should I
weep? is it the remembrance of past happiness?
No—no—for I do not remember any time so
happy, as to have a wish that it should return.
I have sometimes thought, circumstances might
have concurred to have made my lot in life easier;
but we are such inadequate judges of what would
constitute our real felicity, that perhaps, had I
fixed my own fortune, I should not have found
myself happier, than I am now; and yet, Anne,
when in early life I have thought upon a union
for life, with one of the opposite sex, I have
painted to myself scenes of domestic felicity;
have been fascinated with the pictures fancy has
portrayed, and simply thought time would, in
all human probability, realize them. Alas! how
miserably did I deceive myself!
But of what use is this retrospect? The past
is gone beyond recal; the present must be endured,
be its infelicities what they may; besides,
I am not the only unfortunate being in the world;
thousands and thousands are more wretched,
more depressed than I am. I have health; I
have a tolerable portion of understanding, which
has received the benefit of being cultured by education;
and I have what not worlds could purchase,
a tried, a valuable friend. Oh shame!
shame on me, that with such blessings in possession,
I should dare breathe a murmur for those,
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which an all-wise Being, perhaps in mercy, has
thought proper to withhold from me.
In looking over what I had written the other
evening, I doubted whether I was acting right, in
communicating even to you, the suspicions which
had taken possession of my mind, concerning Mrs.
O'Donnel; but circumstances have since occurred,
to set aside those scruples, and I am at full
liberty to tell you, that I do not think that lady
is married to the man she lives with; or that his
name is O`Donnel. In truth, Anne, I have got
into a family every way uncongenial to my feelings,
and yet I am so situated, that I cannot well
leave it. But to proceed, and tell you how my
suspicions first arose, and how they were confirmed.
I had been with Mrs. Bellamy several times
to her daughter's house, which is a very elegant
one, furnished in a most expensive style, with
attendants, carriages, &c. suitable to the appearance
of the mansion; but in all these visits, I
never saw the husband. I inquired where he was,
and was told he was a great deal from home, as
he was a member of parliament. I looked over
the list, but did not see the name of O'Donnel.
It is strange, thought I, but I will not be impertinently
inquisitive; time, which developes all
mysteries, will expound this.
One morning, Mrs. O'Donnel being with her
mother, her son, a fine boy, about three years
old, standing up in the window to look out,
suddenly clapped his little hands, and cried out,
Papa! there is papa. I cast my eyes towards
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the street, and saw a chariot passing with a coronet
on it; a gentleman and a lady were in it;
the gentleman looked up at the window, and I
saw, by the expression of his countenance, that
he knew the child, though he took no notice of
him. “Whose carriage is that?” said I to
Caroline, who stood beside me. “Lord Linden's,”
said she, and her face flushed crimson deep.
“Who was that gentleman in it,” said I. “Papa,”
said the little boy, without waiting for his sister
to reply. “What, is that your father, Caroline?”
said I. “No, not my—his lordship—that is
Mr.—” “What is the girl stammering about,”
said Mrs. Bellamy, who just then caught a word
or two of what we were saying, “can't you tell
Mrs. Darnley, that your father is not in Ireland?”
Caroline blushed still deeper; and even Mrs. O
'Donnel's face wore a higher tint, than it had received
from some of the best French rouge. I
said nothing more; Caroline was desired to play
her last lesson, and the child was child for calling
after his father. “Why, papa did not hear me,”
said the boy. “It is well he did not,” said his
mother, “he would have been angry with you,
and me too.”
These circumstances dwelt upon my mind—
but I thought it most prudent not to mention
them; though fully resolved to have my suspicions
removed, or confirmed, I was determined
to be watchful of circumstances as they took
place. Two or three nights after this, we were
at the play; and about the middle of the first
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act, a large party came into the boxes immediately
opposite where we sat, among whom, I
saw the lady and gentleman who had passed in
the carriage. There was a young person with us,
who is niece to the woman of the house where
we lodge; to her I put the same question I had
before put to Caroline, of, Who are those? “In
the box to the right,” said she, “are general
Parkinson's daughters; that young officer who
stands behind the general, is going to be married
to the eldest; that handsome man, with a star on
his breast, in the next box, is lord Linden; the
pale, delicate lady on his right hand, is his wife,
and the lovely girl on his left, is his sister; I do
not know the other ladies.” “One of them is
Miss Meredith,” said Mrs. Bellamy, as unconcerned
as possible; “she is a lovely woman; but
as to that lady Linden, she is such an unmeaning,
cream-faced thing, I do not wonder her lord is
sick of his bargain; she had a swinging fortune;
and my lord was loaded with younger children's
portions; so for the sake of villas, parks, and
gardens, he took the inanimate statue into the
bargain.” This was said with a sneer, and was
followed by a laugh at her own wit. But my
dear Anne, can I paint to you the horror that
thrilled my heart, as I reflected, that Mrs.
Bellamy's daughter was the mistress of a married
man? For there was no longer room for doubt.
This was the man her child called papa; one
hope only remained, that she might have been a
deceived woman, and that lord Linden was lately
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married. “How long have they been married?”
said I. “Seven years,” was the reply. “Have
they any children?” “Three, two girls and a
boy” Great God! thought I, are men all
alike? Is there no such thing as stability or
honor in the sex? I endeavored to suppress the
uncharitable thought; yet ideas would crowd and
jostle each other in their rapid flight through my
brain. Man—is it only the fault of man, that so
much depravity exists in the world? No! were
there no Romains, no O`Donnels, there would
be no Darnleys nor Lindens. Yet here, perhaps,
I err, and throw too great an odium on my own
sex. Who then is to blame? Or on what
must we throw the censure? On poor human
nature?—How bewildered is the mind, how
incapable is the judgment, of deciding on these
intricate points! Say, is it the fault of education?
Yet we know, nature left to herself, is liable to
the grossest errors; nay, will commit without
repugnance, actions, which, in civilized society,
are denominated crimes; even of the blackest
dye. But it may be argued, it were better the
mind remained in a savage state, than imbibe false
reasoning and false principles, under the semblance
of proper information.
I was sitting after supper, leaning my head on
my hand, and musing on this inexplicable riddle,
when Mrs. Bellamy thus accosted me:—But
it was a long conversation, and shall be the subject
of my next. Adieu. Heaven bless and
preserve my Anne.
SARAH:
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LETTER XXII. SARAH TO ANNE.
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
Dublin, January 30, 1779.
`YOU seem lost in the profundity of cogibundity,
' said Mrs. Bellamy, laughing, and laying
her hand on my arm, `and pray what may be the
subject of your meditation?' `I was thinking,'
said I, looking full in her face, `of lady Linden.'
`Humph!' said she, `and I presume lord Linden
and Mrs. O`Donnell were associated with the
idea of her ladyship?'
`They certainly were,' I replied gravely—”
But to have done with “she said,” and “I said,”
(which are ever to me the most tedious interruptions
in telling a story,) I will proceed in my
dialogue without them.
`Perhaps there was a small mixture of curiosity
mingled in the association?'
`A very considerable degree.'
`I would gratify it, but that I suppose your
primitive purity would take alarm; you would
draw up your head, and contract your little consequential
brow.'
`If you fear that,you had better leave my curiosity
ungratified.'
`I do not fear it, Mrs. Darnley, because I
know too much of the world to be incommoded
by any obsolete notions; and I really should like
to laugh you out of some of your antiquated
prudery.'
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`If by my antiquated prudery, you mean my
ideas of right and wrong, you will find it a difficult
matter to laugh me out of them.'
`Perhaps an old woman may find it rather
difficult, but be not too confident of your own
strength until you have resisted the persuasions
of a young, handsome, rich lover, with unbounded
affection on one hand, and all the allurements of
affluence on the other.'
`I should be in no danger from such a one, unless
I felt a predilection for him myself; and it is
not in the power of beauty or wealth, to awaken
any thing more in my bosom, than a kind of
distant admiration.'
`O, the heart is always thought invulnerable,
until it is absolutely lost; but pray, my frigid
friend, if youth, beauty, and riches, have no
power on that impenetrable bosom, what may
the requisites be, necessary to awaken it from the
torpor of stupidity? For really. I think a woman
without passion, is a kind of automaton, can speak
and move indeed, but is absolutely dead to all the
pleasures of life.'
`I am not without passions.'
`Oh! I beg your pardon, you are in love with
your husband?—no, now I remember, that cannot
be; no woman can be so tame as to love a
man who had used her so ill.'
`Did I ever complain to you, madam, of his ill
usage?'
`No; nor to any body else that ever I heard of;
but the world talked loudly; besides, has he not
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shown his perfect disregard for you, by suffering
you to come here without money, friends, or a
proper protector? None but a madman would
suffer a woman like you, in the bloom of life, with
uncommon power of mind, and highly accomplished,
to throw herself in the way of temptation;
unless indeed he courted opportunities to be fairly
rid of her; which I think must be his motive;
and I should advise you, if a fair opportunity
occurred, to gratify him and choose for yourself
another protector.'
`I shall certainly so far gratify him, as to ease
him of all care on my account; I am able and
willing to support myself; and as to my honor,
I am myself the guardian of it. As to choosing
a protector, where shall I find one? or what
right have I to connect myself with any man while
Mr. Darnley lives.'
`Has he not broken through every moral obligation
to you?'
`That does not release me from the vows I
made to him.'
`Do you love him.'
`No.'
`Do you esteem or respect him?'
`It is impossible I can in so high a degree, as
the relationship that exists between us challenges.
'
`What then is to prevent your accepting the
protection of another?'
`My duty to God, and the respect I own to
myself.'
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She seemed struck at so firm an answer;
looked silently and gravely at the fire for several
minutes, and then asked abruptly, `Were you
ever in love?'
`No.'
`Have you any idea of the force of that passion?'
`Yes, I believe I have.'
`Again I ask, what requisites are necessary to
awaken it in your bosom?'
`What?—why good sense, good nature, domestic
virtue, liberal education, strong sense of moral
and religious obligation; knowledge without
pedantry; wit without rancor: a heart capable
of experiencing all the fine sensibilities which
dignify human nature; and strength of mind,
self denial and moderation, sufficient to keep
them strictly under the jurisdiction of reason.'
`Oh! hold, for heaven's sake! a pretty formal,
old fashioned piece of clock-work you have put
together; do you ever expect to meet with such
a nonpariel?'
`I neither expect, nor desire it.'
`Why not desire it?'
`Because, situated as I am, to know such a
character would be to feel my own bondage more
intolerable.'
`You are a strange being, Mrs. Darnley; but
suppose this black swan should appear, what
would become of your fine resolutions then?'
`Such a man, madam, would never endanger
the breach of any of them—to merit his esteem,
I must preserve his respect; to this end it would
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be my constant endeavor to persevere and strive
to excel in every thing laudable and praiseworthy—
sensible, that by so doing, I could only
hope to retain his regard.'
`Oh, you romantic creature! do you really
think that platonic love can exist?'
`No. I am not talking of what is generally
called love. I believe that the most perfect
esteem can exist between the sexes, if the minds
are properly rectified, without the smallest approximation
towards criminality.'
`Well, but we have lost sight of lord Linden—
shall I give you the history of my daughter?'
`As you please.'
`Well, I believe I must, for I perceive poor
Caroline stands very low in your esteem.'
`Will your history, do you imagine, tend to
raise her?'
`Why—y—es, I believe it may.'
`Then I should like to hear it.'
She began; so take it in her own words—no,
pardon me, not until next post.
SARAH.
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LETTER XXIII. SARAH TO ANNE.
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
Dublin, February 13, 1779.
`MY daughter,' said Mrs. Bellamy, `was at the
age of seventeen, married to Mr. O 'Donnell,
who was past thirty—that, however, was of no
consequence; a disparity of age, unless very great
indeed, not being of the importance it is generally
supposed to be to matrimonal felicity;
especially when the superiority is on the man's
side. O'Donnell was handsome, lively, and had
the manners and education of a gentleman; his
fortune was not large, but this I did not discover
until some months after their marriage. Caroline
was my only child I had a genteel annuity
on which I lived, and her appearance had been
always such that he supposed she had a very
considerable fortune.'
`Did you know he had those ideas.'
`I knew but very little about the business until
it was completed. My daughter was on a visit
to a friend in the country; O'Donnell saw her,
admired her, and persuaded the silly child to go
off with him to Scotland.'
`Had your daughter any reason to think, had
you known of her intended connexion, that you
would have disapproved, or endeavored to prevent
it?'
`I don't know that she had; but she was the
very child of romance, and loved every thing that
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wore an air of mystery, and required a little
manœuvring to execute.'
`Then I should call her the child of intrigue.
The old lady colored, and repeating in rather
an elevated key, the word intrigue, was silent
for a moment, and then proceeded:—
`When they returned from this imprudent
excursion, they came directly to London, and to
my house. I was in some measure prepared for
it; for the lady whom Caroline had been visiting,
wrote me word of their departure, and she herself
addressed a letter to me from York, where
she stopped a few hours on her way to Scotland.
I received them with cordiality, and indeed,
imagined I had no reason to be displeased with
my daughter's choice; as from every appearance
about O'Donnell, his dress, his expenses, his
equipage, &c. I concluded him to be a man of
independent fortune. The house I lived in was
neat, but not spacious. O'Donnell loved company;
our style of living did not suit his extravagant
turn. He one morning, about three months
after his marriage, hinted that it would be more
convenient and agreeable to have a larger house,
and more extensive establishment. “Well, sir,”
said I, “why then do you not take a larger, have
it fitted up to your own and Caroline's taste, and
remove to it? I am glad to have you continue your
visit to me as long as is agreeable, but it is certainly
time you thought about an establishment
of your own.” I wish, Mrs. Darnley, you could
have seen the woe-begone countenance of the
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man, when I made this remark; his cheeks lost
their animated hue, his lips trembled, and deliberately
setting his cup of tea on the table, he replied,
“I shall be happy, madam, to provide
your daughter such an establishment, when you
have paid her fortune; you say it is time we
thought of a removal, only that I have been waiting
in daily expectation of your leading to this
subject, and making this necessary settlement, I
should have spared so protracted a trouble; besides
which, I thought my dear Caroline would
not wish to be separated from her mother; and
intended, whenever that arrangement should
take place, to have given you an invitation to
reside with us; and even now, if she prefers this
house, we will remain in it, and shall be highly
honored in having you make a part of our family;
but—but my wife must be mistress in her
own house, and preside at her own table.”
“When she has a house of her own, Mr.
O`Donnel,” I replied, “she may do so, but I
beg leave to retain my place and my authority
over my own family; and to express my thanks
to you for the honor you have done me in requesting
me to become a visitor, where I have a
right to command, but I beg leave to decline it.
As to what you hint about Caroline's fortune, I
am at a loss to understand you; who ever told
you that she had any?”
“It was a general received opinion in the circle
where I first became acquainted with her;
and when I, through the medium of a friend,
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inquired particulars of the lady at whose house
she then resided, I received for answer, that her
property was supposed to be about fifteen thousand
pounds—otherwise—” “You would not
have married her,” I said with quickness. “By
my soul, madam, had I not thought her secure
in independence, I would not.”
“Upon my word, she is infinitely obliged to
you.”
“She ought to be; from the first moment I
saw her, I found my tenderness powerfully
awakened; every succeeding interview tended
to heighten my admiration, and increase my
passion. But elevated as she appeared to be,
above my hopes; educated as she had been, and
accustomed from infancy to all the elegances,
all the indulgences affluence could procure, I
should never have dared to breathe the smallest
word that might have betrayed my secret, had
she not, by a thousand innocent, indescribable
actions, given me reason to think I was not indifferent
to her. Nor even then, would I have
been the selfish villain, to desire to unite her
destiny with mine, and plunge her into comparative
poverty; but being told, her own fortune
would secure to her those conveniences she had
been accustomed to enjoy—I spoke, was accepted;
and most happy in receiving her hand at
the altar.”
“And no doubt, sir,” said I, “the hand of an
automaton would have been received with equal
rapture, had you supposed it conveyed to you
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the right of receiving fifteen thousand pounds?”
“No, by heavens,” he replied with vehemence,
“I loved her for herself: and if in that particular
I have been deceived, I only lament it for
her sake.”
“You have been deceived most egregiously;
Caroline has no fortune.”
“So be it,” said he, throwing down a pamphlet,
with some emotion of chagrin which
he had been perusing previous to the commencement
of our conversation: “So be it: I
have a small estate in Ireland, the yearly revenue
of which is about two hundred pounds; if
she will go with me thither, and be content with
so limited an income, I will devote my life to
her service and happiness; and by following the
profession for which I was educated, namely, the
law, I will endeavor to add to the comforts, and
may by industry, in time, even procure for my
beloved Caroline the elegances of life. And to
convince you, madam, that I had no intention to
commit depredations on your daughter's property;
here is a writing, (continued he, rising
and unlocking a small writing desk, which stood
in the parlor) properly executed for a settlement:
it only requires sums to be specified, and
signatures annexed, to make it binding, even to
the utmost extent of her supposed fortune.”
`He must have been a man of a liberal spirit,'
said I, interrupting Mrs. Bellamy.
`He was a man of the most consummate art,'
said she.
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`Was your daughter present,' I inquired, `during
this conversation?'
`No,' she replied, `she left the room the moment
it began.'
`How did O `Donnel explain the mystery of
his splendid appearances with his contracted
finances?' I asked.
`You shall hear,' said she.
And so shall you, Anne, another time; but
now I am too weary to add any thing more, but
the most fervent prayer, that health, peace, and
prosperity may be the constant attendants of the
chosen friend of my soul. Adieu.
SARAH.
LETTER XXIV. SARAH TO ANNE.
Dublin, Feb. 19, 1779.
`WHEN O'Donnel made this pompous display
of his intended generosity,' continued Mrs. Bellamy,
`I inquired, with an incredulous smile, why,
if these were his intentions, he had not made
application to me, and had the settlements properly
executed, and been married in the face of
the world, not artfully to steal my girl away; and
having made himself master of her person, of
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[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
consequence become the sole controller of her
fortune? He turned very pale at this interrogation,
but protested that it was at the earnest
entreaty of Caroline, that he had forborne writing
to me; besides, he added, “I was too conscious
of the narrow state of my own finances,
to wish a strict scrutiny to be made. I perceive,
(said he after a moment's pause) that you are
surprized at the appearance I have made since
my acquaintance with your daughter: I will
account for it. I had an intimate friend, who
from childhood had passed the chief part of his
time with me; we were playmates, school-fellows,
and pursued our academic studies together.
His inclination boding to the law, as well as
mine, we finished our studies under the same
practitioner; during the last year of our study,
we purchased a ticket in the lottery between us,
it came up a prize of two thousand pounds. It
was suggested by my companion, that with this
sum, we might stand a chance, by good management,
to get wealthy wives; and a bett was
actually laid, which should get married the
soonest, and to the richest lady. We left Ireland
together, and having arrived in London,
equipped ourselves with every thing becoming
men of a certain rank. He bent his course towards
Northumberland and Scotland, and I took
a more westerly circuit. We separated, in order
that our pursuits might not clash with each
other. The first interview I had with your
daughter, convinced me that there my pursuit
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must end—I must either obtain her for a wife,
or return to Ireland without one; for it was my
fixed resolve never to marry any woman whom I
could not love, how splendid soever her establishment
might be. You have now, madam, my
history; in it I have but one thing to blame
myself for, which is, not informing Caroline of
my poverty, before the irrevocable vow passed
our lips. But I have only to plead in excuse the
excess of my passion, which would not allow me
resolution to be sincere, lest by that sincerity I
should lose all that made life desirable: for it
was death to reflect only on the bare possibility
of being deprived of Caroline, or falling in her
esteem.”
“Well, sir,” said I, “you have now to make the
trial when you have put it out of her power to
recede; for I do assure you, she has not more
than three hundred pounds in the world; which
will be little enough handsomely to clothe her.”
I then left the room; on the stairs I met Caroline:
“So you have made a fine piece of work
with your precipitancy,” said I, “your husband
is a beggar almost.” But it would be endless to
recount all the alteractions, bickerings, and ill
nature, that succeeded to this explanation. At
length it was agreed that we should all go to
Ireland. I sold my furniture, and thought my
annuity, added to their income, would enable
them to assume a more respectable appearance.
We settled in Dublin, and O `Donnel began to
get into practice in his profession; but their
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annual expenses always greatly exceeded their income,
and in less than three years, they were
involved in debts and difficulties. Caroline had
been noticed by some persons of the first distinction;
and this kind of society obliging her to be
expensive in her dress, he was continually upbraiding
her with extravagance. At length, he
was actually sent to prison; his estate, which he
had previously mortgaged to its full valne, together
with his household furniture, &c. was
seized, and Caroline thrown again upon my protection,
with her daughter, who was born in the
second year of her marriage. We retired to a
small inconvenient lodging. O `Donnel saw no
probable means of extricating himself from his
difficulties. I did not think myself bound to
maintain a man, who had acted so dishonorable a
part by my child; he was left to endure the
punishment due to his folly. In the mean time,
lord Linden offered his protection to Mrs.
O `Donnel; his person was handsome; his offers
liberal in the extreme; his manners most prepossessing;
in a word, Caroline loved him.
`You mistake, Mrs. Bellamy,' said I, with a
blush of indignation, `she loved her own ease;
her own gratification—and if in these distressing
circumstances she left her husband, and threw
herself into the arms of an infamous seducer,
for the sake of affluence and splendor, she is the
most contemptible of human beings.'
`She accepted his lordship's liberal offers,'
said the despieable mother, `and I advised her to
it.'
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`Great God,' said I, elevating my hands and,
eyes, with a look of astonishment and horror.
`What!' said she, with the malignant grin of a
demon, `you think yourself so pure and immaculate,
that it is impossible you could do such a
thing.'
