LETTER LVII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

THE moment I had laid down my pen, Harriet flew into my room, to expreſs her ſurpriſe at Lord Lucan's arrival; but joy was much more predomi⯑nant than wonder, in her artleſs eyes—Lu⯑cy came into my chamber, ſoon after, to aſſure me that ſhe did not know of his Lordſhip's coming, or even that he was an acquaintance of Sir Harry's, till he in⯑troduced him to her, that inſtant, below ſtairs. Harriet replied, with unuſual [2] vivacity, ‘"Surely, Miſs Leiſter, you need not make an apology for ſuch an agreeable addition to our ſociety, as Lord Lucan?"’ The moment theſe words had eſcaped her, her face was co⯑vered with bluſhes.

I took not the leaſt notice of her emo⯑tion, though it ſtruck me ſtrongly, when contraſted with the different ſenſations of fear and anxiety that affected my heart. A thouſand diſagreeable thoughts ruſhed at once into my mind; I determined, however, to act with the utmoſt circum⯑ſpection, and carefully to avoid any par⯑ticular interview or converſation with his Lordſhip.

I did not quit my chamber till dinner was ſerved;—I ſpent the intermediate [3] hour extremely ill, in forming ſet ſpeeches, and faſhioning my conduct to impoſ⯑ſible rules, which all vaniſhed out of my thoughts, like a dream, the moment I beheld Lord Lucan; and I ſuppoſe that no creature could ever have appeared more completely embarraſſed upon any occaſion.

His countenance, upon ſeeing me, was expreſſive of the ſincereſt delight; there was a brilliancy in his eye, and a liveli⯑neſs in his complexion, which would have made the homelieſt features pleaſ⯑ing—Alas! his wanted not this adventi⯑tious aid.—

My confuſion ſoon became contagious, and ſeemed to throw a general damp up⯑on the ſpirits of the whole company— [4] Even the happy Creſwel abated of his chearfulneſs, and often ſent forth a look of inquiry, to try if he could diſcover the cauſe of his own change, in Lucy's now altered countenance.

I could not help perceiving the gloom I had ſpread, and endeavoured, but in vain, to rally my ſpirits:—they were ſunk too low to be recalled.—I would have retired, but that would have been an ad⯑dition to my friend's diſtreſs—We made a dull and ſilent meal, and I quitted the table the moment it was poſſible.

I withdrew immediately to my cham⯑ber, and begged to be left alone—I was indulged by Lucy, though unwillingly. I tried to account to myſelf for the un⯑common heavineſs which oppreſſed my [5] heart.—The weakneſs of my paſt con⯑duct appeared in the moſt glaring light to me; and, from the agonies of remorſe which I then felt, I concluded myſelf the moſt guilty of wretches.—

Yet my reaſon revolted againſt this opinion, but was ſtill utterly unable to baniſh it, or to account for the ſudden change in my ſentiments upon this ſub⯑ject, as no alteration had happened, ei⯑ther in Lord Lucan's conduct, or my ſi⯑tuation, from the time that I had conſi⯑dered my attachment to him as perfectly innocent, becauſe it was abſolutely invo⯑luntary—I became almoſt diſtracted with my doubts; and, traverſing my chamber with haſty ſteps, I exclaimed, how poor, how inſufficient is human reaſon, either [6] to direct our actions, or reſtrain our paſſions!

O Thou, that ſtilleſt the raging of the ſea! and calmeſt the fury of the winds! abate this conflict in thy creature's breaſt! and point the way in which my feet ſhould tread to find the paths of peace!—A ſudden guſh of tears followed this ejaculation, my mind grew calm, and I thought I could at that inſtant have ta⯑ken an everlaſting leave of Lord Lucan, with the moſt perfect reſignation.