`No, no,' I replied hastily, `but may Heaven
in its mercy never tempt me beyond my
strength, or leave me to fall into such guilt and
misery.'
`Guilt!' she retorted, `Mrs. Darnley, I would
have you understand that I think Caroline's leaving
her husband was the most laudable action of
her life.'
`Do not say so,'—I cried—`do not let me supose
you so lost to honor, to virtue; I can hear
no more—permit me to wish you a good night.'
She gave her head a half scornful, half complaisant
inclination, and I retired to my chamber,
too much astonished to sleep; too much depressed
to weep. Adieu.
SARAH.
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LETTER XXV. SARAH TO ANNE.
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
Dublin, March 20, 1779.
THE veil once drawn aside from a depraved
character, when it is no longer conceived necessary
to assume the semblance of virtue, how
soon it is wholly thrown off, and vice suffered to
appear in her own disgusting form. So it is with
Mrs. Bellamy. She permitted the mask to be
withdrawn for a moment on the morning when
the child pointed out his father; it was still
further dropped at the play, and after the relation
of her daughter's history; after she had the
effrontery to confess herself the adviser and
abettor of her child's infamy, she had no longer
any measures to keep I was shocked to find
into whose hands I had fallen; for I had been
so improvident as to come from England with
her, without any written agreement, or any
specified sum being agreed on for my services,
and I discovered upon mentioning the morning
after the conversation repeated in my last, that
I must return to my friends. She said, she imagined
I should not think of leaving her until she
had provided some one to supply my place, in
regard to Caroline. `I perfectly remember,
madam,' said I, `that I promised not to leave
you, without giving you a month's time to provide
another governess for your grand-daughter,
or give up a month's salary; the latter I am
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willing to do; but I must quit your family this
evening.'
`Upon my word, Mrs. Darnley, you give yourself
fine airs,” cried the haughty dame, with a
contemptuous sneer, her large black eyes flashing
malignity, `and pray what is the occasion of this
mighty hurry?'
`My reason is, madam, that I feel a repugnance
to remaining in a family, the mistress of which
professes principles which I have ever been
taught to hold in abhorrence.'
`You are more plain than polite, methinks.'
`Where would be the use of what you call
politeness in this case? Let me allege what
reason I please for quitting your family, after the
relation you gave me last night, your own heart
would immediately suggest to you the real one.
I am sorry to offend you; I do not mean it; you
certainly have a right to act as you please; and
surely you will allow me the same liberty. I
wish not to influence you by my opinions and
conduct, nor while I retain my reason, shall
yours influence me.'
`And in what manner do you propose returning
to England? It is a long, and I think, go
the cheapest way you can, you will find it rather
an expensive journey—and you have not an immense
sum to receive from me. You have been
with me four months, which, at the rate of
twenty guineas a year, which is the utmost I can
afford to give, is but seven pounds; though to be
sure,' she continued with affected indifference,
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`you may have resources of your own which I
know nothing of; and indeed, I hope you have,
for I cannot make it convenient to pay you just
now; I have overrun my income, and have but
a few guineas to last me until next quarter day.'
I was thunderstruck by this unexpected declaration;
my heart swelled, my eyes were ready
to overflow—but pride struggled hard to suppress
them; and though I thought I should have
choaked, I did not allow them to appear. As
soon as I could command my voice, so as to speak
firm, I said,
`I thought, madam, you knew my situation,
when I agreed to come with you; it was the
depression of my circumstances forced me from
my native land; I brought but three guineas
with me, half of which I have spent, and I have
now only a guinea and a few shillings in the
world.'
`Why, Heavens! Mrs. Darnley,' said she, with
a look of astonishment, `is it possible that you
have come here without any money in your
pocket? suppose you had been taken sick, did
you intend to throw yourself entirely on me?'
`No, madam! nor shall now trouble you; I
will, even with the trifle I possess, quit your
house this night; I will send word where I may
be found, and when you can make it convenient
you can send the money to me.'
`Quite independent and spirited, I declare.
But reputable house-keepers are pretty tenacious
who they admit in their families; you
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will not find it very easy to procure lodgings in a
respectable house, and I should suppose the immaculate
Mrs. Darnley would not go into any
other.'
`Not when I know the family to be disreputable,
would I enter such a house; or if I had been
deceived in becoming an inmate with such a family,
would I voluntarily remain after I had discovered
my error.'
I said this with pointed acrimony, and receiving
no further answer than, `Do as you please,'
in a tone of petulant disappointment. I retired
to my own apartment, and began arranging my
few moveables, ready to make a retreat as soon
as I had secured a place to retreat to. About
eleven o'clock Mrs. O `Donnel came, and in a
few moments madam went away with her in the
carriage. I descended to the drawing-room for
some work I had left on the table; the maid was
setting the room to rights, rubing the furniture,
&c. Seeing that she had turned up the carpet as
if going to scour the floor, I inquired if Mrs. Bellamy
was going to dine out.' `Yes,' said the
girl, `there be a piece of cold beef mistress said
we might fetch up for your dinner.'
The morning was tolerably fine, I put on my
hat and cloak, and sallied out to look for a lodging.
Though I have been here long, I am almost a
stranger to the streets of Dublin. Mrs. Bellamy
seldom walks, and I have an objection to parading
the streets alone. I felt awkward—my poverty
ill according with my appearance. I feared
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to ask the price of any apartments in genteel
looking houses, and felt an instinctive repugnance
to entering the abodes of poverty and
wretchedness. It also appeared to my harrassed
and depressed imagination, that having resided
four months with such a woman as Mrs Bellamy,
would throw such an odium on my good
name, that none who set a just value on their
reputation, would admit me into their houses.
Irresolute, oppressed in spirit, and fatigued from
the long disuse of the exercise of walking; I
wandered up one street and down another, without
having courage to knock at a single door,
though I saw on several “Lodgings to Let;” at
length in a small chandler's shop, in a narrow
lane, I ventured to make the desired inquiry.
The shop was small, the lane was dirty; but
the woman who stood behind the counter was
perfectly neat in her person, her clothes were
very coarse, but withal very clean and free from
rags. A little girl about seven years old sat knitting
in an inner room. When I asked the question,
“have you a chamber to let?” the woman
eyed me from head to foot, not with any appearance
of ill nature, but as if judging from my
dress, what my character might be.
`I have a chamber to let,' said she, in a mild
civil voice, `but I do not think it will suit you.'
`I should like to look at it,' said I, pleased
with her manner. `It would be giving yourself
trouble to no purpose,' said she, `for I do not
think we should agree.' `And why not?' `I am
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not used to let my chamber to fine ladies, my
little back room will not suit fine white muslin
gowns and lace handkerchiefs.' I was just going
to assure her that I was a woman of character,
when I recollected I had no person to refer to,
who would confirm my assertions; for it appeared
that the very mention of Bellamy and O'Donnell
would ruin me with every one. As I
paused on the step of the door, a woman came
in to purchase some trifle; I turned to the
mistress of the shop, and said, `Since you think
we cannot agree, can you tell me of any place,
where I shall be likely to get a room?' `What
does the gentlewoman want a lodging?' said the
woman customer. `Yes,' was the answer, `my
room would not suit her.' `Dear me, ma'am, how
lucky,' said she, coming up to me, `if you will
just step to my house, only a little bit further up
the lane, I've got a nice room, I would not wish
to disparage neighbor Truely's, but mine is for
sure, a great deal more neaterer, and I does
not keep a shop—but has a pretty little bit of a
parlor, where you can sit and work, or read, or
see an acquaintance. You know, ma'am, every
body has acquaintances, tho'f they be poor, as I
often tells neighbor Truely here, if one is poor,
they may be merry sometimes.” “It is likely,”
said Mrs. Truely, “that your house will suit the
young person better than mine.” “I will go and
look at it,” said I.
Upon examination, I found the room was tolarably
comfortable, and presently agreeing
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about the price, I took down the name of my
landlady, and the lane where she lived; paid
her a week's advance, and told her I would come
in the evening—passing Mrs. Truely's shop, I
was turning to inquire the character of the woman
in whose house I was going to reside, when
conscience said, `What right have you to inquire
the character of another, who have no vouchers
for your own?'
Humbled, weary, and faint, I pursued my way
back to Mrs. Bellamy's; where a fresh scene
of mortification and humiliation awaited me.
Anne, Anne, my heart is swollen nearly to bursting,
with mingled grief and resentment. Alas!
what am I? whom can I look to for comfort? to
whom shall I fly for protection, from indignity
and insult? Adieu.
SARAH.
LETTER XXVI. SARAH TO ANNE.
Dublin, March 25th, 1779.
WHEN I returned to Mrs. Bellamy's house in
order to remove my trunk to my new habitation,
the maid brought up my dinner, and while I was
eating it, a porter brought a packet directed to
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me, and immediately departed. I was unacquainted
with the writing, yet it seemed as if I had
seen it somewhere before, though I could form
no idea whose it was; I broke the seal, and found
the two inclosed letters; I send you the insulting
originals, for I have not patience to transcribe
them; you see the situation they are in, I have
wet them with indignant tears; have trampled
them under my feet; I would have torn the
infamous scrawls to atoms, and scattered them
to the winds of heaven, or given them to the devouring
flames, but I preserved them that you
may see how low, how very low, your poor
Sarah is fallen.
I AM exceedingly concerned, my dear Mrs.
Darnley, at the little brulee which has taken
place between my mother and yourself, especially
as she tells me you talk of leaving her; this I
lament, because I think Caroline very much improved
since you have had the entire management
of her; not but that it has been a matter
of surprise to me, that a woman so young, lovely,
and accomplished as yourself, should voluntarily
submit to the humiliation of being subject
to the humor and caprices of any one, and live
in a state of dependence, when they might command
affluence on the very easy terms of sharing
it with an agreeable man, who would think himself
honored by her acceptance of his protection:
and this I know to be your case. The marquis
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of H—, who is an intimate friend of lord
Linden's, and whom you have seen at my house
and at my mother's, has often expressed his
fervent admiration of your person, manners and
accomplishments. He was present when my
mother told us of your quarrel; I do assure you
he took your part very highly, called you a
persecuted angel; raved at my mother, and
was setting off post haste, to offer you consolation,
in the form of a young handsome lover and
a settlement; but I stopped him, told him he
must conduct himself with prudence and delicacy,
if he wished to succeed with you—so while he is
writing his amorous epistle, I have scrawled
these hasty lines, to intreat you to give his proposal
a fair perusal, and take it into serious consideration.
Only reflect, my dear, on the
unprotected state, in which you now are, in a
strange place, without friends or money. You will
perhaps say, you have reputation; but, child,
will reputation pay your lodging, or buy you a
new gown when you want one? No, believe me,
poor reputation is many a time left naked in the
street, while those who have disclaimed and
turned her out of doors, are sumptuously clothed,
inhabit palaces, and ride in splendid equipages.
But I will say no more; your own good sense
will direct you; and surely I think you cannot be
so wilfully blind to your own interest, as to refuse
the offers of the marquis. Do, child, be wise for
once, and take the advice of a friend, though I
am arguing against myself to persuade you to do
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so. But if you are romantic enough to prefer
dependence; why, if you must leave ma, come
and live with me, and I will take Caroline home;
at any rate, pray do not, in a flight of elevation,
run from those evils which you know, to those of
which at present you can have no conception.
Madam,
THOUGH I have but a few times enjoyed the
pleasure of being in your company, those few
have been enough to awaken in my mind sentiments
of the highest esteem for your talents
and virtues. I have understood from my friend,
lord Linden, that you have connected yourself in
marriage, with a man who knows not how justly
to appreciate your worth; and who has permitted
you to come unprovided and unprotected into
this country, that by the exertion of your abilities,
you may obtain means of subsistence; this,
madam, being the case, prevents my having the
honor of laying myself and fortune at your feet.
But as from the treatment you have experienced
from your husband, every tie must be broken
between you, every obligation dissolved—permit
me to offer you protection and independence;
allow me to hope to be admitted among the
chosen few, whom you may honor with esteem.
I have a neat house, ready for your reception, a
few miles from Dublin, whether you can retire,
until one can be prepared in the city, should you
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prefer residing there; a carriage and servants
shall attend your order, free of expense, and a
settlement of five hundred pounds a year during
your life, awaits your acceptance; only allow me
the privilege of passing some hours of every
day in your society, and by studying your
charmingly intelligent countenance, discover and
prevent your wishes, before you have time to
give them utterance. I have desired the person
who brings you this, not to wait for an answer.
I will not hurry your gentle and delicate nature;
take your own time to consider my proposals;
only to give me one comforting gleam of hope,
allow me to see you for five minutes this evening,
at Mrs. Bellamy's; I will call about nine
o'clock; I will not say one word on the subject
of this letter; my visit shall be confined to the
period mentioned; if it is your wish, only receive
me without a frown, and I will live in the hope, that
my future visits (when you are settled in your
own house) will be welcomed with a smile. I
am, madam, with the utmost respect, your sincere
adorer,
H.
When I had read these most diabolical epistles,
my beloved Anne, the first impulse of my soul
was to offer humbly, on my knees, my thanks to
the Giver of all good, that this marquis, this
man who would thus artfully insinuate himself into
my favor, is not a person who is very likely to
awaken the least emotion of tenderness; next to
this effusion of thanks, an ardent prayer arose,
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that I might not be tempted beyond my strength.
I then resolved on immediate flight. For what
am I but a weak mortal, liable to error, prone to
frailty, the very child of weakness? Beset as I
was, by poverty, unsheltered poverty, in a place
where none were interested whether I lived or
died—far from all who are interested in my fate,
my Frederic, and my dear Anne, my father, oh!
let me not think on him; Anne, I feared my
own weakness; and though not assailed by passion,
I knew my safety lay only in flight—I sent for
a coach, put my trunk into it, and without leaving
any word for Mrs. Bellamy, drove to my
new lodgings.
Secure and happy in the reflection that I
have done right, I slept that night with tolerable
composure; but each returning day brings with
it some anxiety; for, alas, how am I to live?—
I will trust in God. I am willing to work, I shall
surely obtain employment sufficient to purchase
the mere necessaries of life. I will write to you
again, but do not expect long nor frequent letters.
I have now to labor for a living; do not be uneasy;
I shall do very well, no doubt. Heaven bless
you, my good, my friendly Anne. Whilst I live
I shall never cease to love and honor you.
SARAH.
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LETTER XXVII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
London, July 17th, 1779.
DURING your residence in London, my dear
madam, you saw every letter I received from
Mrs. Darnley, and were witness to the cruel
anxiety I experienced upon the receipt of the
last, in which she informed me of her removal
from Mrs. Bellamy's; though I highly applauded
her conduct, I trembled for the dangers to
which she might be exposed in her miserable
retreat, and as she had given no direction how a
a letter might find her; however, hoping that
she might send to the post-office to inquire for
letters, I wrote, having first placed a sum of
money with a banker, who had a correspondent in
Dublin, with orders to pay it to her; giving such
particular instructions, that in case the letter
should be lost, there might be no danger of the
money being taken by an impostor. This money
I entreated her to take and make what use she
pleased with it, but by all means to come to England,
where she might be within reach of those
who love, esteem, and would protect her to the
utmost of their power. Having thus done, I rested
in quiet, until I imagined time enough was elapsed
for an answer to arrive, but no answer came. I
then flattered myself that Sarah, in compliance
with my advice, was on her way home; but a
month passed on, and still no intelligeace arriving,
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I requested Mr. Lewis, the banker above-mentioned,
to write to his friend, and beg him to call
on Mrs. Bellamy, and make inquiry concerning
her, as I did not think it improbable that curiosity
might induce her to trace out my poor, deserted
friend, and endeavour to prevail on her to return;
or, by sending the insinuating marquis,
(for such by his letter I am convinced he is,) to
use all his arts in order to reduce Sarah to the
degraded level with herself. Through this man
I entertained a faint hope that I might discover
where she was, and have the superlative felicity
of relieving her necessities, administering to
her comfort, and cheering her heart, by convincing
her my friendship was undeviating, my
esteem undiminished, my heart as warmly attached
as ever.
Mr. Lewis, though an excellent man, could
not feel interested as I did in the fate of Sarah,
and neglected writing for above a week; after
his letter was gone, it was three weeks before he
received an answer; and when he did, it almost
deprived me of my reason. I will give you a
full account of Mr. Lewis's visit to me, and then
transcribe the letter which he has left with me.
He was polite enough to call the very day the
letter arrived. It was about twelve o'clock
when a carriage drove up to the door, and seeing
from the window that it was Mr. Lewis's, I
could not restrain my impatience, but hastened
to the top of the stairs to meet him. `You have
news for me, dear sir,' said I, reaching out my
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hand. `I have received a letter from Dublin,'
said he, as he led me into the drawing-room,
but I fear it will not afford you any pleasure,'
continued he, as he seated himself. `I am very
much afraid, my good Miss Aubrey, that your
Mrs. Darnley is an artful woman who has imposed
on your unsuspicious heart.' `Did you
know her, sir, you would soon banish those ideas;
she is so far from practising art, that she carries
her sincerity almost to an extreme; nay, were
she inclined to practise it, her intelligent countenance
would betray her; for in every feature
(in particular, her soft expressive eyes) you may
read every emotion of her ardent, though uncorrupted
beart.' `Well, well!' said he, `I find
you are an enthusiast, so will not argue the point
with you. Here is the letter I have received;
read it at your leisure; from the intelligence it
contains, I am led to imagine you will change
your opinion; indeed I cannot but be amazed
that you should think so highly of a woman who
resided several months with a person of Mrs.
Bellamy's description; if she is innocent, the
least we can say is, she has been very imprudent.'
I would have vindicated her; offered to produce
her letters; but this he would not let me do,
saying, he would talk to me about it when he
saw me again; he then left me, and with a palpitating
heart, I sat down to read the letter.
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DEAR SIR, Dublin, June 22, 1796.
IN pursuance of your advice, I sought out
Mrs. Bellamy, and waited on her to inquire
after Mrs. Darnley, who I perceived, by your
letter, was a person in whose fate either yourself,
or some of your friends, were particularly
interested. When I discovered who this Mrs.
Bellamy was, I will confess I was surprised how
you could be any way engaged in an inquiry after
a woman who had resided in her family; as
she is the mother of the celebrated Mrs. O'Donnell,
who has alienated the affection of the
(otherwise) worthy lord Linden, from his amiable
lady and her lovely children; and this
Mrs. Bellamy was always supposed to be the
vile agent who instigated the daughter to attempt
to ensnare, and whose counsel afterwards assisted
her to bind fast, the fetters which hold his lordship
in his unworthy bondage. However, I presumed
you had some very good reason for desiring
me to be particular in my inquiry, and I set
in earnest about it. The old gentlewoman received
me with politeness, regretted that it was
not in her power to give me the desired information
where Mrs. Darnley was to be found; said
she had been much deceived in her; that she had
brought her from England with her, to superintend
the education of her grand-daughter; but
that very soon after their arrival in Dublin,
she, Mrs. Darnley, made acquaintance with
some low people in the neighborhood; and
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one day when she was out, she had taken her
trunk and gone off, without leaving any message
whatever; and that she imagined she was gone
with a kind of sailor-looking man, who used frequently
to come after her. While she was
speaking, a servant came in to bring a note; of
whom she inquired whether any of the people
below had heard or seen any thing of Darnley,
since she went away? The young woman replied,
that Mrs. O'Donnell's John had said, he
saw her a few days since go into a house in an
alley at the lower end of the town. `It is no
great matter where she is,' replied Mrs. Bellamy,
`for what is she good for? She imposed
on me, when she applied for employment, by
telling an artful tale of her husband's misfortunes;
said necessity had obliged her to separate herself
from him; but I rather think, from what
I have since heard, that he had good reasons for
separating from her.' After this intelligence,
my good sir, you may be sure I felt no very
great curiosity to hear any more about your fair
adventurer; but as you had expressed so ardent
a desire for information, I took down the name
of the alley where the woman said she had been
seen, and went immediately there; inquired at
every house where I thought it was likely I
might find her, describing her person according
to the description given in your letter; I had
almost given up all hope, when going into a house
that stood a little more back than the rest, I
found she was known to the mistress of it, and
had lived there several weeks.
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Upon my first inquiry, I found Mrs. Darnley
had left this woman, impressed with no higher an
opinion of her prudence or virtue, than Mrs.
Bellamy was. She seemed eager to give me all
the information in her power; and as I thought,
giving her permission to talk as fast and as long
as she pleased, would be gratifying at once her
favorite propensity, and enable me to give you
a more succinct account of the person for whom
you were so much interested, I remained silent,
and only endeavored to connect the story, and
free it from its superfluities. I learnt that about
two months since, Mrs. Darnley had come to this
house and taken a lodging—she did not go by the
name of Darnley, but Beetham; and the woman
discovered her real name by a pocket handkerchief
she dropped one day in taking some linen
from her trunk, on which Sarah Darnley was
marked at full length. `I took up the handkerchief,
' said the woman, `and looking at her, said,
I thought your name was Beetham?' She colored,
and said, `My name was once Darnley.'
`Then you are a married woman?' `Yes,' answered
she, but she looked confused, so I thought I
would question her further. `Where is your
husband?' says I. She said she believed in London.
`And what is he?' `He was a merchant.'
`And how came you to be separated from him?'
She shut up her trunk, sir, and, taking the
handkerchief out of my hand, tore off the corner
and put it into the fire; yes, sir, she put it into
the fire, and told me that she did not know by what
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right I catechised her, and telling me she wanted
to be alone, as good as turned me out of the
room. Now, sir, this argufied no good.—I
thought so too; but not to weary you with her
jargon, I found that this delicate Mrs. Darnley
had been visited by a man several times in the
course of a week; that three or four times she
had gone out and stayed until between ten and
eleven o'clock. At last, her landlady having
remonstrated with her a little mildly upon keeping
such late hours, she told her that she would
not long be a trouble to her, for she had been
seeking a situation in a family, and had, she
thought, met with one to her satisfaction; that
about a week afterwards she went away, leaving
her trunk as security to the woman of the house,
for she had never paid for the apartment she occupied;
that having been absent nearly a fortnight,
she returned one night, requesting to be again
received, but at the same time said she had brought
home no money; that she had only the clothes
she had on, and what was in the woman's possession;
and that she had walked twelve miles that
day; but the apartment being let to another,
Mrs. Darnley went away; and a day or two
after she was seen at a neighboring house, where
the woman said she sent her clothes after her.
I went to this house, but could get no further
information, only that she had been there, and
was gone they knew not whither. But it was
the universal agreement of all, that she was a
woman of light character; and the last person I
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inquired of, said she had been entirely supported
by a very genteel old gentleman, and she supposed
was gone into better lodgings of his
providing.
So you perceive, my good sir, that Mrs. Darnley
is not destitute of new friends; and her
having changed her name is an evident proof
that she wishes to conceal herself from her old
ones. I wish it had been my good fortune to
procure any more satisfactory intelligence, but I
could trace her no further. I hope she has
neither father, brother, or husband to be dishonored
by her conduct. If I can be of any
further use, any directions you may be pleased
to send, shall be punctually followed by
Sir, your humble servant,
JOHN GALLAGHAN.
Can you conceive for a moment what my agony
of mind was, during the perusal of this letter, to
see how my poor friend has been misrepresented?
For, until I have manifest evidence of it, I can
never believe her lost to honor. She may have
been betrayed, (the very supposition is torture to
my heart) for if she has, she is lost to me and to
the world forever; she will conceal herself from
the knowlege of every one, whom she had known
before. But it is not in nature for her to become
a voluntary slave to vice. Indeed, it is plain to
me, thoughout every part of this letter, that she
has been persecuted and ill used; perhaps driven
to extreme distress; want of bread or clothing
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would not tempt her into the paths of shame; but
when in distress, should a man of sense, delicacy,
of polished manners, and insinuating address,
relieve her, and then sue for her favors—I cannot
answer for her heart; and when the heart is
enthusiastically impressed with grateful sensations,
how soon will assiduous tenderness, from
an engaging object, make it vibrate with a warmer
sensation, and then, what are our best resolutions?
I speak not as a woman only, but as a
child of frailty; for such are all the sons and
daughters of Adam In such a situation, I would
not answer for the steadiness even of my virtuous
Sarah.
Did I require any thing to convince me that
she is not the depraved being they have represented
her, the sincerity of her replies to the
woman who interrogated her about her handkerchief,
would be a sufficient proof, that she retained
her native singleness of heart; which, to me,
was ever the most interesting trait in her character.
Before she could become abandoned, she
would have learnt to dissemble. What can I
do? How shall I find her? I have requested
Mr. Lewis to write to his friend once more; in
the mean time, I am determined, however eccentric
you may think the step, to write to the
marquis of H—, and endeavor to interest him
in her behalf; a man of his rank has great
influence in such a city as Dublin; and if he has
the smallest spark of honor, he will exert himself
to restore to her friends, a woman whom his
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[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
insulting overtures forced to seek shelter in
poverty and shame, from the solicitations of vice,
and the dread of ignominy. When I have put
this plan in execution, and waited a reasonable
time for an answer, you shall hear again from
ANNE.
LETTER XXVII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, August 20, 1779.
I HAVE written to the marquis of H—, as
I proposed, and received an answer—I enclose
both for your perusal, and shall then proceed
with my narrative, for I have wonders to recount—
but you must take all in the order as
they occurred to me.
To the Right Honorable the Marquis of H—
MY LORD, July 17.
THE trouble I am about to give your lordship
may, perhaps, be deemed an impertinent
intrusion; and an apologizing introduction, might
by some, be thought indispensible; but I trust
your lordship will admit the cause, when I have
explained it, of itself a sufficient excuse for the
liberty I take, without my offering any other.
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I have, my lord, for many years, been in habits
of the strictest intimacy with a lady of the
name of Darnley, who, from a concurrence of
unfortunate circumstances, was an inmate in
Mrs. Bellamy's family during last winter, where,
I have been informed, your lordship became acquainted
with her, and judging of her character
from the character of those in whose society you
found her, (a fair criterion, I own, in general, but
in her case very erroneous,) you made her a proposal,
which, though it evinced much love,
breathed very little respect. The receipt of that
letter, drove Mrs. Darnley precipitately from
Mrs. Bellamy's, and forced a virtuous woman
on a prejudiced and misjudging world, without
money, without even a single friend being near,
to whom she could apply for relief. These particulars
I had from her own hand, since when, I
have heard nothing from her. Anxious, unhappy,
I employed a person in Dublin, to make inquiries
concerning her, and have had the misfortune to
hear, that her character has been vilely traduced
by those, who, shamed by her unshaken virtue,
endeavor to bring her to a level with themselves.
As I presume your lordship was uncommonly
pleased with the person of Mrs. Darnley, I am
led to imagine, when she left the house of that
dishonor to her sex, Mrs. Bellamy, you would
naturally make some inquiries concerning her,
and perhaps may have some knowledge of her
present situation. If you have, my lord, have
the goodness to inform her, that her silence has
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almost broken my heart, and beg her to make
use of a letter of credit, which she will find at
Mr. John Gallaghan's, the banker, to discharge
any debts she may have contracted, and return
home to the bosom of friendship. If indeed, you
do not know where she is, will your lordship
condescend to make use of the influence, your
rank and fortune give you, and cause her to be
sought for; and if you will permit one of your
people to inform me of the success of the inquiry
you will enhance the obligation. Indeed, my
lord, you will never have cause to repent any
interference in her behalf; or any assistance you
may give her; for in serving Sarah Darnley, you
are serving the cause of virtue.
I have the honor to be, my lord, your lordship's
most obedient humble servant,
ANNE.
MADAM, August 4th.
I WAS honored with your favor of July 17,
and feel myself impelled to admire a friendship
so ardent and sincere, as that which you profess
to feel for the charming Mrs. Darnley. You
were right in your conjecture, that I should
make instant inquiry after the lovely fugitive,
who had taken such alarm at my letter, and fled
from what she termed my persecution. In that
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[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
letter, I told her I would see her in the evening;
and at the hour I had appointed, I repaired to
Mrs. Bellamy's house. Judge of my surprize at
hearing she was gone, and had taken her trunks
with her, leaving no message I inquired how
she was conveyed from the house; and learning
that she went in a hackney coach, on my return
home, I employed one of my servants to
inquire at the stands around, for the man who
had taken up a fare at such an hour, in such a
street—by this man I discovered where he had
taken her, and went in the evening of the following
day, to the lane where he directed me;
intending, if I could not prevail on your fair
friend to favor my suit, to insist upon being her
banker, and serve her even against her will.
Upon my inquiry for the lady who lodged
there, I feared there was some mistake; for the
woman of the house shewed me into a little parlor,
and said, she would call Miss Beetham—
however, I thought I might as well stop, and see
what kind of a being Miss Beetham was. But
my doubts were soon removed, for I heard her
soft voice say, “It must be a mistake, no gentleman
can want me” “It is no mistake, dear
madam,” said I, advancing up two or three
stairs, for from a room at the top of which the
voice had proceeded. “It is no mistake; it is you
I am inquiring for, permit me to say the few
words I have to offer you.” “You give yourself
needless touble,” said she, coming out of the
chamber, alarmed, I imagine, at hearing my step
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ascending the stairs. “I beg you will leave me,
you can offer nothing I can or will accept.” I
took her hand and led her down to the little parlor.
She shut the door, and seating herself opposite
me, said, “My lord, I force myself to
speak to you, that you may not, though you have
discovered the place of my retreat, entertain any
chimerical hopes, that I shall be wrought on, by
the fear of poverty, to yield to your insulting
proposal; I am, it is true, unfortunate, but I
have ever maintained a conscience at peace with
itself, and hope ever to do so; permit me to tell
you, it is cruel, unmanly conduct, thus to persecute
a woman who has no protector—even your
being here this evening, if you were known,
would ruin me in the opinion of those with whom
I reside, and to whom I must look for a character
when I can get employment: I must insist
on your not repeating your visits.” I would have
argued, she was deaf; I offered her my purse,
bills to any amount, but she would touch neither.
I endeavored to hold her in conversation, to obtain
leave to visit her: but she was as impenetrable
as marble; and having, with the most
persuasive earnestness, entreated me to leave
her in peace, she darted out of the room, ran up
stairs, and fastened the chamber door; nor
would any thing I could say, induce her to open
it.
“Bless me,” said the officious landlady, bursting
out of a little back room, which seemed a
kind of kitchen, “bless me, what has put the
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lady in such a taking?” “I have brought some
unpleasant news, madam,” said I, and thinking
it was as well to have a friend at court, I took
two or three guineas from my purse, and presenting
them to the woman, who eyed them with
inexpressible pleasure, I continued, “Miss Beetham
is rather unfortunate in some respects, and
will require much of your attention to keep up
her spirits. I am glad to see she is in the house
of a person so interested for her, as you appear
to be. Pray take these as a mark of my good
will, and be assured, you shall be no loser by any
attention you pay her. I hope she will not think
of removing from you, if she should, I will thank
you to let me know.” I then gave her an address,
with a feigned name, in order to her
sending me intelligence of the motions of her
fair lodger.
The next day, happening to meet Mrs. Bellamy
at Mrs. O`Donnell's lodgings, whither I
went with my friend lord Linden; the conversation
turned on your charming friend; when to
my great surprise, the old woman asserted, that,
however far Mrs. Darnley might carry her affectation
(as she chose to term it) she was certain
in the end, my offers would be accepted. And
you may believe me, madam, had it not been for
their insinuations, and her being a resident in the
house of a woman, of more than doubtful character,
I should never have presumed to have
offended Mrs. Darnley's delicacy, by a tender of
my services, upon terms which I might have
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been certain any woman of honor would reject
with scorn. They laughed at me, for having
been so easily baffled, and imposed on by her
assumed virtue; told me she had been guilty of
some lapses which were the cause of her separation
from her husband; and so effectually argued
me out of the respect I began to experience for
her, that I was resolved not to have my schemes
foiled by an artful baggage, who, in all probability,
would laugh in her sleeve, at finding me so
easily imposed on.
Having received intelligence from my talkative
friend, the landlady, that Mrs. Darnley, or as
she called herself, Miss Beetham, had advertized
herself for a situation to wait on a lady, or to take
care of and instruct one or more young children,
I therefore dispatched an old trusty servant,
(who no more than myself would have engaged
in the pursuit of a virtuous woman) I told him it
was her whim to be treated with respect, and be
considered as a pattern of purity, and that the
very semblance of virtue was so charming, that
I would have her indulged. He was to represent
himself as the steward of a lady who lived a
small distance from the city, who wanted a companion;
that he should engage her at a liberal
salary, and take her to a seat of mine in the
environs of Dublin, where I meant to engage a
quondam acquaintance of mine to personate the
lady, and thought time and concurring circumstances
would smoothe the way to settlement.
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But this plan was not so easily put in execution
as I imagined it would be. She would make
no engagements without letters from the principal;
and much time was spent in this ideal correspondence:
at length when all preliminaries
were settled, the pretended lady chose to take a
jaunt into the country, with a chere amie of hers,
and Mrs. Darnley was obliged to be sent to the
care of the house-keeper, until her intended lady
should return. At length she did return, and I
resolved to accompany her home, to shew my
charmer, as early as possible, that I was upon a
footing of easy familiarity in the family; but no
sooner had she entered the parlor, and cast her
eyes towards us, than uttering an exclamation of
surprise, she sunk on the floor in a state of inanimation.
I flew towards her, raised and
supported her in my arms until some female attendants,
obeying the summons of the bell, conveyed
her out of the room, when, turning to my
companion, I beheld her pale, and every mark of
astonishment on her countenance. “Is this your
Miss Beetham?” said she, ironically. “Yes—
did you ever see her before?” “Oh yes! I fancy
I know her better than your lordship does—I do
not imagine you will find much difficulty in persuading
her to accept your terms without any
interposition of mine.” “Was it surprise at
the sight of you, do you imagine, occasioned her to
faint?” “No—I rather think it was joy at the
sight of your lordship; for according to the plan
you have pursued, she must have supposed she
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had lost you. I fancy her fit will not prove dangerous—
she will tell you to-morrow, how violent,
yet how delightful her emotions were.” This
was delivered in such a tone of ridicule, that I
began to think I must appear very contemptible
to suffer myself thus to be played upon. I retired
to my chamber, in a very ill humor, resolving
to converse with Mrs. Darnley in the morning,
and if she would not comply with my proposals,
to make her a present and take a final leave of
her. Still in the midst of my vexation, there
was something flattering in idea that she might
feel some emotions in my favor; and that being
taken by surprise, she was thrown off her guard,
and her sensibility, at my unexpected appearance,
overcame her caution. I was kept waking until
a late hour, by various reflections, and extraordinary
conjectures, and slept the next morning
longer than usual. When I descended to the
breakfast room, I found my travelling companion
waiting for me. “Go,” said I to the footman, “tell
Miss Beetham that breakfast waits, and if she is
able to leave her apartment, we shall be glad of
her company to make our tea.” “Your lordship
may save yourself the trouble,” said the lady,
“Miss Beetham has taken herself off. I sent to inquire
after her when I came down, but behold, the
delicate, fainting, tender creature is no where
to be found.” “Gone?” said I, “impossible!”
I ordered the house, the grounds, the servants'
offices, and every adjoining place to be searched,
but in vain. A small trunk, with a few changes
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of linen in it, (the only baggage she brought with
her) was left behind in her chamber.
You may easily imagine, madam, that this
intelligence gave me great uneasiness; I was
sensible it could only be a wish to avoid me that
prompted her flight, and that whatever might be
the motive for her conduct, she had now carried
it too far to be any longer attributed to affectation.
I returned to Dublin, and employed the
same man who had negociated the business of a
place, &c. as related, to watch round the house
where she had lodged, and if she returned thither
to offer her money, of which I was sure she must
be in great need; and a letter of apology for my
former conduct, entreating her to pardon a fault
I had been led to commit, by the malignity of
her enemies. I professed my full conviction of
the purity of her heart, and requested she would
permit me to nominate some proper person to
protect and conduct her in safety to her friends
in England. But he returned in the evening,
informing me, she had not been there. I could
not, upon reflecting on the circumstances of the
preceeding evening, help suspecting that Mrs.
Ryan, the woman whom I mentioned to have
been with me, had deceived me, as well as the
detested Bellamy; and that she knew more of
Mrs. Darnley than she chose to declare. Accordingly
the next day, I repaired to her house, in
order to make more minute inquiries. I found
her surrounded by several gentlemen, but my
impatience would brook no delay. I however
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considered it would be doing the object of my
search an injury to inquire after her, of such a
woman; for I must not pretend to disguise from
you, that this Mrs. Ryan was a Cyprian votary,
who some years since, took a trip with me from
London to the continent; and from thence came
with me to Dublin, where we parted by mutual
consent; though I had never entirely foreborn
to visit her. I therefore inquired for her by her
assumed name. “What, have you not found
your little run-away yet?” said she, “it seems to
be my lot to fall in with the admirers of the
eccentric Sarah.” “Sarah! Sarah! who?”
exclaimed a young naval officer, with a look of
alarmed tenderness. “Oh! what—here is
another lover I suppose,” said she, laughing;
“who would have thought the homely Sarah
would ever have become so formidable?” “But
what was her other name?” said the young
officer with increased vehemence. “Oh, I dare
not call her by her right name,” said she, scornfully,
“my lord H— will never forgive me if
I do; but to satisfy you, and that you may be
convinced, whether it is your Sarah or not, I
will shew you her picture, which I stole one
evening in sport from a lover of mine, and he
never after demanded it, to let me see how indifferent
he was to the original.” The agitation
of the stranger was extreme, while she was gone
up stairs to get the picture. “Here,” said she,
presenting it, “it is a great likeness, I assure
you, though I think her handsomer now than
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when it was taken.” He took it—he gazed on
it—he clasped it in his hands, and elevated them
towards heaven with a look of indescribable anguish—
exclaimed, “Oh God! Oh God! my
sister. Where is she? how came she here?
Lead me to her—Yet—no! no! tell me she is
no longer in existence, for I should rather hear
she was dead, than find her what every thing I
hear and see leads me to fear she is. Dear, unhappy
Sarah, well might you neglect to answer
my letters. God of heaven, can it be my sister!
my sister!” All this was uttered with a vehemence
and rapidity that totally precluded interruption;
but at the end, his heart's anguish
overflowed at his eyes, and throwing himself on
the sofa, he hid his face and gave a free course
to his feelings. Mrs Ryan, when she preceived
what she had done, was frightened. “Lord bless
me,” said she, “who would have thought Mrs.
Darnley was your sister?” “Peace, woman,”
said I, “leave me a few minutes with the gentleman;
your unfeeling thoughtlessness has pierced
him to the heart.” She withdrew to another
apartment with her other visitors, and I seated
myself by the brother of Mrs Darnley; silently
waiting a pause in his grief to speak and administer
consolation. At length he raised his head,
and looked at me, said, “Do you know my wretched
sister? but why do I ask? perhaps it it to you
she owes—” His countenance reddened, and I
perceived what past in his mind. “Do not form,
sir,” said I gravely, “hasty and erroneous
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conclusions. I have had the honor of being in Mrs.
Darnley's company, and do not hesitate to profess
myself one of her warmest admirers; I
believe her to be unfortunate, but I would pledge
my life that she is innocent.” I then related to
him all that had taken place after my first seeing
her at O`Donnel's, not in the least sparing myself,
though I pleaded the characters of the
women with whom I found her as some extenuation
of my offence; he was willing to allow it,
but was lost in conjecture bow it was possible she
could be thrown among such people. We questioned
Ryan as to what she knew about Mrs.
Darnley, and could get nothing from her, but
that she once lived in the same neighborhood
where she resided. Mr. Lewis had heard of his
sister's marriage, but had not received a line
from her, nor any intelligence concerning her,
for eighteen months past; however, he resolved
to go to Mrs. Bellamy's and insist on learning
from her, what had induced his sister to accompany
her to Ireland. We went immediatly, but
found to our great mortification, that she was
gone on a jaunt of pleasure with her daughter,
and would not return under a fortnight or three
weeks.
Disappointed in the point we aimed at, that
of forcing Mrs. Bellamy to tell Mr. Lewis
all she knew concerning his sister; I found it
almost impossible to bring his perturbed spirits
to any tolerable degree of composure. I accompanied
him to the place where she had lodged;
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but there the woman gave such a strange account
of her, as threw him almost into a paroxysm of
phrenzy. He did not expect to remain in Dublin
more than a week or ten days, (the ship he
belonged to coming toIreland having been entirely
accidental.) I found by his conversation, that
Mrs. Darnley is only a nominal sister, he having
been adopted by her father. I was led to suspect
from that circumstance, that it might be more
than fraternal affection which made him so anxious;
but he soon dissipated that doubt, by an
assurance to the contrary, in such terms as necessarily
enforced belief. He wrote to her husband
a letter of such bitter reproach, demanding
his sister at his hands in terms so peremptory,
that if Darnley is a man of the least spirit, whenever
they meet, a duel will most probably ensue.
He inserted an advertisement in the papers,
couched in such terms, as if it fell into her hands,
and she wished to return to her friends, she
could not but understand it; yet so delicate as
not to wound her feelings by making her situation
a topic for public animadversion. But before
either an answer could arrive to the letter, or
any good effect arise from the latter expedient,
his ship was ordered away—and he departed,
earnestly conjuring me to continue my endeavors
to find and succour Mrs. Darnley, and have
her conveyed in safety to England, where he expected
to be in the course of a few months. On
taking leave, he requested me to inquire for his
letter and open it, whenever it should arrive. I
did so—it contained these lines:
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“MR. LEWIS,
THE woman you call sister, and who has, to
my misfortune, been for some years my wife, having
voluntarily separated herself from me; after
having by her love of dissipation and thoughtless
extravagance, combined with other circumstances,
reduced me to bankruptcy; and having
been absent now five months without writing to
me above twice, which was in the early period
of her absence, I cannot inform you of any thing
concerning her; nor do I desire ever to be troubled
on her account; I hold myself in no degree
whatever accountable for her actions, nor will I
pay any debts of her contracting. I have heard
from Mrs. Bellamy, the person with whom she
left England, that she has left her protection;
has given herself up to folly and infamy; and
from this hour, I renounce any connexion
whatever with her.
GEORGE DARNLEY.”
My soul rose indignant, as I perused this unfeeling,
unmanly scrawl, for it deserves not the
name of a letter; and I sincerely rejoiced, that Mr.
Lewis was not here to read it. The conduct of
Bellamy is most detestable; I was impatient for
her return, that I might reproach her as she
deserved, and oblige her to write to Darnley and
unsay all she had asserted; nay, despicable as
the wretch appears to me, I had resolved to
write to him myself, and defend his aspersed
wife to the utmost of my power; but upon
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reflection, I feared, as I had not discovered her
retreat, and could not account for her conduct
in thus keeping herself concealed, I might, by
interference, when I could not fully vindicate,
injure rather than serve her. In this suspense,
I was obliged to leave Dublin, to which place I
did not return until a few days before the receipt
of your letter. The earnest solicitude you expressed,
again awakened my desire of finding
your friend; for I had before, in some degree,
quieted my mind, by the flattering supposition
that she might be returned to England. I now
again saw Mrs. Bellamy, and in a tone of authority,
demanded if she had heard any thing
of the woman she had so ill treated. “Oh yes,”
said she, with a smile of contempt, “I can direct
your lordship to her lodgings, where the
delicate, virtuous lady is supported by O`Donnell.”