I continued muſing upon the ſubject of my future conduct, for a long time; and at laſt determined, that I would endea⯑vour to aſſume as much chearfulneſs as poſſible, while I remained at Elm-grove; that, in a very few days after the wedd⯑ing, [7] I would return to Southfield, but, before I went, write a letter to Lord Lu⯑can, fully expreſſive of the change in my ſentiments with regard to him, or rather myſelf, enjoining him to make no reply, nor attempt ever to ſee me more.

Soon after I had formed this reſolu⯑tion, Lucy tapped ſoftly at my chamber-door.—She ſaw I had been weeping, but as I ſmiled, and held out my hand on her approach, ſhe ſaid my face might be compared to an April day, but as ſunſhine ſeemed now to prevail ſhe hoped there would be no more ſhowers—we joined the company, and I with pleaſure per⯑ceived that I was much leſs conſtrained in my manner to Lord Lucan, and every body elſe, than I had been at dinner.

[8]A little flight of Sir Harry's, at the time that the gentlemen were to leave us, and return to town, threw me into a ſecond embarraſſment—he inſiſted upon his being permitted to ſalute all the la⯑dies, as he ſhould never be another night a bachelor; and that Lord Lucan, and a young gentleman, whoſe name is Weſ⯑ton, and was then preſent, ſhould ſalute Miſs Leiſter, as ſhe ſhould not chuſe to ſpare them one of her kiſſes, when he ſhould have an excluſive right to the ſole property of them.

Young Weſton, who, perhaps, miſ⯑takes vivacity for good breeding, pro⯑poſed this folly's becoming general, and it was impoſſible to object ſeriouſly to a matter that appeared ſo very trifling; eſpecially upon ſuch an occaſion as this [9] —Once at a wedding, you know, is a proverb.

Yet neither you, nor any of that com⯑pany, will, I hope, ever know the pangs I felt at receiving a kiſs from Lord Lu⯑can.—It ſeemed to coſt him almoſt as much pain as it did me, for he trembl⯑ed as if he had been ſeized with an ague-fit.—The conſent of my heart ſhocked me with a conſciouſneſs of guilt.—I am ſorry the fooliſh affair hap⯑pened—but I will think no more of it.

It is now near two o' clock in the morning of Lucy's wedding-day; and as I ſuppoſe I ſhall not have much leiſure, for ſome time to come, I would not omit, before I lay me down to reſt, if that may be, acquainting my dear con⯑feſſor [10] and counſellor with the ſtate of that heart, which, while it beats, will ever re⯑tain the tendereſt affection for her.

Every good wiſh attends my brother; and I hope I may by this time add, his amiable wife.—My Fanny's claim to that title, is, I think and hope, not far diſtant.

The renewal of Lord Hume's connec⯑tions with Sir George might have been merely accidental; but his continuing them in the manner he has done, even to the incumbrance of my brother, in his preſent circumſtances, ſpeaks the revival of his attachment to you much ſtrong⯑er than the moſt direct and formal propo⯑ſition could poſſibly have done.—His at⯑torney might perform the one, but his [11] paſſion only could be capable of the other.

Lord Hume has his merits as well as his faults; and the mild eye of my ſiſter's charity is ever more open to the former than the latter; and, if the union I have hinted at ſhould take place, I truſt they will become every day more conſpicuous.

P.S. Eight o' clock in the morn⯑ing.—I have paſſed a miſerable night—diſturbed ſlumbers, and terrifying dreams—If I were ſuperſtitious, I ſhould ima⯑gine ſome ill fate awaits me—Alas! how totally unfit am I for the feſtivity of a bridal day!

LETTER LVIII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

OUR wedding, my Fanny, was conducted with the greateſt pro⯑priety and elegance; there were eighteen perſons preſent, the eldeſt of whom, Mrs. Layton excepted, was not eight and twen⯑ty.—Pleaſure ſat ſmiling on every placid brow; even I endeavoured to aſſume an air of chearfulneſs, but thought myſelf, like Lucifer in heaven, unbleſſed amidſt the bleſſed!