“Impossible,” said I. “Not at all impossible,”
said Mrs. O`Donnell, who was present.
“I believe she has been under his protection
above two months.” I waited to hear no
more, but taking the direction, hurried to the
place where they said she resided. As I was
entering the door, for it was late in the evening,
a man jostled me, and turning quick, seized
my arm and exclaimed, “Have I found you
then!” I endeavored to shake off his hold, but
in so doing, his hat fell off, the lamp at entrance
shone faintly into the passage, and I discovered
Frederic Lewis. “Heavens, Mr. Lewis,” said
I, “how came you here?” “I came to rescue a
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sister from infamy,” said he, then slacking his
hold, he continued in a tone of sorrow, “but that
you, my lord, after all your pretended friendship,
after all your affected search for the poor fallen
frail one, should prove her seducer.” “Do not
irritate me, Lewis,” said I, “that I came here
in search of Mrs. Darnley, I will allow, but I
call Heaven to witness”—“Your asseverations,
and base subterfuges, will no longer avail you,”
said he in an elevated tone. The bustle in the
passage, which did not immediately belong to
the house, but led to the door, attracted attention,
and it was opened by a woman, who inquired
what was the matter. “Does Sarah Darnley
lodge here?” said Lewis. The woman replied in
the negative. “You have a female lodger,”
said he, “and I wish to see her. “She admits
no male visitors,” replied the woman, “especially
at this time of night.” “I must see her,”
said he, with vehemence, “I have reasons for
supposing her my sister; is not her name Sarah?”
A shriek from the parlor within, announced
that we were overheard; and in an instant,
a female rushed by the mistress of the house,
and throwing herself into the arms of Mr. Lewis,
fainted—It was Mrs. Darnley herself. She
is now safe in the protection of her brother, and
I presume you will embrace her nearly as soon
as you receive this letter. She will inform you
of every particular during her period of concealment.
The recital will cost you many tears;
it melted me almost to a childish weakness.
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Adieu, madam. I hope I have convinced you,
that however blameable my conduct was, at
first, in regard to your amiable friend, I endeavored
to repair my errors, the moment I discovered
they were such. Be pleased to accept my
wishes for your happiness, and that of the woman
so deservedly esteemed by you, and allow
me to hope for a place in both your memories;
for to be numbered among the friends of Mrs.
Darnley, will ever be deemed an honor by
Your humble servant,
H.—
LETTER XXIX. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, August 6, 1780.
I WILL suppose you to have read the marquis's
letter, and am sure I need not expatiate on the
delight it conveyed to my mind. I became impatient
for the arrival of Sarah; moments appeared
hours, hours days, and days weeks. Think
then, by this mode of computation, what an immense
period a whole fortnight must have appeared;
for so long it was before I embraced my
friend; and when she did come, to pale, so
changed was she, that my heart bled as I contemplated
her depressed countenance. Frederic
Lewis could only deliver her in safety to me, and
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set off the next morning to join his ship which
had arrived at Plymouth. When he left Dublin,
as mentioned by the marquis, in a state of suspence
concerning his sister, the anxiety of his
mind, joined to a cold which he took about that
time, brought on a fever; and he obtained leave
to return in a pilot boat which passed them the
second day after they were out. But on his
reaching land, his disorder became so violent as
to confine him to his bed for a very considerable
period; and left him so weak that it was much
longer before he was enabled to renew his inquiries,
and he had only discovered the place of
Sarah's residence the day previous to his encountering
lord H. He had in the course of his inquiries,
heard so many things to her disadvantage,
that even his faith in her virtue began to be
staggered, and he resolved to watch and ascertain
who visited her, and by what means she was
supported. Resolved, should he find her involved
in shame and guilt, to write to her, give her the
means of returning to England, but to see her no
more. He had placed himself in the long passage
for this purpose but a few minutes, when lord H—
entered, and he immediately concluded him to
have been the original seducer, and present supporter
of his sister; notwithstanding all his pretended
anxiety. Indeed, he said it had often,
during his illness occurred to him, that the
marquis knew where she was, and concealed her,
pretending she left him only to blind Ryan, who
considered her (it was plain) as an object of envy
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and jealousy. You know how this rencountre
terminated. When Frederic found his sister
perfectly innocent, which was evinced by her pale
countenance, exhausted frame, and plain coarse
babiliments, he execrated the wretches who had
so inhumanly persecuted her. He conducted her
to another lodging, and thought of nothing but
hastening her departure from Ireland; but before
they had proceeded a day's journey, he perceived
it would he impossible to proceed in her present
weak state. He stopped at a pleasant village,
and having procured medical advice; having
satisfied himself that nothing but rest and peace
were necessary to restore her; he wrote to the
admiralty to lengthen his time of leave, and
quietly awaited for her strength to recruit. This
occasioned the delay which was to me so intolerable;
for as they knew I had heard from the
marquis of H— of her safety, and whose protection
she was under, they did not think it necessary
to write, daily hoping to recommence their
journey.
When Frederic took leave of his sister, he recommended
her not to take any steps to see
her husband; he even thought she ought to
oppose any advancement made by Darnley for
a re-union; and I was of his opinion. I will give
you her answer. “I will own to you, my brother,
that I never found any great portion of felicity in
my union with Mr. Darnley; yet when I entered
into marriage with him, I resolved, to the utmost
of my abilities, to perform the duties incumbent
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[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
on the sacred obligation. My separation from
him was enforced by necessity; but had I known
the misery of a state of separation, how forlorn,
how desolate, how totally unprotected a married
woman is, when separated from her husband;
how every one thinks he may insult her with
impunity, and no one will take the trouble to
defend her, but rather unite in aspersing and
depressing her, even to the very earth—I would
have never thrown myself into so deplorable a
situation. I will make no overtures towards a re-union;
but should he solicit me to pardon his
unkind neglect, and again share his fate, I shall
certainly do it; I apprehend that I have by no
means been free from blame in my conduct towards
him; I have been thoughtless in my expenditures.
I perhaps have not fulfilled his
expectations in respect to the tenderness of a
wife. Alas! it is hard to teach the countenance
or tongue to express what the heart does not
feel. Do not be angry, Frederic, but I am convinced
I shall never again appear respectable in
the eyes of the world, until I am again under my
husband's protection.”
Frederic would have combatted her opinion, but
it was useless; all he could obtain, was a promise
that she would no farther seek him, than to acquaint
him with her return, and then act as
circumstances should direct. She has accordingly
written a note, which to-morrow I shall dispatch
to him. I hardly know whether to censure
or applaud her resolution. She has suffered
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[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
greatly both with him, and from him; perhaps,
should any means of their living in some degree
of ease and plenty offer, they may taste more
happiness than has yet fallen to their portion.
He, so long abridged of the comforts of domestic
regularity, and the pleasures which must
arise from the society of a good humored, rational
companion, will, I should think, hear of
her return with delight, and invite her home
with the ardor of a lover long separated from
his mistress.
My dear Sarah has kept a regular journal, if
so it can be called, of every occurrence which
took place, from her quitting Mrs. Bellamy's to
the time of her meeting Frederic. It was addressed
to me, with a design should any event
have put a period to her existence, it might
have been transmitted to me, and have justified
her to her father, should he ever return, or her
brother, whom at that time she had but little
hope of seeing again so soon. I have obtained
leave to send it to you; it will explain many
circumstances which at present appear problematical,
and will, I think, greatly interest your
feelings. When you have perused, you will be
so good as to return it by the next post, as every
thing which bears the impression of Sarah's
hand is valuable to me. When any new circumstances
occur, I will inform you.
ANNE.
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LETTER XXX. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
Sarah's Journal from the time she left Mrs.
Bellamy's, to the period of her meeting her
brother.
[This Journal is without date, from the begining
to the end, but as the incidents refer to some
already related, the reader can easily, by comparing
them, ascertain the period when they
took place.]
SOLITARY and alone in the world, how
dreary pass my hours, how desolate is the prospect
by which I am surrounded. Society! when
shall I again taste thy sweets? I am to all thy joys
and comforts as much lost as the shipwrecked
mariner, who having sailed from his native land
in some gallant bark, surrounded by many brave
companions, has seen them snatched from him
by the merciless ocean, and finds himself on an
island, fertile indeed, but inhabited only by the
shaggy natives of the woods, who approach him
but to destroy; who wait only for a favorable
moment, to spring on and devour him. But
where the human face divine is never seen;
where the sweets of converse is not; where the
soul, appalled by the near vicinity of savage
neighbors, shrinks into apathy and torpor, and
becomes by degrees a gloomy, cheerless waste!
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[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
I have wandered by the glimmering twilight
in the fields which skirt this vast city. I listened
to the distant hum of rattling coaches, bells
and mingled sounds of human voices; I leaned
pensively on an old gate which opened from the
field to the great road. A couple passed me;
the woman bore a bundle of faggots on her
head, the man bore a heavier load upon his
shoulders, they led a little half naked boy between
them. “You are tired, Bett,” said he in a
voice which, though rough, spoke kind solicitude.
“No, Thomas,” she replied, “not very
tired; but poor little Jack is, I believe. But
come, Jack, trip along while daddy carries home
the gentleman's trunk; you and I will go make
a fire and get his supper.” They were now so
far I could hear no more: but the words they
had uttered, rested on my mind, and servile as
their situation in life appeared to be, and menial
as was evidently their occupation, yet the solacing
accents of kindness in which they addressed
each other, the tender care each appeared to
feel for the other's ease and comfort, made my
forlorn and desolate situation appear by contrast
so dreadful, that had not an impetuous gush of
tears relieved me, I must have fallen into a fit.
The night air was cold—I had tarried until
darkness had rendered every object of one sombre
hue. My garments are damp: my limbs
chilled I look round my apartment—no friendly
flame blazes on the hearth—no face looks a smile
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of welcome; the poor taper, the purchase of a
farthing, sheds a pale ray of light, and shews
my hard, uncurtained bed. Hard! Oh, let me
not complain of that, while many a worthier being
sleeps on straw.
By this time Betty and Thomas are at their
supper. The fire burns cheerly, their little urchin
of a boy has fallen asleep on his father's
knee, his head reclining on his shoulder. Fancy!
whither, whither wouldst thou lead me?
Thomas and Betty love; are all the world to
each other; their hearts united, their minds
suited, nor have habit, thought or wish beyond
what a comfortable fire, and coarse but plentiful
meal, and flock pallet can supply.
I am not without society, why do I say I am?
The friend I most esteem is in existence; here
is pen, ink, and paper, I can write, can pour forth
my agonized soul, though oceans roll between
us, though we were separated as far as the polar
circles from each other. No, I am not alone,
I have a Guardian ever near, and ever powerful.
Oh! thou whose word called worlds unnumbered
into being—whose breath could make them vanish,
like the mist before the rising sun, nor leave
a trace of what they were behind; no creature
is so mean but thou regardest it; no being is so
depressed, but thou canst raise it. Father!
have I a father? yes, one who rides upon the
tempest, is borne on the wings of thousands and
ten thousands of cherubims—but for my earthly
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father!—perhaps I never shall behold him
more.
I am more composed, I have been to the
mercy seat of my Almighty Father, and he has
vouchsafed to hear and comfort me. Anne, when
you shall behold this, perhaps the writer may
sleep in that dark and narrow tenement to which
she is daily hastening. When you read it, remember
this maxim, and deliver it to the broken-hearted
mourner for comfort. In affliction
there is no helper like God. When pressed to
the earth by undeserved slander, there is no
judge like the Searcher of all hearts. He will
console;—He will forgive;—He will justify.
My dear friendly Anne, I have several times
attempted to inform you of what has befallen me
since I quitted that bad woman, Mrs. Bellamy;
but my mind has been so distracted, my heart
so lacerated, and my spirits so depressed, that
when I have taken up my pen to write, it has
wandered off into some wild apostrophe or unconnected
remark. And even now, when I set
down determined to relate things as they happened,
I ask myself, why should I?—Of what
use will it be to grieve you by a relation of sufferings
you cannot alleviate? I am resolved then
I will write; but until I am either dead or some favorable
change takes place in my affairs, you will
not peruse the writing. I write, because it is
my pleasantest occupation; I forbear to forward
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it, because it contains nothing that can give
pleasure to any one by whom I am held in the
least estimation.
I told you my mind wanders—it does so—and
I was obliged just now to lie down my pen—My
thoughts and wishes ever tend to dear England—
Oh! why, why did I so precipitately leave it?
In a closet belonging to the room where I sleep,
and indeed, where I pass almost all my solitary
hours, I found an odd volume of Smollett's
works; it was the first volume of Roderic Random;
I sat down in the hope that it might occupy
my mind, and draw me for a few moments
from myself. I opened it at the part which gave
an account of young Roderic and Strap, his
companion, setting forward on their journey to
London. When I came to the pleasure they
felt on being admitted into a waggon, which was
going that road, I felt so forcibly that not even
that humble mode of travelling was open to me,
that I was, perhaps, separated from every being
who was in the smallest degree interested in
my fate, that I dropped the book, and burst into
an agony of tears. Yes, my Anne, I am so
sensible of my unprotected, forlorn situation,
that I wished with all my soul, that I had never
been provoked, by any treatment whatever, to
quit my husband; his name was at least a protection
from insult; to him I had a right to look
for support, and scanty and grudgingly as that
support might be given, it still was no obligation
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to receive it from him. The house which shelters
him is mine, I have purchased the right to
share it at the price of all earthly happiness. I
have never forfeited it, and if ever I am again
united to him, I will never again be separated
but by death; I can but be wretched, that I was
so while with him, is true; but I am equally so
now, and have added to my other miseries the
knowledge that my good name is tarnished, my
reputation aspersed by the blackest calumny,
and I am supposed to affect a virtue and delicacy
which I no longer in reality possess.
The marquis of H— discovered my retreat
very shortly after I had escaped from that house
of infamy where he first saw me. I found from
his conversation, that he thought me not entitled
to the respect which unsullied virtue never fails
to extort, even from the most depraved. I hope
I need not assure you, that I resisted every
allurement, though pressed on me in the most
fascinating forms,—independence—attendants—
equipage: but the equivalent to be relinquished,
was self approbation—a treasure too invaluable
to be bartered for such worthless trifles. Independence—
yes! Power Eternal, give me independence,
but let it be independence of mind—
let me persevere in doing right; let my actions
be ever such as may secure thy favor, and the
applause of my own conscience; and then,
though the unfeeling world may oppress, may
break my tortured heart, I shall have that comfort
left which will never forsake me, but will
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support my fluttering spirit even through the
gloomy vale of death.
I do not like my landlady, she is impertinently
inquisitive and curious. I do not go by my name,
I took another in the hope it would elude any
inquiry which my persecutor might think proper
to make after me, and though it answered not
the designed purpose, I still continued my assumed
one. The woman came abruptly into my
room one morning, while I was looking over my
little wardrobe, she examined every thing on
which she could lay hold, made some impertinent
remarks on the fineness of the linen, and
the richness of that lace, with which you, my
dear Anne, presented me on your return
from France, soon after my marriage, and which
was the only article of the kind, which I retained
on Darnley's bankruptcy. She at length laid
her hand on a pocket handkerchief, which was
marked with my name at full length. I have
an utter aversion to duplicity of every kind, and
when she asked me whose name that was? I
replied, It was mine. She immediately replied
hastily, “Oh! then you are a married woman,”
and in a few moments inundated mo with so
many questions, answering some of them herself,
according to her own vague conclusions,
and interlarding all with so many old adages and
wise sayings about prudence and virtue, withal
intimating that she guessed I was a frail one,
when I came there in such a hurry, and that
when a woman has once ventured ancle deep,
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she may as well go on, for it was impossible to
go back, I stood petrified at her effrontery:
mistaking my silent astonishment for attention,
she thus proceeded: “I suppose you thought
now that we should have known nothing about
you, but you had not been here three days, before
I heard the whole story—how you have
been living with madam Bellamy, and every
body knows what she is—but for my part, I wonder
you treated lord what d'ye call'em there so
rudely—I dare say he would be very generous
to you, and there is such a thing as overstanding
one's market.” I had risen from my chair,
while she was speaking, and holding the handkerchief
which I had taken from her in my
hand, was so absorbed in vexatious thoughts,
that I tore it in small strips, and threw it,
strip at a time into the fire, without being
sensible of what I was about. “Well, you
may burn your handkerchief,” said she, “if you
please, but that argufies nothing. I remember
the name—Darnley, that was it, so Mrs. or
Miss, or Madam, or my lady Darnley—”
“Quit my room, woman,” said I, almost choaked
with indignation, and not giving her time to
finish her taunting speech. “Quit the room I
desire, I am busy, I do not want company of
any kind. Think what you please, draw what
conclusions you please, I only beg not to be tormented
by hearing them.” She made use of a
few more exasperating words, and then went
muttering down stairs.
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I am in hopes to get into employment here;
I have made application to be received into some
family as a companion to an elderly lady, or to
superintend the instruction of children, and yesterday
a person came to speak to me on the
subject. It was a middle aged man, who said he
had been employed by a lady in the country, to
inquire for a well educated woman, with the
habits and manners of a gentlewoman, who
would bear confinement, and be content to see
but little company: For such a one she wanted
as a companion, to read to her, sometimes to
act as an amanuensis, as she is a person fond of
literary pursuits. I did not feel inclined to enter
into any engagement with this man, but told
him such a situation would exactly suit me, but
I must hear from the lady herself; he told me
he would write, and that in a day or two I might
expect an answer; and in truth, my dear Anne,
it is high time, for I have changed my last crown;
what I am to do if I am much longer without the
means of earning bread, Heaven only knows.
I wrote to Mrs. Bellamy for the money she owed
me; she had the effrontery to tell the messenger,
that she knew nothing about me. I know
the selfish disposition of my inquisitive landlady
too well, to indulge the hope that I shall be
allowed shelter under her roof many days, after
she makes the discovery that I have no money
to pay my lodging.
The negotiator, whose name is Manton, was
with me again about an hour since; he tells me
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the lady is not at home at present, she is gone
on a short visit, but the letter is sent after her;
in the mean time, he seemed so sure of my
obtaining the place, that he offered to advance
me any money I might want. But this I have
refused; I will suffer any necessity, rather than
accept an obligation I may never have the power
to return—especially from a man.
My dear good Anne, you will hardly believe
what bad hearts there are in this world. I have
subjected myself to an insult, which has given my
sensibility so keen a wound, that were I to live
an hundred years, if memory retained a trace of
any past transaction, the remembrance of it will
ever give me an indescribable pang.
Pressed by necessity, and having no idea that
human nature could be so depraved, I went in
the close of the evening to the house of the
infamous Bellamy. As I was known to the servant
who opened the door, I found no difficulty
in gaining admittance, but when,on being informed
she was at home, I made an attempt to ascend
the stairs, the girl told me, she dared not let me
into her mistress's apartment, but if I would
wait, she would carry up any message. “Only
tell her I am here, and wish to speak to her,”
said I. “It will be to little purpose,” she replied,
“but I will go.” Determined to see her if possible,
I followed the girl up stairs.
The servant opened the door. I perceived there
were several persons in the room “Ma'am,”
said the girl, “Mrs. Darnley is below, and wishes
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to speak to you.” “Who?” cried Mrs. Bellamy,
“Darnley, did you say? What does she want
here?” “I came,” said I, advancing into the
room, “to request the payment of the money.”
“Money, woman? what money? I believe if
there is any account to settle, it is vastly in my
favor; did I not pay your journey from London?
and did you not board in my family three months?”
“Was not that your engagement?” I asked.
“Don't talk to me of engagements, creature, you
have broken every engagement you ever entered
into. Did you not agree to remain with me, and
take the care of my grand-daughter, and yet you
took yourself off without assigning any reason,
without giving me even the smallest notice;
putting me to the expense and inconvenience of
hiring a French maid for the child. But I know
all your tricks; your going out when I was not
at home; your private assignations with the men.
Yes, and I know who you went away with too;
the marquis did not so suddenly leave Mrs.
O'Donnel's that evening, and be absent two or
three hours, for nothing, after he had engaged
himself to sup and spend the evening there with
lord Linden. Your husband shall know all your
fine pranks, I promise you. I have written to
him; poor man! I dare say he has thought
you a pattern of virtue, but I have undeceived
him.”
“And what have you dared to write?” said I,
with some degree of spirit. “Pretty innocent,”
said she, tauntingly, “you have done nothing, I
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suppose, to make a husband horn mad;—you
are all purity, but indeed I wonder I domean
myself by talking to you; go, pray walk off, and
let me hear no more of you.”
Anne, I do protest to you, conscious as I was
of not deserving this treatment, of never having
swerved from my duty as a wife, my innocence
would not support me under this torrent of abuse;
I felt my heart sicken within me, and I caught
by the back of a chair to avoid sinking, (for she
had insolently kept me standing, while she spoke
to me.) Poor little Caroline, who was in the
room, had been sidling towards me from the
moment of my entering; she now took hold of
my hand and said, “Sit down, Mrs. Darnley.”
“Sit down, indeed?” said the unfeeling Bellamy.
“I say, walk down; come away, Caroline, I won't
have you speak to the impudent—,” and
she called me a name, my beloved Anne, which
my pen refuses to trace upon my paper. Fluttered
as my spirits were, and—and—why should
I conceal it? I had not broken my fast that day—
awakened resentment, struggling sensibility,
joined to want of food, overcame me, and I fell.
My insensibility was not of long continuance;
the first thing I was sensible of, was, that Mrs.
O'Donnell was supporting my head against her
bosom, and Caroline's little hand was bathing my
temples with Hungary water. “Poor thing,” said
one of the visitors, in a voice so gentle and tender,
that though I knew she was a woman of
despicable character, I felt grateful; and if looks
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could speak, I thanked her for the soothing accent.
I endeavored to rise. “Lean on me,”
said the same person, offering her arm. “Give
her a glass of wine,” said Mrs. O'Donnell.
Caroline flew to the side board. “Let the wine
alone,' said Mrs. Bellamy, “she has had enough
already, I can see that, she is drunk, it is not the
first time I have seen her in these kind of fits—
“come,” continued she, addressing me, “you had
better make the best of your way home; bed is
the fittest place for you; if you had been in your
senses you would never have presumed to come
here dunning me for money; there, Molly, take
the creature down stairs; give her a little small
beer, and as soon as she can walk without staggering,
let her go about her business; for my
part, I wonder how she got here.” I would
have spoken, I would have given some answer
to this opprobrious language, but the tears flowed
almost to suffocation, I raised my clasped hands
to heaven, and my sobs increased with such
violence, that I feared I should have an hysteria
fit. “Take her away, take her away,” vociferated
the old woman, “she has got quite in her
tragedy airs.” I found that to speak was impossible;
so, leaning on the arm of Molly, I
bowed my head in resignation to my fate, and
left the room. The servant had some feelings
of humanity; she took me into the back parlor,
and procured me from the kitchen a cup of tea
and a slice of bread and butter. I took them,
and felt refreshed. While I was drinking the tea,
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Caroline came in. “I am sorry,” said she,
grandma has been so cross to you; mamma sends
you this, and says if you will call on her to-morrow,
she will do something for you.” The donation
sent, was half a guinea. Anne, my soul
revolted, but necessity was strong, and reflecting
that more than four times that sum was owing
me, I took the money, and having in some
measure recovered myself, returned to my
lodging.
Is it possible, that woman can have been so
base, as wilfully to calumniate a being who never
injured her? Can she have written to Darnley
such an infamous falsehood? And will he believe
her? I know not how she can have learnt how
to direct to him, unless she has noticed his address
on my letters at any time whilst I was with
her. You too, my dear Anne, will hear the
shocking tale, I have no doubt; but you will not
believe it—I know you will not. Oh! my poor
heart, how it aches. I will try to rest—nay,
forlorn and desolate as I am, I shall rest, for I
can lay my throbbing head on the pillow and say,
“I am persecuted, but I am innocent,” at least
of the humiliating, degrading crimes of which my
enemy accuses me; and for the errors to which
human nature is prone, I can say in perfect confidence,
“Father! Father of all! forgive me, as
from my inmost soul I forgive others.” Yes, I
am not so wretched as I might be, I can sleep in
peace.
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Several letters have passed between me and
Mrs. Ryan, the lady with whom I am about to
engage as companion. She tells me, she does
not expect to be home these ten days yet, but I
may go to her house in the country, and wait for
her. This permission is very agreeable to me,
as I am here very much distressed. You are
certain that I have never been to Mrs. O'Donnell
for assistance, and the half guinea she sent
me is exhausted. My terror of again encountering
the vulgar abuse of that savage Bellamy is so
great, that I think I could suffer almost the extreme
of hunger, rather than solicit her again,
for what is indubitably my right. I shall be
obliged to leave part of my scanty wardrobe with
the woman with whom I have lodged; I have no
other means of satisfying her demands: she has
set her mind upon the lace you gave me, but that
she shall not have.
I have settled every thing with this harpy of a
landlady, and my stock of apparel is now reduced
very low; she has promised, if I send her the
money I owe, within a month, that I shall have
my clothes again. To-morrow, I set out for the
country; Mr. Manton will convey me in a post
chaise. I shall not feel right until I see the lady
of the mansion. I catch myself frequently painting
in imagination, her person, her manners,
her style of conversation, &c. I have drawn
twenty different pictures, and it is ten to one if
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either of them bears the smallest resemblance to
the original.
The mansion where I now am, is more like
the family seat of an opulent nobleman, than the
dwelling of a private gentlewoman. I inquired
of the house-keeper, (who is the only servant
except the housemaid and gardener, who is at
present at home,) if this house had been long the
family mansion? She replied, that it was the
seat of her lady's father; that she was an only
child, consequently an heiress. The park and
grounds are delightful, and kept in very excellent
order. I understand that there is a fine library,
but this was locked; however, I found a few
novels and poems in one of the bed chambers,and
flimsy as the materials which compose the generality
of novels are, they have afforded me some
hours amusement, and drawn me from myself;
a comfort grateful to the unhappy, by whatever
means procured.
After the turbulence, the mean and sordid
scenes, and depraved companions with whom it
has within these four last months been my lot to
mix, the quiet and conveniences I here enjoy,
seem a cordial to my depressed spirits. I can
collect my thoughts; I can read, or work, for I
found the house-keeper engaged in making up
some very fine linen, which she said was for a
gentleman in the neighborhood, and I have taken
some of it to help her; employment is always
necessary to my comfort, and never more so
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than at present. Where the mind is painfully
occupied, the hands should never be a moment
idle. If the imagination is active, and ardent, it
naturally partakes in the occupation of the
fingers,and fancy will wander from our own selfish
concerns to the work, from the work to those for
whom we are executing it, painting as she goes,
persons, places, and events, in which, though we
are no wise connected, we find a kind of pleasing
amusement in depicting to ourselves.
I often wander for hours in the park and gardens,
and I say within myself, These are scenes
congenial to my soul; here is quiet, order,
neatness; the eye glances round and still gleans
in its wanderings, some charm, some soothing
sensation which it conveys to the heart, to soften,
cheer,and elevate it. Yet believe me, dear Anne,
I have never felt the most distant wish to possess
such a house, such a park, or gardens; no! I
am well assured, many are the vexations accompanying
wealth; many the inconveniences to
which the possessors must submit, as a tax for
the luxuries they are permitted to enjoy; a
decent competence best suits my disposition; a
neat dwelling removed from the noise, hurry,
and dissipation of the gay, thoughtless and commercial
world; my income sufficient to supply
all my comforts, and some few of the elegances
of life, with means to make those friends, whose
talents or merit might render them dear to my
heart, welcome to share my abode and table
whenever it might suit their inclination; and just
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so near a capital town, as might enable me, by
way of enhancing the sweets of retirement,
sometimes to mingle in its amusements. Such
a state would be the height of my ambition. I
have not mentioned the power of assisting the
poor, because they who with an hundred pounds
a year, cannot find the heart to give relief, would,
I am sure, find themselves equally reluctant,
though their annual income should be five thousand.
Nor is it by money alone, their wants are
to be alleviated; a woman benevolently inclined
may, from the overplus of her family provisions,
from the refuse of her wardrobe, make many a
poor child comfortable; but where the one is
permitted to be wasted by the improvident servants,
and the other is thrown carelessly away,
or is heedlessly destroyed, (when a few hours
work might convert them into respectable and
useful garments,) even a large fortune will not
allow of much liberality.
You perceive, my Anne, by the style of my
letter, that my spirits are greatly composed
since I wrote last. To-morrow Mrs. Ryan is
expected home; I understand she brings company
with her; two chambers are prepared;
my apartment is a very neat chamber, with a
large light closet, containing all the dressing
apparatus; it joins the one that I understand is
Mrs. Ryan's; a small but very convenient writing
desk, containing paper, &c. with a well assorted
box of colors, crayons, drawing paper, and all
the implements for drawing, were placed in it;
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but as my lady was not here to put me in possession
of them, I have not presumed to use any
of them, though the house-keeper told me they
were designed for me. If I should be so happy
as to find this lady agreeable, and the situation
such as I can remain in until my salary shall
enable me to pay what debts I have contracted,
and return to England with respectabily, I shall
esteem myself fortunate. It is late in the evening—
before this time to-morrow night I shall
have seen this formidable woman. Yes, it is a
truth, that I have thought on her so much,
formed so many conjectures concerning her,
that the very anticipation of the meeting, sets
my heart a beating. The window at which I
am writing, looks upon a beautiful pond, over
which impending willows hang, darkening with
their thick foliage the translucent element on
the side on which they grow; the moon is
nearly at the full, her bright rays peeping
between the pendant umbrage, seems to sprinkle
here and there large orient pearls, and now the
freshening breeze wafting aside a ponderous
bough, her whole face flashed upon the liquid
mirror, a stream of burnished silver, scarce seen
before it was gone. So it has been with my
life; a shade hung over, even its earliest part;
as I advanced, a few rare gems were scattered
in my path, and now and then a sudden flash of
pleasure enlivened my bosom; but ah! how
scanty was the portion, hardly felt, hardly realized,
before it vanished. To-morrow—well,
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patience—a few hours more, and I shall feel
easier.
Wretched! unhappy! oh my dear Anne, I
am surely the very game of fortune. What a
plot have I escaped! This marquis with all his
pretended generosity is a mean designing wretch.
But I am away, I am my own mistress—I have
a home under the roof of an honest though very
poor woman, and am in a way to purchase the
immediate necessaries of life—namely, food to
support it. But let me be a little methodical—
you may one day see this, and I would not have
my Anne think it was written by a maniac; you
may one day see it—yes, I hope you will soon
see it, and if my aching head, and debilitated
frame prognosticate aright, a very short period
will put an end to my sufferings; my heart is
broken—my very soul is bowed to the grave—
I have wept the fountains of my eyes dry, and
now they burn and shoot, while my heart that
lately swelled and struggled even to agony, seems
like an icicle in my bosom, as torpid and as cold.
The whole day in which I expected the
return of Mrs. Ryan, was past in a state of
anxiety which I have not power to describe.
Every unusual noise I heard, alarmed me, until
I had wrought myself into such a state of trepidation,
that the rustling of a leaf, or foot of the
house maid in the adjoining apartment, pursuing
her usual avocations, made me gasp for breath.
At length about an hour after sun set, the sound
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of carriages, and a confused mixture of voices,
horses' feet, and running up and down stairs,
convinced me the dreaded, yet wished for time
was arrived. In about half an hour a footman
came up with Mrs. Ryan's compliments and
would be glad if I would walk down. I followed
trembling; he opened the door of the parlor;
I entered, when the first object that met my
eyes, was the marquis of H—, and on the
sofa near him, Jessey Romain! Had I broken
unexpectedly into a nest of vipers, I could not
have been more appalled—I know not what I
said, but I believe I gave a loud and terrified exclamation;
my limbs refused their office; I caught
at the door; but my sight forsook me, and I fell.
The momentary suspension of my faculties
could hardly be called a swoon; the multitude
of painful ideas which pressed imperiously upon
my brain, on seeing the woman who had been
the bane of my domestic peace, associated with
the man who had presumed openly to make
overtures derogatory to my honor, struck me
with horror. I seemed petrified; I could neither
hear nor see distinctly, and to have articulated
a single syllable would have been impossible;
I remained above half an hour a mere
passive machine in the hands of the house-keeper
and a young woman who, I afterwards
found, was waiting maid to the infamous Romain,
alias Ryan. When I had recovered sufficiently
to speak, “Tell me,” said I, “in whose house I
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am.” `Do you not guess?' said the house-keeper,
with a leering smile, impossible to describe, and
shocking to behold. “I fear I can,” I replied;
“but why was I brought here?” “Nay,” she
answered, laughing outright, in a most insolent
manner, “as you came here voluntarily with my
lord's old confidential valet, I should suppose
you might guess that too, without making such
a fuss.” “La, ma'am,” said the young woman,
in an affecting lisping tone, “perhaps the lady
feels a little jealous or so, at seeing my lady,
who is very handsome for sarten, so familiar
with the marquis; but dearee me, miss, they
have been separated above six months; to be
sure, my lady did take a tower to the continent
with him some little time ago, but my lord and
she had a few words—” She was going on
with disgusting familiarity and volubility, when
I interrupted her, “You are mistaken as to the
cause of my agitation; I was surprised—I am
distressed—but you cannot comprehend why I
should be either the one or the other.” “Oh,
dearee me, I'm sure I don't want to inquire into
nobody's secrets, you knows your own business
best; as the saying is, there is nobody knows
where the shoe pinches, so well as they that
wears it.” “Well, Mrs. Flimsey,” said the
house-keeper, “will you go down and have some
tea? Miss Beetham seems quite recovered, and
if she wants any thing, she will ring, and Betty
the housemaid will answer her bell—shall I send
you up some tea, mem?” continued she,
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turning towards me with affected respect. “I shall
not want any thing to-night,” I replied; “I will
go to bed, and endeavor to rest.” I said this to
be rid of their intrusive rudeness; but the moment
I found myself alone, I began to reflect
seriously on my perilous situation. I was neither
romantic enough, or so much of a child, as
to imagine I could in a civilized country be compelled
to submit to treatment which would render
me, in my own opinion, the most degraded
and wretched of all beings; but I was well
aware, should it be known that I had voluntarily
resided at the seat of a young nobleman, remarkable
for his gallantry, nearly a fortnight, my
reputation would be inevitably ruined, and should
I remain one night after I knew whose house it
was and that the master of it was at home, I
should, in a great degree, deserve the obloquy
which might be thrown upon me.
To leave the house this very night, was then
my first concern; but how? I was twelve miles
from Dublin, and had not a sixpence in the
world—yet go I must—it was night—I was a
stranger to the road. Yet, should I remain,
something might happen to prevent my making
good my retreat. I had been carried to my
apartment in such a state of weakness, that I
was certain, the marquis and his associate would
not have the smallest suspicion of my leaving the
house before morning; and the woman having
left me with the avowed intention of going to
bed immediately, would give that information,
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should any inquiry be made concerning me. I
therefore determined to leave the place immediately;
and for that purpose was preparing to
change my clothes, which, being white muslin,
were by no means suited to the making a pedestrain
journey, when I discovered that my closet,
in which was my trunk containing every habiliment
I possessed in the world, was locked, nor
could I find the key any where. I was afraid
to ring for the maid, lest something might occur
to prevent my putting my design into execution;
so quitting the apartment, locking the door, and
taking the key with me, and with only a shawl
thrown over my shoulders, I went softly down
the back stairs, unbarred a door which opened
into a retired part of the garden, I passed unobserved
through it into the park; and from
thence, without being interrogated, though several
of the servants passed me, I reached the
great road.
I had enough of the fears inherent in my sex
to feel extremely disagreeable at finding myself
on the public road, leading to and almost in the
vicinity of a populous city, at ten o'clock at
night. The sound of approaching boisterous
travellers terrified me exceedingly, and I turned
out of the road, crossing a style which led to a
little coppice, in which, by the light of the moon,
which was now risen to a considerable height, I
discovered a foot path, which I struck into and
pursued, until I came in view of a neat cottage.
To continue my journey at this late hour, or
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to remain in the open fields all night, was equally
repugnant to my feelings; I resolved, therefore,
to knock at the door, and request to repose
in the cottage for the night. I knocked several
times before I obtained any answer; at length a
window opened, and a female voice inquired,
“Who is there?” “I have lost my way,” said I,
“and intreat to be admitted into the house until
morning.” “But who are you?” “I am
an inoffensive woman, whom an unfortunate circumstance
has obliged to be out at this late
hour; but if you will let me in, and allow me to
repose, I have no doubt but I can amply compensate
you for your kindness.” “Well,” said
the voice, “I will ask mistress, and if she has a
mind to let you come in, I will open the door—
but be you sure you be a woman,” continued she,
stretching her head out of the window to look
at me, “because I thinks you looks monstriously
like a ghost.” Having assured the simple rustic
that I was a living being, she went from the
window, and in about five minutes came down
and admitted me within the door,at the same time
saying, “Mistress says she does not much like
letting strangers come in at night; but seeing as
how you be a woman, and alone, you may come
up and lay down by me.” I perceived this
simple wench as she was talking, to take hold
of my shawl, my gown, and at last she laid her
hand upon my arm—“Why, you be warm flesh,”
said she, “I did verily think you might be a
spirit after all; which way did you come? for
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sartin you did not come through the coppice.”
When I assured her that I did, she all astonished,
inquired if I saw any thing. I replied in
the negative. She then told a tragical story of
seduction, and murder of a child, the premature
and horrid death of the mother, and finished with
“Poor Katy O`Conner, she walks every night
in the coppice near the place where she buried
her baby; sometimes in one shape and sometimes
in another; but if any body offers to go near
her, she sets up a dreadful howl and vanishes in
a flash of fire. O! and by my conscience, I
would not go through that coppice after night
fall, for all the silver cups and spoons in my
lord's great house yonder.”
Upon the mention of `my lord's great house,'
I perceived, it would be necessary for me to recommence
my journey early in the morning, as
it was more than probable that this girl had seen
me there, if she went thither often, as I spent
much of my time in the park and grounds, and
was consequently in the way of being seen by the
rustics, who were daily passing through them, to
the mansion. I questioned her as to her knowledge
of the family, and learnt that this was a
poultry and dairy house, belonging to his lordship,
and was kept by her mistress who was a
widow, and had been a domestic in the family
many years. I learnt also, from this communicative
creature, that this estate had belonged to
the marquis's mother; that she was lately dead,
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that from this mother his immense wealth had
proceeded; I immediately concluded, that
this was the lady of whom the house-keeper had
spoken, when I imagined she was speaking of
Mrs. Ryan.
At the first appearance of day, therefore, I
arose; awoke my companion, who had been for
several hours in a profound state of insensibility,
and taking a sash which I had worn round my
waist the day before, I presented it to her, telling
her, I had no money; but I hoped that
would satisfy her for the trouble I had given her.
She took it with delighted eagerness; it was
bright lilac, and though the faint beams of day
hardly allowed her to be a judge of the color, she
saw enough to be wonderfully pleased. “Won't
you have some breakfast?” said she, holding up
the ribbon, with her arm raised above her head,
to admire its length. “I will take a draught of
milk,” I replied, “if you can give it me without
offending your mistress.” We descended the
stairs together; she brought me a bason of milk,
and a slice of bread: I took them with thankfulness,
and saying I should soon find my way
home, bade the credulous, good natured creature
adieu, and pursued my solitary way toward
the city.
I had wandered so far from the great road,
that the day was considerably advanced before I
regained sight of it; and the moment I reached
it, I again experienced the fear of being known,
and on some pretext or other, obliged to go back
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to the mansion of the marquis. Thus wandering,
sometimes in the road, sometimes in bye paths
which seemed to tend to the same point, avoiding
every passenger with the care and trepidation
of a condemned criminal; the wearisome
day passed on, and just at its close, I found myself
at the entrance of the city; having from
fear and ignorance travelled several miles more
than I otherwise should have had occasion to
do; my limbs were fatigued, my feet sore, my
spirits depressed, and my stomach faint; for the
bread and milk taken at the cottage in the morning,
was all the sustenance I had that day received.
Harrassed and desponding as my mind
was, I am not heroine enough to say I forgot my
bodily sufferings in the more poignant mental
misery. I wept, my dear Anne, for very hunger
and weariness, and every other feeling was
for the time absorbed in the reflection that I had
no where to repose my head, nor wherewithal
to satisfy my appetite.
At length I reached the house where I had
lodged, previous to my making this unfortunate
journey, and tapped at the door. The woman
herself came to it. “So—so you are returned,”
said she, with an impertinent sneer, “and pray
what has brought you back in this trim?” “Let
me come in,” said I, faintly, “I am fatigued almost
to death, I have walked twelve or fourteen
miles to day.” “And pray what is that to me?”
said she fiercely, “you did not pay so well when
you was here before, as to think I will put
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myself out of the way to take you in again.” “Is
my room occupied by any other?” “Your
room, quotha, pray which room is that? The
one you left your trumpery in has been let to a
gentlewoman this week past; one who can pay
her way as she goes; none of your has been unfortunate
ladies, but a right arnest lady with
plenty of guineas in her purse.” “Have you
sold my clothes?” I asked timidly. “Clothes!
what clothes? the few rags you left in your
trunk? No, since you chose to take all the best
of your things with you when you went away,
yon may now take the rest; I'm sure I shan't
keep them; so when you have got a lodging you
may send for them.” “But I can get no lodging;
I have no money; let me only come in for
to night,” exclaimed I franticly. “I tell you I
have no room for you,” said she, in a calm, deliberate
accent, “what would the woman have?
There's plenty of lodgings to be had for such as
you, but I never harbors nobody of suspicious
character, after I knows'em. You runn'd away
from your husband in England—and then you
runn'd away from your fine madam Bellamy—
and now I suppose you have runn'd away from
the old man that you went into the country
with, arter all your lying backwards and forwards
about going to wait on, or be companion
to a lady; pretty stories for them that choose
to believe them; but I knows you better than to
be flammed so; you is too proud to wait on any
body, and as to a companion, Lord help us, I
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wonders what lady would bemean themselves to
accompany with you. Well, what does the woman
stand for? I tells you, you can't come in”
She then shut the door, and left me standing on
the step, holding by a slight railing, which was
on one side. I slowly descended the steps, and
going a few paces from the inhospitable door,
sat down on some old timber which lay in the
street—I shed no tears—my heart did not beat
with violence. I leaned my head on my hands,
resting my elbows on my knees, and a torpid
coldness pervaded every sense. I heard human
voices, but they spoke not to me. I raised my
eyes; a small shop before me displayed some
rolls, two or three polonies and some cheese;
but they were not for me. I saw lights pass into
the chambers of the surrounding houses, indicating
that the inhabitants were retiring to rest.
Alas, thought I, there is no place of rest for me.
To describe my feelings at this moment, this
horrid moment, is impossible; I could neither
weep, think, nor pray. My hands relaxed their
support—my head sunk; I reclined myself on
the timber, and a sleep, like that of death, seemed
stealing over me. At that moment I felt a
warm hand touch mine. “Are you asleep?”
said a soft, female voice. I raised myself, but
could not articulate a word; my tongue clave
to the roof of my mouth. “My neighbor,” said
the same voice, assisting me to rise upon my
feet, “tells me you want a lodging, she is full, I
have a room that is empty—come home with
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me, you have had a long walk to day—come,
we shall not disagree about the price.” So
gently leading forward as she spoke, without
my being able to speak, or resist her offered
kindness, the good creature brought me to her
home, and gave me some wine-whey, helped to
undress and put me into bed, and telling me if
I wanted any thing in the night, to knock against
the wainscot, placed a light in the chimney,
and left me.