It is ſaid that every woman looks bet⯑ter on her wedding-day, than any other of her life.—I confeſs I never ſaw Lady Creſwel appear ſo beautiful; there was a ſort of ſerene happineſs in her counte⯑nance, [13] which I know not how to de⯑ſcribe; her clear brown complexion ap⯑peared almoſt tranſparent, yet was often heightened to the moſt becoming bluſh, by the fond looks of her enamoured bridegroom.

The dreſs of all brides is nearly the ſame;—you may therefore conclude, that Lady Creſwel wore white and ſil⯑ver.—The bride-maids were dreſſed ex⯑actly alike, par hazard, in pale pink and ſilver.—My cloaths were—Gracious heaven! how can I write about ſuch trifling matters, while my heart is break⯑ing?—I muſt fly, my Fanny! for ever fly from the ſight of one, who becomes every hour more dangerous to my re⯑poſe!

[14]We have now been three days toge⯑ther under the ſame roof, yet have I been lucky enough to avoid any particu⯑lar converſation with Lord Lucan.—He perceives my caution; his vanity is doubtleſs flattered by it, yet he affects to appear unhappy; his looks are ex⯑preſſive of the tendereſt ſorrow, and he ſometimes gazes on me till he ſeems to have loſt himſelf.

Poor Harriet watches his eyes—alas! they are but ſeldom turned on her! If he is really as wretched as he ſeems, he is to the full as much to be pitied as my⯑ſelf.—Why did we ever meet? or, why not ſooner? That heart which, in ſpite of the reſtraint of duty, is but too much devoted to him now, had it been free, my ſiſter—I fear 'tis criminal to in⯑dulge [15] this fond idea—I will ſuppreſs it then.

I have not had leiſure to begin the let⯑ter I intend to write to him; but to mor⯑row, or the next day—in ſhort, before I ſeal this, I will.—And yet, what can I ſay to him?—Have I ought to complain of in his conduct, that can warrant an ever⯑laſting breach between us?—Has he not kept within the bounds preſcribed by me? Has he even preſumed to hint he thinks them too ſevere? Unleſs involuntary ſighs and tender looks are conſtrued in⯑to crimes, Lucan has not offended!—Yet, yet I will break off this—I know not what to call it—improper, at leaſt, as well as painful connection!—I am al⯑moſt diſtracted.

I have this moment received a letter from Lord Lucan.—I am glad of it.— [16] This is encroaching.—I have now ſome pretence for my intended breach.—Yet read it, Fanny.—I will copy it, if my faſt-ſtreaming tears don't waſh the lines away.

[19]What ſhall I ſay to him, my ſiſ⯑ter? What anſwer ſhall I make to lines ſo full of tenderneſs and ſubmiſſion? Can I be unjuſt enough to reproach or condemn him, while he is guiltleſs of any offence towards me? Yet, if I acquit him, do I not criminate myſelf? Muſt he not think me unworthy of his regards, if female caprice alone ſhould appear the motive of my altered conduct?—I will not enter on the ſubject, but coldly tell him, that I firſt repented, then con⯑quered my paſt weakneſs, and bid him try to follow my example.—O, Fanny! I ſhall break his gentle heart! If but my own would burſt, I ſhould be happy!

How inconſiſtent is this letter with my laſt!—Why can I not again recover that [20] calmneſs, which even a tranſient devotion had inſpired?—Alas! becauſe my piety was but temporary, and tranſitory!—Like the ungrateful Iſraelites, I ſought the Lord in my trouble.—But has he not pro⯑miſed to be nigh to all thoſe who call upon him?—His mercy is not limited, and in that hope will I confide.

More than half the night is elapſed; but I will not cloſe my eyes till I have written to Lord Lucan.—Should I defer it till to-morrow, his ſupplicating eye and te [...]der looks may change my unfirm purpoſe.—Would to heaven I had not come here!—Never was any creature ſo altered in the time.—Sir William will certainly perceive the change; and how ſhall I account for it?