Excessive fatigue and complete dejection had
the same effect on my frame that a powerful
opiate would have had. I fell into a profound
sleep, nor did I awake until the sun, darting his
rays upon my face, chased the sweet oblivion of
my senses; I opened my eyes and looked around
me; was some time before I could comprehend
where I was, or how I came there. The room,
the bed, every article of furniture, though clean,
bespoke poverty. I closed my eyes again, and
endeavored to collect my thoughts; by degrees
the torturing circumstances of the preceding
day returned to my recollection; my heart
which on my first awaking had beat violently,
now subsided into something like tranquillity;
I felt a gentle emotion steal over it, it was gratitude
to the good creature who had humanely
snatched me from the horrors of passing the
night on those timbers on which I had sunk
supine and hopeless, and shielded me from the
dreadful insults or casualties, to which such a
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situation exposed me; from gratitude to her
my thoughts elevated themselves to the Divine
power, whose immediate agent she was. The
tears flowed plenteously, but they tranquillized
my spirits, and I wished to arise and thank my
protectress for her humanity. I left my bed,
and began to dress myself; but in a few moments
a faintish sickness came over me, and I sunk
again on the bed side. I now became sensible to
the calls of hunger; they were imperious, and
I endeavored to finish putting on my clothes that
I might solicit from my good hostess something
to satisfy its cravings.
I imagine she must have heard me stir, for
she came in, and kindly inquiring how I had
slept, assisted me to finish dressing myself; she
led me into the next room where a comfortable
breakfast was prepared, which I partook with
an eagerness, and thought it tasted more exquisitely
than any breakfast I had ever before
enjoyed. When I had finished my meal, reflection
and honesty told me it would be unjust to
continue with the woman, whose appearance
denoted her poverty, and partake of her store,
which in all probability, was scanty enough for
herself. Yet what to do, or how to preface a
discourse which I feared must end in my becoming
an outcast, I was at an equal loss. At length
she seemingly, without design, led to the subject
by remarking, that she believed I had lodged in
that neighborhood before; I replied in the
affirmative. “Neighbor Conolly,” said she,
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“has let her room to a mighty fine lady, who, I
suppose, will stay a good while; she has a sight
of folks come after her, and I suppose pays
handsomely for the use of the parlor; to be
sure, I have not got a room entirely to yourself
to offer, but if such a place as I can offer will
do—” “Ah, my kind hearted woman,” said I,
laying my hand on her arm, “I have no means of
paying you, even for my last night's lodging and
this morning's refreshment.” “Well, well, may
be not now,” said she hastily, “but you will
have; you can work at your needle, I suppose?”
“Yes, very well and very fast,” said I, “either
plain work, dresden, or embroidery.” “And
you are willing to work, I hope?” she asked
seriously. “Indeed I am; only procure me
employment, and you shall see I will not beidle,”
I replied with earnestness. “Then depend on
it, my good lady, we shall do very well; a woman
who is honest and both able and willing to work,
will never be suffered to want while there is one
good christian upon earth; but I say honest,
she must be honest in thought, in word,in deed.”
Spite of my uneasy situation, I could not help
smiling at the woman's earnestness. “I hope I
am honest in thought, word, and deed,” said I.
“I hope you are,” she replied, gravely, “but you
have been living with some bad folks, that old
ugly madam Bellamy, and her good for nothing
daughter, wan't fit company for an honest young
woman; neighbor Conolly too, said some hard
things of you last night, but I thought if you were
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ever so naughty, that was no reason why you
should die in the street, so I took you in; but
now I must tell you I am willing to have you
stay here, and I can get you work enough; but
I must have no men folks coming after you, no
walking out with old gentlemen, no advertising
for places. When we have had a hard day's work,
you and Iwill go and fetch a walk together, and a
Sunday's we'll go to church; I always goes to a little
chapel two or three miles out of town,because
the walk is good for one's health.” I readily
subscribed to all these conditions, more pleased
than offended with her blunt sincerity—but she
had not finished. “You must know,” said she,
“there is a gentleman comes here very often; heaven
bless him, he loves to come and see his poor
old Peg. I lived in his father's family when he
was a child; though he has been very unfortunate,
I love him as well as if he had been a rich lord or
duke; but you must not see him; no, nor even
know his name, for reasons that I know of—he
don't come here very often, but for fear of his
coming unexpectedly, you must live and work in
the little bed-room; he never goes in there,and
though the room is small and has a bed in it, it
is lightsome and clean, though I say it.”
“I have no objection to your proposal,” said I,
“I have only to remark, that I must write one
letter to England; that letter you shall yourself
put in the post-office, and if you will take the
trouble, inquire for the answer; and when
that answer arrives, you shall see the contents.
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I will deal openly with you; I will inform you
of my real situation, but at present, I am inadequate
to the task of speaking much.” And
really, my dear Anne, I felt very ill; my head
began to ache, and the fluttering at the heart to
return, accompanied with excessive faintness.
The good old woman, whose name was Peggy
McLean, saw my situation, and helped me into
the bed-room; smoothed the pillow, assisted me
in lying down, covered me, and with the simple
exclamation of “Poor thing,” pronounced in a
voice of compassion, left me, shutting the door
softly after her.
I soon fell asleep; but it was neither sound
nor refreshing. My fatiguing journey, the barbarous
language of Mrs. Conolly, the anguish I
endured when she shut the door upon me, were
in this feverish slumber again repeated. I started;
my flesh burned, my pulse throbbed; extreme
thirst urged me to rise, but the weight on
my eyelids, and the strong inclination I felt to
dose, prevented my attempting it. At noon,
Peggy, or as I shall call her, Mrs. M'Lean,
brought me a little broth; I could take but a few
spoonfuls. “You are sick, child,” said she, “I
must have a doctor for you.” “No,” said I, “it
is only fatigue, I walked a long way yesterday,
and was very warm; rest will restore me.”
But rest now fled from me: I remained on the
bed until towards evening, without forgetting
myself a moment; I then arose, and took a
little tea, but was unable to sit up. Retiring for
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the night, I asked Mrs. M'Lean where she
slept? The good creature evaded my question,
but on my repeating it, confessed she had no
other bed, and had slept the preceding night on
a rug upon the floor, in the next room. What
an act of Christian charity was this, my Anne,
that a woman should deprive herself of her own
bed to put into it a poor wretch whom she had
reason to suppose was lost to virtue, and who
had no recommendation but her distress!
From that night until the expiration of the
ten following days, I was confined by a fever,
occasioned by being exposed so long in a state of
inactivity to the night air, after having been
heated by walking; but at length I recovered
strength enough to work, and obtained sufficient
employment in tambouring and embroidering
muslin, to supply me with the necessaries of
life. I wrote to Darnley, but received no answer.
I began to experience something like
entire resignation to my fate; for I saw no way
of again revisiting my dear native land, but by
strict parsimony, endeavoring to save a sufficient
sum to bear my expenses thither; but it would
take a considerable time to save so much.
I was one evening at work with old Margaret,
when a loud knock at the door made us start;
she opened it, and I heard a sound of altercation;
I drew near the stairs to listen—a voice I thought
I knew, caught my ear; I descended half way
down, and was convinced I had not been deceived;
I rushed down the remaining steps and
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[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
out at the door, and on recovering from a momentary
insensibility, I found myself in the arms
of my brother.
LETTER XXXI. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, August 30, 1780.
I INFORMED you in my last, that Sarah
had written to her husband, to announce to
him her arrival in England; he returned no
answer,andIbegan to think all connexion between
them was forever at an end; indeed, I did not
much regret it,only as it respected her own ideas
of propriety, which led her to wish to see him,
that she might clear up all misconceptions, which
aspersed as her character has been,was absolutely
necessary to be done; though, until she saw
him, and knew exactly what had been said by
that arch fiend Bellamy, or whether she had
really written at all or not; to attempt an explanation
before she was accused, was to acknowledge
a consciousness of error.
One thing I rather imagine appears enigmatical
to you, the assertion of her being kept by O`Donnell;
I will unravel the mystery. O`Donnell,
still hampered by the effects of his wife's
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[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
extravagance, and not choosing to appeal to a court
of justice for a divorce from her, lest a public
exposition of his conduct, in regard to her before
marriage, might point him out as an object of
contempt and ridicule, was content to live within
the rules of the prison; and being a man of considerable
ability and literary knowledge, gained a
very decent subsistence, by writing, selecting and
correcting a periodical publication, which is issued
to the world by a principal bookseller. Peggy
McLean had lived with his parents, and O`Donnell
retained a very strong affection for the
worthy creature, who had indulged many a
vagary of childhood, and concealed many a boyish
fault, which might have exposed the culprit
to a whipping, if discovered. His lodging was
near her's, and she washed and repaired his
linen; this occasioned a frequent intercourse
between them. The evening our poor Sarah
was driven from the door of the unfeeling Conolly,
O`Donnell, who had been to pay his ancient
friend a visit, and was passing just as she was on
the steps entreating admission, he heard the
name of Bellamy, and stopped; a few moments
attention to the scene convinced him Sarah was
in great distress, and from his knowledge of the
persons she had been among, he thought it more
than probable, she might be an innocent, ill used
woman. He saw her sink down upon the timber,
and running hastily back to Peggy, thus addressed
her:—“Good Peggy, go directly into the
lane; there is a poor creature in distress. From
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what I have heard her say, she has no means of
procuring a lodging. I know nothing more about
her, she may have brought her misery on herself,
but be that as it may, she must not lie in
the street.” “No, indeed, heaven forbid she
should,” said Peggy, “while Peg McLean has
a matrass and a blanket; come, shew me where
she is, and tell me what I shall say to her.”
“Speak to her as from yourself, for on no account
must my name be mentioned to her; tell her
you have a room you can let her have; take her
home with you, treat her kindly, and you shall
be no loser; but I will never see her, and again
I charge you never mention my name to her.”
After Peggy had executed O`Donnell's benevolent
commission, in the manner Mrs. Darnley,
in her journal, has related, he tapped at the door,
and softly inquiring if her lodger was retired,
hearing she was in bed, he ventured in, and informed
the honest creature of what he had
gleaned from her talkative and malignant neighbor,
concluding with these words: “If she is
virtuously inclined, she will be willing to work,
and I have no doubt but she can have employment
from some of the warehouses; when you have
talked with her, if we find her what I think she
is, I will mention her to the wife of my friend,
the bookseller, who, I am sure, will interest herself
to get her work; but you see it would be
highly improper to let her know I have done any
thing for her, knowing what she does of my
wife, she would not, I am sure, receive the
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smallest favor from me; her delicacy and prudeuce,
if she is possessed in any degree of those amiable
qualities, would equally forbid it.” How this
plan was executed, we have been informed, and
asO`Donnell frequently called to inquire after her,
though he never saw her, Bellamy, who it seems
had spies upon her, wrested these circumstances
into a tale of dishonor, and retailed them in
order to injure the woman whom she never
could forgive, for daring to avow her detestation
of vice in her presence.
September 7
I broke off abruptly, being told Mrs. Darnley
wished me to come down, as there was a gentleman
below who would not tell his business,
(though it concerned herself) to any but me. I
obeyed the summons, and found an elderly person,
whose appearance and manner evidenced
the well bred man. “I come, madam,” said he,
“to ask a question of this lady; but it must be
in your presence, and you must confirm or contradict
her answers, as I have from report such
an opinion of your integrity—” “Hold, sir,”
said I, interrupting him, “whatever Mrs. Darnley
asserts, to those who know her, needs no
other confirmation; her characteristic is sincerity,
nor did I ever know her in the smallest degree
to deviate from it.” “Well, madam,” he
replied, “she has, no doubt then, in the sincerity
of her heart, related to you every occurrence
which took place during her late residence in
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Dublin?” “She has.” “I am commissioned by
Mr. Darnley to inquire whether you, madam,
(turning to Sarah) were, during that period,
ac uainted with Mr. O`Donnell?” “I was,” she
replied with a steady voice, though the glow of
resentment crossed her cheek, as she remembered
how vilely, on his account, she had been
raduced; “I received obligations from him
which I can never repay, and the grateful remembrance
of them are deeply engraven on my
heart.” “You are candid, indeed, madam,” said
he, with a look of astonishment; “he was your
frequent visitor during the latter part of your
residence in Ireland?” “He was frequently at
the house where I lodged, but I never saw him
until within a few days of my quitting that place.
But why these interrogations, sir? If Mr. Darnley
wishes to find me innocent, he may easily
trace me through every scene in which I was
engaged during my absence from England. If
he wishes to believe me guilty he had better avoid
all particular investigation of my conduct; I
court, rather than shrink from scrutiny, and
letters addressed to—” “Pardon me, dear
madam, Mr. Darnley is in no condition to make
this scrutiny, and could he behold you at this
moment as I do, truth is so strongly marked in
every line of your countenance, he would need
no other confirmation of your innocence. He is
ill; a fall he got on board an Indiaman, where
he had dined with a number of other gentlemen,
and partook too freely of the juice of the grape,
has brought on a fever.”
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Sarah arose from her seat. “I will go,” said
she; “lead me to him, sir; I will go, and perform
my duty in attending him; if, when he
recovers, he bids me leave him, I can return
again to the only friend fortune has left me, and
she will not refuse to receive me.” She held
out her hand to me; the tears gushed from her
eyes, and hastily throwing on her bonnet and
cloak, the gentleman led her to a coach, leaving
me a card where I might find her, and they
drove off.
I have heard from her every day since; Darnley
yet continues ill, but is, I believe, now out of
danger. I am to see her to-day, and will write
again soon.
ANNE.
LETTER XXXII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
London, Sept. 18th, 1780.
COMFORT seems again to dawn on our good
Sarah; her tender assiduity, her care, and unremitting
watchfulness, have been the means in
the hands of an all powerful God, of restoring
Darnley to health. They also have awakened
in his heart a degree of that affection he once
professed so ardently to feel for her, and it
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certainly is more likely to be permanent, since
what he experienced for her at the time of their
union, was the effervescence of youthful passion;
but the present sentiment is softened by
gratitude, and founded on esteem.
The old gentleman who came to inform Sarah
of her husband's illness, is a Mr. Vaughan, a
half pay officer, who has a wife and several children
to maintain, and a very confined income to
do it with; he was in service at the commencement
of the war, but receiving a wound, returned
home, and his health has since been in so precarious
a state, as to prevent his again joining his
regiment, which continued still abroad. To increase
the means of living, they let part of their
house to several respectable gentlemen, who
boarded with them at an easy rate, and experienced
that kind of style and manner of conducting
the family, table, &c. as is peculiarly agreeable
to men of good education and polished manners.
Here Darnley has boarded for some time past,
being recommended to the family by a person,
who writes in the counting house with him, and
who had some little knowledge of his character,
and knew from good authority how foolishly he
had trifled away his happiness, and involved himself
in debts, by being subject to the dominion
of an unprincipled woman.
Mr. Vaughan, though advanced considerably
in life, is uncommonly attractive in his manners;
his education has been liberal; his understanding
is far above mediocrity, and having seen a
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great deal of the world, was qualified for giving
counsel to the thoughtless and inexperienced.
He soon gained Darnley's confidence; he imparted
to this new friend, the doubts which had
arisen in his mind concerning his wife's conduct,
during her absence from him; shewed him
the letter Bellamy had written to him, and
which accused poor Sarah of almost every vice.
Vaughan inquired if he ever had any reason to
suspect her while she was with him; what her
general conduct and principles were, and learnt
that though volatile and improvident in many
things, she cherished the strictest principles of
virtue and religion, and utter abhorrence of vice;
that while herself by look, by word, or action,
never in her gayest and most thoughtless moments
transgressed the laws of female propriety,
she was ever ready to overlook the faults of
others, pity their errors and relieve their distresses,
though the natural consequence of those
errors. He concluded, that it was not very
probable that such a woman would become all at
once abandoned to vice and profligacy. This he
frequently urged, and advised him to write to
his wife, send her money to discharge her debts,
and invite her home. Darnley was inclined to
do this, and would actually have put his design
into execution, when he received her letter,
written the day after her being received into the
dwelling of Peggy McLean, but the very day in
which he formed this resolution, another diabolical
epistle arrived; not from Mrs. Bellamy as
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before, but from Jessey Romain, alias Ryan;
who, though unacquainted with the place of his
residence, rather than not have a chance to traduce
his innocent wife, directed her letter to a
coffee house in the city, where she knew, if he
was in London, he would certainly find it, as he
seldom passed a day without calling there. This
letter contained an account that might have
staggered the faith of almost any one. Sarah
was represented as having resided several weeks
at the marquis of H—'s, and eloping from
him one night to Dublin, in company with a married
man, by whom she had been ever since
supported.
The consequence was, that when Sarah wrote
to inform him of her arrival in England, he flew
into a violent paroxysm of rage, and swore he
would never see her again. All Mr. Vaughan's
arguments were vain. But when from his fall,
he found a long and painful confinement would
most likely be the consequence, nay, perhaps
the loss of life would follow, the good man renewed
his solicitations that he would see and be
reconciled to his wife. Darnley said faintly, “If
I could but think her innocent, and yet if she is,
Mr. Vaughan, how can I expect her to pardon
my neglect of her? If she is innocent, I have used
her shamefully—cruelly.” Mr. Vaughan found
the heat of his passion was subsided, and imagined
he would be even glad to find she had been
traduced; he therefore resolved himself to see
her, to question her concerning the subject of
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the information officiously given by Ryan and
Bellamy, and draw his conclusions from the
manner in which she should receive and reply to
his questions. Her frankness charmed him,
and the readiness, even to eagerness, which she
shewed to go immediately and attend her husband,
prejudiced him highly in her favor.
Their meeting was singular, yet affecting. “I
have brought,” said Mr. Vaughan, opening the
curtains of the sick man's bed, “I have brought
Mrs. Darnley to nurse you.” “Who, Sarah,”
said he, “where is she?” “I am here, Mr.
Darnley,” cried our friend, advancing and putting
forth her hand. “I am grieved for your
accident, and wish it may be in my power, by
performing every kind office, to alleviate your
sufferings and accelerate your recovery.” “Did
you come voluntarily?” said he, “was it affection
prompted?” “I came voluntarily, George,”
she replied gravely, “I never was, never can be,
a professor; you must judge of my motives from
my conduct; actions speak louder than words.”
“Oh,” said he emphatically, “were I to be
judged by my actions—” She laid her hand
on his which lay outside of the bed, and looking
at him with an impression of kindness, “We
have both erred,” said she, “but let us not now
talk of it; time past cannot be recalled, but it
remains with ourselves to make the future either
happy or miserable; for the present let us
think only of your getting well.” “Do you wish
it, Sarah?” “How unavailing the question,
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Darnley? If I do not wish it, I would not avow
such an indifference, and if I say I do, you may
suspect me of dissimulation.” “No, Sarah, I
believe you would not assert what you did not
feel. You ever were sincere.” “I am so now,
when I tell you I ardently wish your recovery.”
When Darnley was well enough to sit up,
Vaughan thought as there was every reason to
suppose a reconciliation and reunion would take
place between him and his wife, it was to be
wished that reunion might be rendered permanent;
he therefore proposed to Darnley that he
would write to the marquis of H—, and to
O'Donnel, as an indifferent person who had heard
these reports, and wished to know the truth, as
it was of infinite consequence that Mrs. Darnley's
character should either be effectually cleared,
or at any rate the truth should be fully
known; to this he assented, and Mr. Vaughan
wrote immediately. Darnley awaits the answer
of these letters with anxiety; I am equally impatient
with him, but my impatience proceeds
from a wish to witness the triumph of my beloved
Sarah, and in the pleasure that event
would confer, I am sure you will partake.
Yours, ANNE.
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LETTER XXXIII. ANNE TO ELENOR.
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
London, Oct. 7, 1780.
THE expected letters from Dublin have arrived,
and have effectually removed every doubt
from the mind of Darnley; his health is perfectly
re-established, and next week they remove
into Warwickshire; but I must inform you of
the cause of this removal. I really hope my
dear Sarah has her happiest days yet to come;
and that they will commence the moment she
is again comfortably settled in a home of her
own.
Darnley, apparently delighted with the reconciliation
which has taken place, seemed only
uneasy that his income was so contracted as not
to allow him to procure lodgings and attendants
such as he thought becoming his wife. This
vanity still predominates in him; but Sarah's
taste for shew and expense is entirely quenched;
and she sat about purchasing some plain furniture
for two small rooms with that complacent
cheerfulness which evinced her contented mind.
But before they were settled, or had fixed on
any apartments to remove to, a gentlemen one
morning called on Darnley, bringing a letter from
the marquis of H—, to this effect: “That
the esteem Mrs. Darnley's conduct had impressed
on his mind, had made him take an interest in
whatever concerned her happiness; that he
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had been informed that misfortune had rendered
their situation perplexing in regard to pecuniary
circumstances, and being sensible that any offer
of assistance in the form of benevolence would be
rejected, he had taken the liberty to mention
Mr Darnley to a gentleman who wanted a
steward to superintend his estates in England,
which were extensive; he being obliged from a
public employment to reside in Ireland, of which
he was a native; that the steward would be expected
to reside on the principal estate, which
was in Warwickshire; that a neat house was
provided for his family within a few miles of the
town of Warwick; that the salary was three
hundred pounds a year, and half a year would be
paid in advance on his entering on the employment;
which he might do immediately, should
he accept the offer; that there were two rooms
which had been fitted up at the mansion house
for an aged relation, who had ended her life
there; and as the furniture of those rooms was
entirely useless to the owner, Mrs. Darnley was
requested to accept of it as it might answer until
she could acommodate herself with something
better.”
This was the purport of the letter, but you
must have seen it, to form a just idea of the
delicacy which ran through the whole; the style
was elegant, and every sentence expressed, that
though addressed to her husband, it was expected
to meet the eye of Sarah; that he considered
her as a superior and highly respectable woman,
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and was at once studious to avoid wounding her
delicacy or sensibility. The gentleman who
brought the letter was empowered to engage
with Darnley, and advance the money. It may
readily be supposed that this was an offer not to
be rejected by a man who, writing with the utmost
assiduity in a merchant's compting house,
could earn no more than seventy-five pounds a
year, and whose taste for expense was ever
hurrying him into thoughtless extravagance;
he closed with the proposed terms with eagerness;
the gentleman paid him a hundred and
fifty guineas, and informed him that by Sir Richard
Bourke's order, a post chaise would be ready to
convey them to the estate, which is called Woodlands,
on any day in the ensuing week they should
be ready to go.
It will be particularly pleasing to Sarah to reside
in the country; and if there should be a few
rational, well informed persons in her vicinity, I
am certain she will feel no regret at being obliged
to relinquish the gaiety of a town life. I
hope Darnley will keep away from Warwick, as
he will not be so certain to meet with companions
likely to draw him into his former follies in
a country village, as in a populous town. Keep
him from low and unprincipled associates, and
the man will do well enough; but he is weak,
easily persuaded by those who have no right to
interfere in his concerns, to adopt any measures
which may facilitate their own interested views;
but so tenacious of the prerogative delegated by
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[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
the Creator to his creature man, that the opinions
of a wife would be treated with scorn; her
advice neglected, and her injunctions laughed
at. But however Sarah may have erred heretofore
in her conduct in regard to economy, and
in not endeavoring to conceal her indifference
towards him; she at least ever has practised,
and will continue still, the needful virtue of
PATIENCE. I say needful, because there is no
passing through life with any degree of comfort
without a pretty good share of it; and in the
married state, I believe a double portion is absolutely
necessary. I cannot speak from experience,
as I have never entered the holy pale, and
being now on the wrong side of thirty-five, in all
probability never shall, unless some spruce
young squire of twenty-one, (I would not marry
one older) very rich and gallant, should fancy me
the Ninon of the age and fall in love with me.
But this is not very likely; it does not happen
very often that men become seriously attached
to women considerable older than themselves,
though often that they are deeply enamoured
of their fortunes. Now and then indeed, a woman
appears, who, like the celebrated madam
Maintenon, maintains her sovereignty over the
young, the wealthy, the noble, the learned; and
is beloved and courted to the very verge of her
grand climacteric; but never was such a phenomenon
known as such a woman being an old maid—
Prithee, Anne, you say, a truce with your nonsense,
and let me hear a little more of Mrs.
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Darnley. In good truth, I have nothing more
at present to tell you about her. Don't you
know when a heroine is married, the novel always
ends—there is nothing worth relating in the
every day incidents of a family circle; and why
will not a reconciliation answer as well? I wish
with all my heart, her future days may pass on
so placidly as to have their whole history comprised
in these three words, health, peace, and
competency. Yet I would write to you, though
it were only to relate the sly tricks of my favorite
puss, or the amiable qualities of my all accomplished
Fidelle; aye, and I know you would be
glad to read a whole sheet of such trash, rather
than I should remain silent. However, keep
up your spirits, and when I hear from Mrs.
Darnley, how she likes her new residence, &cI
will inform you—until when, adieu.
ANNE.
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LETTER XXXIV. SARAH TO ANNE.
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
Woodlands, November 13, 1780.
HAVING had time to look about me, and get
a little settled, I have taken up my pen to tell
you how I like my situation. I hardly know how
to define my sentiments on the subject, but every
thing is so much better than I think it ought to
be, every circumstance considered; that I am
not satisfied. I cannot feel easy under a weight
of obligation, and I very much suspect that the
marquis is at the bottom of all the elegancies so
profusely provided in this place. Not that I am
so vain or romantically ridiculous, as to imagine
he has any sinister designs, or that he means to
take the trouble of visiting me in this retirement,
and by appearing suddenly before me when I
thought him in Ireland, supprise me into an appearance
of something very far from indifference.
Though I am sensible this would be quite in the
novel style, I believe such scenes very seldom
take place in real life. But I think from some
conversation which passed between Frederic and
his lordship, that his sensibility was hurt, by
reflecting that he had made a virtuous woman
the object of illicit pursuit, and he thought he
never could make a sufficient reparation for the
persecution I had suffered. Mr. Darnley does
not see or feel, as I do upon this subject; and it
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[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
is a topic so delicate, that I cannot discuss it with
him; I will therefore describe to you the circumstances
which give me uneasiness, and request
your advice in what manner to conduct
myself.
When we arrived at the inn at Warwick, a
servant in livery opened the chaise door, for
which he had been evidently waiting, and having
inquired if it was not the gentleman and lady
going to Woodlands, led the way to an apartment
where the cloth was laid for supper; two
wax candles were burning on the table, and with
marked respect the young man informed Mr.
Darnley that his master had written to him to
procure accommodations at the inn for that
night, as he imagined the lady would be too much
fatigued to proceed to the mansion house without
repose; then turning to me, he asked, if he
should send the chambermaid that I might look
at the chamber, for if I did not like it, I could
have it changed. Darnley answered in the
affirmative, and when the young man left the
room, said, “This looks well, Sarah; it looks as
if Sir Richard meant to have us respected.” To
me it appeared more than well, for though I
know that a gentleman's steward was always
reckoned as a respectable situation in life,upon an
equality with the better, and looked up to by the
lower class of tenants residing on the estate; yet
it was not often that the owner of the estate interested
himself in such trivial concerns as the
comfort and convenience of the steward's and his
-- 238 --
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wife's travelling, especially when never having
seen or known the family. As I made these reflections,
it first occurred to me, that Sir Richard
Bourke was the ostensible employer, and the
marquis the directing hand, supplying all these
superfluous attentions. Oh, vanity! vanity! thy
name is woman! said a wise man. Well, I
acknowledge it is vain in me to suppose myself
of so much consequence; but trust me, Anne,
however the suggestion may flatter my self-love,
it is too humbling to my pride, to occasion any
very agreeable emotions; it is living in a state
of perpetual obligation; and that of all others is
to me the most painful.
A plentiful and elegant supper, excellent wine,
and the chat of the host who is a facetious
man, of great information, concerning the families,
&c. of the gentlemen and nobility, made the
time pass very agreeably to Mr. Darnley; but
I felt myself somewhat fatigued and retired early.
In the morning, while I was breakfasting, the
same young man who had spoken to us the
night before, informed me, that Sir Richard had
ordered the furniture to be removed from the
large house, to the one we were to occupy;
which I found was denominated Woodlands
Cottage; that he had in consequence of orders
from the same quarter, engaged two female
doraestics, a cook and a chambermaid; but if on
trial I did not approve them he had only engaged
them for a month, and was to pay them their
wages as soon as they had got others to supply
their places.
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When breakfast was over, I expressed a desire
to go immediately to my new home, and in
a few moments, a very neat, plain travelling
chariot drew up to the door. “Why do we not
go in the post chaise, Mr Darnley?” said I.
“Because John informed me last night,” he replied,
“that this chariot and pair are always kept
at Woodlands, for the use of the steward's
family.” “It is certainly superfluous,” said I,
“a horse might have been necessary for you,
but for my own part, I had rather walk at any
time; besides, I do not want a carriage at another
person's expense.” “But if it is customary
for the steward to have the use of this chariot,
why should we be particular in refusing such a
convenience?” said he hastily. “John told me
also,” he continued, “that he is to reside with
us, and that Sir Richard had written to his agent
in London, to make arrangements with me concerning
him there, for he hoped he should give
satisfaction. I forgot to tell you it was mentioned
to me the day before I left town, that fifty
pounds a year is added to our income on that
account, as it was necessary that I should have
a man to go on messages, &c. &c.”
I saw Mr. Darnley was too well pleased in
having so many conveniences to refuse one of
them; so turned the conversation to the beauty
of the country. It was a very fine morning,
and you know, even late in October, autumn
retains much of her beauty; the rich and glowing
tints which variegate the woods, the short
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grass impearled by the exhalations which at this
time of the year can hardly be denominated
either dew or frost, irradiated by a clear, mild,
though distant sun, inspires the mind with sensations,
though perhaps not quite so cheerful,
yet, in my opinion, more exquisitely delightful,
than the gay exuberance of flaunting spring.
On our arrival at the mansion prepared for
us, its neat and retired situation struck me very
pleasantly. The woodbine and jessamine, which
almost covered the front, had not entirely faded,
as the house has a south aspect; the garden is
laid out with simplicity and taste; and the part
appropriated to kitchen purposes contained
every thing useful; a large asparagus bed,
plenty of artichokes, and some excellent wall
fruit trees. The interior of the house is by far
too expensively furnished; all of which appear
to me to be entirely new. A breakfast parlor
with cottage chairs, pembroke and work tables;
a dining parlor with mahogany furniture; a
drawing room, elegant chintz furniture, sofa,
curtains, &c. and two large glasses; also, sparr
ornaments over the chimney. Three handsome
bed-chambers furnished with white dimity and
chintz; with china glass, kitchen utensils, &c.
for every purpose; in the cellar, a plentiful stock
of ale, wine, &c. a cow for the family's use, was
grazing in a pasture near the house, and a poultry
yard, well stocked, completed the whole of
the possession of which it seems I am instituted
mistress. There is but one circumstance which
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[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
in the least reconciles me to accepting these
accommodations—which is a note which was
laid on a table in the chamber, which I had
selected for myself, when I retired for the night,
and which the chambermaid told me John had
desired her to lay there. It was from Lady
Bourke, and the following is a copy.
“To Mrs. DARNLEY.
“THOUGH Lady Bourke has not the pleasure
of a personal acquaintance with Mrs. Darnley,
she knows and respects her character; she
begs Mrs. D. to consider the furniture, &c.
which she will find at Woodland Cottage, as her
own; and use it as such, as long as the situation
Mr. Darnley holds, may render a residence
there agreeable. Lady B. hopes Mrs. D.
will find every accommodation, and enjoy much
happiness in her new habitation.”
Lady Bourke, I understand, is an English
woman; I have written my acknowledgments
to her, and hope I am not imprudent in partaking
of the comforts thus unexpectedly provided
for me.
I have now only to pray that Mr. Darnley
may fill his station worthily; that he may grow
fond of domestic pleasure; that he may meet
with rational, respectable associates; and that
my heart may be moulded to consider his happiness
its own, and that I may so conduct myself,
as never to give him wilful pain or offence.
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[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
Add to this, should my dear Anne approve of
my availing myself of the bounty of my new
benefactors, and by coming to increase my pleasures
by sharing them, convince me I do not act
with impropriety, I think I shall be happier than
ever I was in my life.
Adieu,
SARAH.
Note by the Editor.
IT appears from a number of letters which
passed between Mrs. Darnley and her friend,
that she continued to reside at Woodland Cottage
for a period of seven or eight years; but as
these letters contained no material incidents, it
was thought better to suppress them, giving only
an abstract of any occurrence of consequence for
the reader to know, in order to the better understanding
the subsequent letters.
Mrs. Darnley's father returned from India
with a broken constitution, and but very little
richer than when he left England. His affectionate
daughter procured him apartments in a
farm house so near that she could herself attend
to his comfort; but this was an unfortunate circumstance
for her. Mr. Osborne was a man of
loose morals, and dissipated habits, and neither
distress, or ill health, had in the least amended
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[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
those defects. Though he could no longer practise
the vices which he had ever indulged in
without restraint, yet it seemed his chief pleasure
to retrace scenes of past riot and debauchery;
and his conversation was in general such
that no delicate woman could wish to remain
long in his company. Unhappily, this was a
companion too congenial to the mind of Darnley,
for him to avoid the contagion which such a
character spreads around, and which, like the
spotted pestilence, lays all waste and desolate.
Peace, virtue, honor, fall sacrifices to its malignant
influence. The voice of conscience is
silenced, religion totally neglected, and the most
shocking depravity pervades the whole system.
Though Mrs. Darnley was too delicate to make
many complaints of the irregular conduct of two
persons with whom she was so nearly connected,
yet her friend Anne, who frequently visited her,
delivered her sentiments very freely upon the
subject in her letters to Elenor. An extract
from one of these, which appears to have been
written in the third year of Sarah's residence at
Woodlands, is particularly interesting, and therefore
it is given here.
“I have, since I have been with my dear
Sarah,this autumn,found her particularly gloomy
and depressed. The cause is evident, and needs
no explanation. Darnley's circumstances are
again embarrassed, and it is with the utmost
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difficulty she can obtain from him money for
housekeeping; and whenever necessity obliges
her to make a demand, he flies into such passions,
that terrified, she will submit to every
difficulty, by running bills with those who will
give her longest credit, and who must necessarily
repay their courtesy by advancing the price,
and thus by the demands being larger than he
had expected, he seems to think he has reason
on his side, when he scolds and complains at
what he chooses to term extravagance. And
here I must digress to remark,that in my opinion,
the state of total dependence in which women
in general are, must tend to weaken that affection,
that confidence, which should subsist
between married persons. I cannot imagine
but the domestic happiness would be greatly increased,
were wives released from that solieitude
and anxiety which everywoman of sensibility must
feel, who is obliged to apply to her husband for
every shilling she expends; a man who does not
provide, that is, make the purchases necessary
for his family, but simply commissions his wife
to do it, is very ill able to judge how much money
is requisite for the daily expenditure; and will
content himself with merely calculating the great
and most obvious articles, totally overlooking
the thousand little minutia which, though they
make no show, cost nearly as much in the course
of a year, as things apparently of greater consequence.
But to return to Sarah.
She appeared to reap much satisfaction from
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my visit; for she is a good part of the time alone.
As her father and Darnley go frequently to
Warwick and stay several days together, I asked
her if he had long accustomed himself to be thus
estranged from home. She answered with a
sigh, Yes, that she did not possess the art of
making his home agreeable to him, and to confess
a truth, were it not for his reputation's
sake, which suffered from the company he associated
with, she was happier when he was away,
than when he was at home. “We were not
made,” said she, “to constitute each other's happiness;
our minds, our habits, our pursuits are
totally dissimilar, and though we are chained to
the oar, for the life of one of us, we have never
as yet made the discovery of any circumstance
that might lighten the weight of the fetter, or
prevent its galling us even to the quick.”
This conversation passed one evening as we
were walking out; we had gone farther from
home than we had intended, and a shower beginning
to fall pretty briskly, we looked around
for some place of shelter, where we might stop
until the rain ceased, or send home for a carriage.
A neat looking cottage presented itself, almost
hid in a tuft of willow trees; we hastened in, but
the interior of the habitation did not agree with
the appearance of comfort the outside had denoted.
Every thing was mean and dirty; six or
eight dirty ragged children were playing in the
room, which seemed to answer for parlor, dinner
room, and kitchen, all in one; a miserable
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looking woman was nursing one child about eight
months old, and another, apparently of the same
age, was crying in an old, offensively filthy cradle.
“You have a large family,” said Mrs. Darnley;
then asking leave to remain a few moments,
she seated herself on one of the miserable stools
which helped to furnish the apartment. “Aye,
Heaven help me,” said the woman, “more than
is good, I don't know what is to become of us all
next winter.” “Where is your husband, good
woman?” said I, `has he no trade, or can he
get no employ?” “He work, Lord bless me!
I should think the bread would choak him that
he earnt; no! no! John can spend money fast
enough, but he don't like the trouble of working
for it.” “Are those children twins?” asked
Sarah. “No,” she replied, petulantly, “one is
a cross bastard, that is no child of mine.” “A
nurse child?” “Yes, it was put here to nurse
thirteen months ago, but I never saw the color
of the woman's money since she brought it, and
now she is gone nobody knows where. To be sure,
I should have sent it to the parish long ago,but Mr.
Steward there, that lives at the cottage near
the great house, came when I lived two miles off
at the hut on the green, and gave me three
guineas, and told me I might come and live in
this house for nothing; so I came, and folks do
say, if every one took care of their own, he ought
to maintain the brat.” She was going on, but I
perceived that Sarah changed color; first crimson
red, then ashly pale, then red again;
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therefore interrupted the woman's loquacity; but Sarah
had heard enough to awaken curiosity. “Whom
do you mean?” said she, “by Mr. Steward?”
“Why, Mr What's-his-name there,Sir Richard's
steward; he brought a fine madam they say,
from Warwick, and she and an old woman lived
three or four months in this here house, and
here this boy was born, and here she stayed until
she was tired of him, or he of her, and so she
went off; I wish she had taken her brat with her.”
Mrs. Darnley could not support herself; and
though it continued to rain, she arose, walked
toward the window to hide her emotions, and
proposed going. I did not attempt to prevail on
her to stay, for I was sensible her being drenched
through with rain would not to her be more
dangerous or painful, than to endure the conversation
of this woman. She hurried home
without speaking, and went immediately to her
own apartment, only saying as she passed up
stairs, “Anne, change your clothes immediately,
and have a glass of wine.” “Will you do the
same, my dear Sarah?” said I. She replied,
“Yes, certainly,” and I saw her no more until
supper time.
Darnley was in the room when I went down;
he was lolling on a sofa, and whistling in a
thoughtless, unconcerned manner. He had just
inquired for his wife; when, hearing her foot
on the stairs, he started upon his feet, and going
to the door to meet her, said peevishly, “Where
the devil have you been all this evening? it is
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half an hour since you were called to supper,
and it is quite cold.” “I came as quick as I
could,” said she, coldly, and taking her seat,
helped me to a bit of chicken. “You have been
walking,” said he, addressing himself to me.
“Yes, Mrs. Darnley and myself have been finely
wet.” “That was unlucky.” “It may be unlucky,”
said Sarah, gravely, “as far as it concerns
ourselves, but I trust it will prove most lucky
to a helpless, unprotected being, who, but for this
shower, I should never perhaps have known was
in existence.” “Come, none of your charity
sermons,” said he. “I am not wishing to excite
compassion, but awaken justice, Mr. Darnley.
I must beg a candid, unequivocal answer to a
question I am about to ask.”
“Well, ask your question, and then I will
choose whether I will answer it or not.” “Do
you know any thing concerning a child put to
nurse with the woman who lives at the white
cottage?” “What is that to you?” said he hastily;
but his face crimsoned as he spoke, and
his lips quivered. “Do not put yourself in a
passion, George,” said she calmly, “I do not
mean to have any disagreement about it; the
child is neglected, and will either pevish in its
infancy, or grow up to be a burthen to itself and
a nuisance to society, unless those whose duty
it is to provide for its maintenance and education,
snatch it from so deplorable a fate. I ask
no questions, I will not trouble you to make an
excuse; if the child owes its being to you, give
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orders that it be brought home, and I will see it
is properly taken care of; but let me entreat
you not to add to the offence already committed
against religion and morality, the unpardonable
one of leaving your offspring to perish.”
D—nt—n,” said he, throwing down his knife and
fork, “of all the plagues a man can have, a moralizing,
sentimental, canting, hypocritical wife,
is the worst. What the devil business had you
to be prying into matters that did not concern
you? Such troublesome, curious, jealous women
are the torment of men's lives.” “Will you
send the child home?” said she, endeavoring at
composure. “You may take the child, and its
mother, and the nurse, and all her dirty brats,
and all go to — together, so as I hear nothing
more of you.”
“Grant me patience, Heaven!” said she, rising
hastily from table, and rushing out of the room.
When, will you believe it? He rang the bell
very deliberately, and with the most perfect
appearance of composure bade the servant clear
the table; then turning to me, said, “As Sarah
is so indisposed, I will not disturb her to-night;
perhaps you will like to take my place;” then
bidding the servant order a bed in one of the
spare rooms to be got ready for him, he bade me
good night. How my dear Sarah spent the
night, may be easily imagined. However, in the
morning she gave orders for the child to be
brought home; appointed a room as much out
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of the way as possible for a nursery, and hired
a woman to take care of it.
Some time after this, Mrs. Darnley's father
paid the debt of nature; her husband, from
gaming, extravagance, and folly of different
kinds, offended his employer, and was dismissed
from his situation. The marquis was dead, and
though he left to Mrs. Darnley a bequest of
one hundred and fifty pounds a year, during her
life, yet that was trifling compared to what
Darnley had been accustomed to expend. They
removed to Wales, and here her brother Frederic
Lewis visited her. During this period, she
was deprived of her friend Anne, and her mind
became, to use her own expression, in a letter
she addressed to her brother, “dead to love and
joy,” and alive only to a sensation of peace which
arose from a conviction of having, to the utmost,
performed her duty. She was now at an age
when every impulse of the soul is in full vigor,
especially, in a well regulated mind; for the
senses at this time are more under the control
of reason; the heart selects its associates and
pleasures with caution, and its choice is sanctioned
by judgment. But Sarah, with a mind formed
for all the gentle delights of love, friendship,
and domestic happiness, had not one object on
which to lavish its tenderness. A short letter
which she addressed to her brother on his return
from a six years station in America, from
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whence he had brought an amiable wife and
two lovely children, will give a better picture of
her mind, situation and feelings, than any transcript
could possibly do.
LETTER XXXV. SARAH TO FREDERIC.
YOU are returned to your native land, my
dearest brother, and have brought with you
love and peace: Heaven grant they may long,
very long, be the inmates of your dwelling, the
solace of your heart.
Many are the changes that have taken place,
since last we met. Am I happier? you ask—
perhaps I may be thought so—perhaps I am so,
if absence of pain is pleasure; then the torpid
state into which my heart is fallen is happiness.
I have suffered much, my brother, but my sufferings
are ended. I seldom weep now—but then
I as seldom smile; and my heart, which once
would bound and flutter with indescribable sensation,
now in dull and monotonous pulsations,
receives and discharges the vital fluid in slow,
unvaried measure. Frederic, this is not happiness.
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My father rests in the house appointed for all
living. Here was a link dissolved in the great
chain of my existence; but, though I felt the
dissolution of so near a connexion awfully impressive,
I could not regret one, whom I had
never (since reason had the power to direct my
judgment,) respected; whom I had long ceased
to love. Oh! that parents would consider the
consequences of setting bad examples to their
children. You, my dear brother, have been as
deeply wounded by the errors of the departed,
as I have; and had you lived at home as much
as I did, I greatly fear your principles would
have been perverted by the scenes which would
unavoidably have passed beneath your observation.
I was saved from so dreadful a misfortune,
by my good aunt; she was austere in her manners,
severe in her temper, and scrupulously
particular in her opinions of female manners, and
religious duty; but yet it is that aunt, unkind as
in early life I used to think her, to whom I owe
all that I ever knew of happiness.
But this is a subject ungrateful to us both; I
will drop it when I have made one remark. You
are now a parent, Frederic, and do not, I conjure
you, forget that you are not only answerable
to your Maker for your own conduct, but for the
example you set your children; for it is more
than probable, that their eternal, as well as temporal
happiness will originate in you. Precept,
my brother, will do nothing, unless backed by
example; and what parent can hope or think a
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child will be benefited by correction,given by one
who knows not how to correct himself?
The last time my heart felt acutely, was in
the loss of my valued Anne. I had a friend—
Yes, that is an inexhaustible source; the tears
still gush forth when I remember I have a friend
no longer. You will say, you are my friend. I
know you are, as much as any man can be the
friend of a sister, when he has a wife and children
whom he loves sincerely, ardently, and who
deserve to be so beloved. Connubial love! domestic
felicity! are ye then realities? Alas, to
me, ye have been like fairy tales, credited indeed
in youth, but never experienced in any part
of life.
You inquire concerning our finances; we are
neither rich nor poor; our circumstances are in
unison with my feelings; no luxuries to enjoy,
no pressing wants to lament. What you heard
of the marquis's legacy is true; in addition to
which, Darnley has employment in the warehouse
of a manufacturing company, to receive
orders, and note them in a day book; for this he
receives a stipend of sixty pounds per annum.
We occupy a very small house, more like a cottage
than any thing else, about half a mile from
the town; our whole establishment consists of
one girl to do the drudgery, my little Charles,
Mr. Darnley, and myself. Could you come and
see me, methinks my heart would once more
beat with pleasure, and would fortune permit
me to embrace the wife of your choice, and your
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dear children, I should say, I knew what happiness
was.
[In another letter bearing date eighteen months
after the preceding, we find the following
paragraphs, evidently written after Mr.
Lewis had visited her.]
“You are pleased with our situation, and with
the little society that surrounds us. I am glad
you are; I do not wonder at the approbation you
express of the manners, conversation, and general
character of our good curate, Mr. Hayley.
He is all that man ought to be; and since his
residence among us, it seems as though I felt
awakened to the joys of society. My brother,
let my heart stand open to your view; I feel,
had such a man been presented to my notice,
in early life, I should have experienced a different
sentiment to what I have ever yet known.
Perhaps I do not properly comprehend what
love is; at least such as the visionaries of romance
describe it; I never yet saw the man who could
make me defy the opinion of the world, slight
the moral duties, and forget the respect due to
myself. But methinks for such a man as Hayley,
I could suffer every temporal inconvenience
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—bear poverty, contempt, reproach, yes, all
reproaches but those of my own heart; but
thinking him, as I do, the first of human beings,
I could never commit any action that would
sink me in his esteem, or expose him to the
contempt of the world. I ever thought, and
am now more fully convinced, that the woman
who experiences the sentiment which alone is
deserving the name of love in all its purity, can
never be guilty of aught that would call a blush
to her own cheek, or brand the object of her
esteem with infamy.
“I am not hypocrite sufficient to offer an
apology for the candid avowal of my sentiments
in regard to Mr. Hayley. They are not the
impulse of a momentary passion, they are the
result of reason and observation. I feel that his
esteem is necessary to my peace of mind, and
to obtain that esteem is so desirable an object,
that it has aroused the sleeping faculties of my
soul, and called them into action. I have now
some pleasurable object in view; I pursue some
daily amusement; I execute some little work of
taste, or fancy; I practise a new air upon my
guitar, or from my window sketch the outline
of a landscape, or a group of sportive children,
and have the hope of receiving approbation
from one of whose judgment I have the highest
opinion, and who I know, if he cannot praise
with truth, will remain silent. I offer no apology.
No, why should I? You require none.
Acquainted as you are with my strong sense of
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moral rectitude, of my full persuasion of a superintending
Deity, and the certain rewards and
punishments that await us in a future state, you
cannot believe me depraved; knowing as you
do the character of the person I esteem, you
will dismiss all fear.
But mistake me not: it is neither affection to
my husband, nor the dread of the world's censure,
binds me to Darnley. No, every moral
tie he has himself voluntarily and repeatedly
broken; but I have never yet infringed my
duty, I am his wife. Love him, alas! I never
did! never can. Though had he taken the
proper means to conciliate tenderness, my heart
would have soon become his own; it was formed
for unbounded tenderness, but its impulses never
expanded; they were repelled by unkindness,
and shrunk again within itself. But if I have
found a source of happiness, which religion and
honor does not disallow, why should I reject it,
for one, who never studied my peace, but made
self gratification his sole object? Ah, my brother,
if I am to be a stranger to pleasure, till my
ideas of it are in unison with his, I shall remain
unacquainted with it forever.”
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LETTER XXXVI. SARAH TO FREDERIC.
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
November, 1793.
MY brother, the world and I have done with
each other; the grave yawns, I stand shivering
on its brink, and whispering spirits seem to say,
“a moment more, and you will burst through
the veil of mortality, and stand in the presence
of the Eternal.” I have surveyed my past life,
and what does it appear? a vast blank, on which
my history may be written in one expressive
word, disappointment. I have lived for others,
lost to myself.
In the early part of my life, the friendship of
Anne was a firm rock on which I could rest secure,
even though the dashing tempests of calumny
and persecution threatened to whelm my devoted
bark. She passed to her place of rest,
and the ice of indifference benumbed with its
petrifying power every sensation of my soul.
Separated from every being with whom I could
hold communion; thrown among strangers at a
period of life, when, though the sensibility is supposed
not to be so impetuous as in youth, yet when
called into action by merit, and sanctioned by reason,
it is more lasting, more powerful; and being
divested of passion, becomes at once a source
of delight, and an encitement to all that is laudable
and praise worthy.
Thus situated, with discernment to discover,
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and judgment to appreciate sterling worth,
wherever I found it, I became acquainted with
Mr. Hayley. Our intercourse gradually grew
into intimacy, and that intimacy ripened into a
strong and lasting friendship; from that time
the color of my fate became more cheerful, and
I cannot describe to you the pleasure that pervaded
my mind when I discovered, there was
one worthy being in the world to whom my
peace, my reputation, my welfare was of consequence.
I was naturally of a social communicative
disposition; but after the experience I have
had of the duplicity, weakness, and wickedness
of the world, is it surprising, that while I mixed
in the circle of visitors which comprised the society
of my place of residence, I shrunk from every
advance to confidential intimacy with any?
Of my own sex, I have seldom met with any
who are formed for more than the companion of
an hour. Your sex, in general, accustom themselves
to consider women in so inferior a light,
that they oftener treat us like children and playthings,
than intelligent beings. I must be candid
enough to confess, it is too frequently our
own fault, that we are not held in higher estimation.
How gratifying, then, was it to my self
love, to be considered by a man of sense and
erudition as an equal, and to be conversed with
as a rational companion.
I recapitulate these particulars, to let you see,
my brother, I am not passing out of life, without
having had, during my last years, some bright
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gleams of sunshine, which gave me a full conviction
that happiness was attainable in this
world; though it was placed beyond my grasp.
When I first married, had we each pursued a
different course to what we unfortunately took,
we might have come very near happiness, at
least, as near as any one can approach it in a
married state, whose heart is silent to the language
of affection; but my soul refused to commune
with a sensualist, and where love really
exists it requires so many delicate attentions,
such a decency of manner, purity of language,
and cleanliness of person, to keep it alive after
so near a connexion has taken place; that where
all those circumstances are entirely neglected, or
the direct contrary practised, it could never be
expected to arise in a heart where it had never
the smallest previous admission. Want of confidence
in a husband, is death to the affection of a
wife, and she who is by turns the slave of capricious
passion, or the object of contempt or neglect,
if she is possessed of the least degree of delicacy
and feeling, must suffer a bondage more
severe than the slave who is chained to the
oar.
I think, my good and dear Frederic, that this
will be the last letter I shall ever write you. My
health has been declining for several months.
My strength fails daily, and it has cost me many
trials to write this. I wish you could come and
see me before I go hence; but the distance is
great, and I know your finances are bounded. I
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pray you, my brother, keep up a correspondence
with Mr. Hayley; should you not be able to visit
me, he will communicate to you the tidings of
my departure. I have said much to him concerning
Charles. I know he will have a watchful
eye upon him, and ever be his friend and
counsellor; I have nought to leave him, poor lad,
but my blessing; and yet methinks I bequeath
him an invaluable treasure in giving him such a
friend. Adieu.
SARAH.
LETTER XXXVII. SARAH TO FREDERIC.
I THOUGHT when I concluded my last to
you, dear Frederic, that I never again should resume
my pen: the languid flame of life but
faintly glimmered, and it seemed as though the
smallest breath, from the fiend adversity, must
have extinguished it forever. But the human
heart is not so casily broken as is in general believed;
oft may it be lacerated until it bleeds to
its very quick; oft may it be wrung, until every
fibre cracks, and yet will beat and supply the
vital stream that nourishes existence.
A circumstance has taken place, my brother,
which, even in health, I should have dreaded to
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encounter, yet my weak frame sunk not under
it, and I have acted, I hope, as a Christian should.
It is about ten days since, that Mr. Hayley called
on me in the morning, and asked me if I was
adequate to taking a short ride and making a
charitable visit? This, in fine weather, he has
frequently done, since my increased debility,
always taking care to hold out some object, the
pursuit of which might engage me to take the
exercise, though the languor of my strength
and spirits might lead me to decline exertion.
I felt uncommonly cheerful that morning, and
Darnley seconding his entreaty, I complied.
When Mr. Hayley and myself were seated in
the chaise, he told me there was an old woman
in the neighborhood of our village, who had been
very ill of a fever; that when her life was despaired
of, he had been sent for to pray with her;
that on visiting her, he found her delirious, and
that she had several times called on my name in
such a manner, as led him to suppose she had
injured me. Upon her partial recovery he
questioned her.
From the day of this excursion, I have been
endeavoring to gain strength and composure to
inform you of the interview.
It is in vain, my heart sickens at her name.
God of mercy! oh, pour thy peace upon my soul,
that I may enter into thy presence in charity
with all; bend! oh bend, this stubborn heart!
which, though it forgives, cannot forget.
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I am reduced to almost infantine weakness,
and when I attempt to write, the letters swim
before me, my hand trembles; a cold dew hangs
on my forehead.
The approaches of death are not painful—but
this fluttering at my heart—Adieu, the blessing
of the Almighty rest upon my broth—
LETTER XXXVIII. Rev. Edward Hayley to Frederic Lewis, Esq.
DEAR SIR, May 22, 1794.
THE painful task has fallen to my lot to inform
you, that the mortal part of your sister,
Mrs. Darnley, rests on its last bed; but we
have strong reason to hope and believe, that her
soul rejoices in the presence of her Creator.
She slept in death on the 13th of this month,
and was interred on the 20th, yet could I not
summon sufficient composure to address you,
until to-day, on the heart wringing subject. If
I, who have known her but a few years, feel her
loss so severely, what language can be employed
to soften the intelligence to a brother who grew
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[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
up with her from childhood, and who knew and
justly appreciated her value!
Enclosed is a letter, which, as its writing was
attended with peculiarly affecting circumstances,
I imagine will be extremely valuable to you.
Mrs. Darnley desired me to acquaint you with
the circumstance she there alluded to. I must
previously inform you, that during your sister's
long illness, the greatest pleasure she could enjoy
was riding round the village, and visiting the
poor, the sick, and the afflicted; and though
from various circumstances, I have reason to
suppose she was not rich; it was astonishing to
see by how many ways she would assist, comfort
and relieve the necessitous; practically
shewing, that where the desire of being useful
exists in the heart, the means will always be
found. And a trifle bestowed in warm clothing,
ready for wearing, and a few of the comforts of
life to the sick and aged, such as sago, tea, sugar, a
little wine, chocolate, or coffee, distributed with
discrimination, will do more essential service,
than hundreds lavished without judgment by
the hand of prodigality. As I frequently had
the honor of attending her in these excursions,
Mr. Darnley being prevented that pleasure by
his employment, I was ever solicitous to discover
objects that would interest her; as for many
weeks previous to her dissolution, no other
means would promote the desired end of her
taking air and exercise. I now proceed with the
narrative the dear deceased was unable to finish,
continuing from where she broke off.
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I questioned the woman if she knew Mrs.
Darnley; she hesitated, and then replied, “Yes,
I wish I could see her.” From further conversation,
I found something lay heavy on her mind.
I perceived also that she was in want of many
comforts and necessaries which your sister
knew so well how to supply with delicacy, that
I did not attempt any thing myself until I had
her better judgment to direct me. There was
a middle aged woman with her, whose manners,
language and appearance, indicated that she had
not been always the child of abject poverty.
On the morning when I accompanied Mrs.
Darnley to the lodging of the invalid, whose
name I then understood was Manners, her companion
was absent. Mrs. Darnley approached
the bed, and addressed her in those consolatory
accents which ever flowed from her lips: but the
old woman was so agitated, that for some time
she could not speak, at length she articulated,
“Forgive—I am punished—vice is its own reward.”
“Who are you?” said Mrs. Darnley;
but before she could receive an answer, the
companion entered “Good God!” exclaimed
the woman,starting back. “Jessey—Jessey Romain!”
said your sister, with quickness, and catching
her breath as though oppressed with a sense
of suffocation, covered her face with her hands,
and fell into an hysterical fit of tears. I now too
late perceived that I had brought my valued
friend into a situation too distressing for the
weak and irritable state of her nerves. I threw
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[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
up the window, and seeing some drops on the
table,poured a little into some water, and entreated
her to swallow it. She recovered her voice,
and turning again to the person in the bed, she
said, “Is it possible that you can be Mrs. Bellamy?”
I will not pretend to describe the scene
that ensued. I almost forced Mrs. Darnley out
of the house, and hastened her home, bitterly
repenting my officiousness in taking her to visit
these women. She retired immediately to her
own apartment, only requesting to see me in
the evening. When I went, I found her extremely
low; in a few short, but emphatic sentences,
she gave me to understand that she had
received from both these women the highest
injuries that one human being can receive from
another; her peace of mind had been destroyed,
her domestic quiet broken, her character calumniated.
She thus concluded. “I had hoped to
have died without again beholding those disgraces
to womanhood; but this is no time to indulge
resentment, I have too much need of forgiveness
myself to hold enmity with any one. You say
they are distressed. What little is in my power,
I will cheerfully do for them, but indeed I cannot
see them again.” Then after a short pause, she
continued: “I will confess I am at a loss to account
for their present distressed situation. I
wish, Mr. Hayley, you would see them.”
I readily promised to visit them, obtain all the
information in my power, and administer to their
necessities. I found Mrs. Bellamy had been
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deserted by her daughter, who had left lord Linden,
and gone to Italy with a French adventurer;
her grand daughter Caroline had fallen from one
grade of vice to another, to which she had been
incited by her wretched mother and grand
mother, until, in the very bloom of life, she fell a
victim to disease and wretchedness in a common
prison. Thus the sins of the parent were visited
upon the child. Jessey Romain had become the
companion of Mrs. Bellamy, and finding themselves
reduced to the very last ebb in fame and
finances, they resolved to try their fortune in
England. They embarked at Waterford, but a
variety of concurring circumstances threw them
sick and destitute on the coast of Wales, where
they fell under my notice. The woman Bellamy
seems hastening to her final audit; her terrors
are great, nor can I inspire her with the least
hope that penitence will obtain the pardon of her
Judge. “I cannot think of it now,” she cries,
“for I cannot prove my sincerity by altering my
course of life.”
Mrs. Darnley, from the day of this unfortunate
visit, drooped hourly. Yet she was not
confined to her bed, and as she ever was particularly
fond of writing, she always had the pens,
ink and paper, on a stand by her easy chair;
though for above six weeks, she seldom had
written more than two or three lines at a time.
The day she wrote the last line in the letter I
enclose, her husband and myself were sitting at
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the other end of the room, when we heard her
breathe a deep sigh; a deathly paleness overspread
her face, the pen fell from her fingers,
and before we could get to her, she sunk lifeless
back in her chair. We lifted her on the bed,
and summoned assistance; in about half an
hour, respiration returned, and lifting her dying
eyes with an expression, never to be eraced from
my memory, she said faintly, “It is the last
struggle.” This was about five in the afternoon;
upon the arrival of the physician, he pronounced
that she would never again leave her bed, though
she might possibly linger three or four days, but
in all probability a much shorter period would
close the scene. During the night, she had
several hours of composed rest. I did not leave
the house; my heart was wrung with inexpressible
anguish, and Mr. Darnley stood in need of
comfort and support; indeed, at times, it seemed
as if his reason would forsake him; he execrated
himself, execrated the women, whose presence he
imagined had hastened the approaching dissolution
of his wife. Mr. Lewis, it was a night of
distress and misery. About sun rise, being told
that I was in the house, she desired to see me.
“My worthy friend,” said she, “God has been
very good to me, and has afforded me a short
repose to recruit my strength, that I may perform
all my duties before I go henee. I wish to
partake of the solemn rite of the Lord's supper;
will you pray by me and administer it? that I
may die in peace with all my fellow creatures,
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and oh, my friend, pray! pray earnestly, that I
may enter into the peace of my Savior.” While I
was preparing for this solemnity, she desired to
see her husband and son. When all was prepared,
and she supported in the bed by a domestic
who was very much attached to her, (as indeed
all are who have had an opportunity to investigate
her character) she held out one hand to me
and one to Mr. Darnley,at the same time placing
Charles between us. “George,” said she to her
husband, “whatever disagreements may have
been between us, I pray you believe I never
meant wilfully to give you pain, or offend you.
I have had many faults; when I am gone, remember
them not against me, but consign them with
my memory to oblivion; and believe me, as I
stand on the verge of eternity, one thought that
tended to your dishonor has never been amongst
them. Mr. Hayley, I owe much to your friendship;
it has been the sweetener of the last years
of my life; it has smoothed my passage to the
grave; it will, I hope and trust, be renewed beyond
it. Charles, my good lad, I leave you.
May God bless you, may you be virtuous, and in
the end be assured you will be happy; be dutiful
to your father. George, be a faithful father to
this poor boy, he has no mother. Mr. Hayley—
though the whole world forsake him, be you his
friend. One thing more, tell those unhappy
women, Bellamy and Romain, my last religious
act will include a prayer for their eternal welfare;
and if I have hated them, I hope it was
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their vices, not themselves, towards whom I
nourished that sentiment” Then folding her
hands, and elevating her eyes with the most
affecting fervor, she audibly repeated the Lord's
prayer, and turning her face toward me, begged
me to proceed in my office. I do assure you,
dear sir, it was with the utmost difficulty that I
could perform the service; my voice was choaked,
and I could scarcely restrain the sobs that labored
in my convulsed bosom; a sweet and solemn
serenity pervaded her voice and countenance as
she joined in the responses. When it was over,
she embraced us all; the chill of death was on
her lips which pressed against my cheek. “It is
an awful thing to die,” said she, “to stand in the
presence of a God of purity; oh! what have I
to plead?—nothing—and only that I know, He,
who said, “Lazarus, come forth,” and the dead
obeyed his voice, can and will purify me from my
offences, I should fear greatly. But he has said,
“I am the resurrection and the life,and whosoever
believeth on me shall not perish.” Her voice
faltered, she sunk back, her eyes were fixed upwards,
and her ardent spirit took its flight to the
regions of immortality.
After this account of her exit, to offer any
thing by way of consolation, would be impertinent
and superfluous. I will therefore drop my
pen, after having entreated a continuance of your
friendship. I am, dear sir,
Yours with esteem,
EDWARD HAYLEY.
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Note by the Editor.
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
The sincerity of Sarah's dying declaration that
“even in thought she had never dishonored her
husband,” was confirmed by the confession of
Mrs. Bellamy. Indeed, it was hardly possible
for any one to doubt her truth who were acquainted
with her, as she never seriously averred the
thing that was not; professed an affection she did
not feel, or disguised a disgust that she did.
Her husband felt her loss for a few days, very
severely; for a few weeks was decently grave;
but the seductive Romain tried means to comfort
him, and he was comforted, until he married
her. Alas, poor Darnley, she then paid him with
interest, all he had inflicted on the uncomplaining,
unoffending Sarah From this account of
our Heroine's sufferings, let no one say, where
then is the reward of virtue, if such a woman is
not happy? but let them reflect on her peaceful,
beatified end, and cry, “Vice, where are thy
fascinations? will they take out the sting of
death?—No—It is the sincere and pious spirit
alone that tried in the thrice heated furnace of
affection, comes out like refined gold, bright and
pure, fit to be placed in the palace of the Most
High.”
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