[21]It is done, my ſiſter! I have taken an everlaſting leave of Lord Lucan!—I will copy what I have written—How infinite⯑ly ſhort does it fall of what I wiſhed to ſay!

I will not comment on this hateful letter: ſurely I never wrote ſo bad a one!—But is that wonderful?—Is not [25] the heart, our beſt inſpirer?—And can I ſay that mine dictated this ſevere decree?—Yet I truſt my dear Fanny will ap⯑prove it.—It has afforded my mind too a temporary relief.

I mean to order my coach as ſoon as I riſe in the morning, to ſend this letter to Lord Lucan, before I appear at break⯑faſt, and ſet out directly after for South⯑field, without giving him time to recover enough from his ſurprize, ſo as to at⯑tempt an expoſtulation.

I am tempted to leave Harriet with La⯑dy Creſwel, that I may perform the journey alone.—What a journey will it be!—

LETTER LIX.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

INDEED, my ever dear Louiſa, your letters have been a heavy alloy to the happineſs that I ought now to par⯑take of;—but, like Joſeph, when ſur⯑rounded with all the magnificence and delights of the Egyptian court, I weep upon the neck of my Benjamin—Yet let me flatter myſelf, that good, and not ill fate awaits my ſiſter; as I may now believe the conflict's paſt, and that her own reaſon and virtue have triumphed over a weakneſs, which, as ſhe juſtly ob⯑ſerves, could only be productive of miſe⯑ry—Of miſery, perhaps, in the extreme.—Yes, my ſiſter, I do moſt truly applaud both your letter, and your conduct to⯑wards [27] Lord Lucan; and, what is of infi⯑nitely more conſequence, you will your⯑ſelf approve it.—You will again enjoy ‘"That peace, which goodneſs boſoms ever."’—And even feel an higher de⯑gree of exultation in your mind, at hav⯑ing recovered the loſt path, than thoſe who have never ſtrayed, can poſſibly be ſenſible of.

With this prophecy I will cloſe the ſubject of your late letters, and ſhall be impatient till I find it verified by the calm chearfulneſs which will, I hope, diffuſe itſelf through all your future correſpon⯑dence.

I have much to tell you, both of my⯑ſelf and our dear brother.—We have had a wedding, as well as you, but 'twas [28] a very private one:—Yet ſurely I may ſay with Fitzoſborne,

But, to proceed regularly—In my laſt I told you that we ſhould quit St. Omer's in a few days.—Do not be ſhocked, Louiſa, when I tell you that we were all very near remaining there for ever!

As Delia recovered her health, Sir George's ſpirits returned; and, after paſ⯑ſing a very chearful evening, this day three weeks, we retired rather before midnight to our chambers.—I want [29] words to expreſs the terror I felt, when I was awaked, about four o' clock in the morning, by people ſcreaming out fire, and beating at my door, in order to force it open.—I found myſelf involved in ſo thick a ſmoke, that I could not find the paſſage out of my chamber, and con⯑cluded that I muſt inevitably periſh.

Amidſt the variety of voices that re⯑peatedly called upon me to pull up the bolt, I thought I diſtinguiſhed Lord Hume's—Perhaps this circumſtance ad⯑ded to my confuſion.—On a ſudden the voice ceaſed, and I found myſelf, as it were, left alone in the midſt of the flames, which then burſt into one ſide of the room.

At that moment a ladder was fixed againſt one of my windows, and Lord [30] Hume entering by it, caught me in his arms, and carried me I know not how, but totally devoid of ſenſe, to his apart⯑ment on the other ſide of the ſtreet.

When I had recovered my reaſon, I had the happineſs of finding my brother and Delia ſitting by me, and my cham⯑pion kneeling before me, and pouring lavender water on my hands and face, with a look of ſuch tender ſolicitude, as if his life depended upon mine.

The emotion of my gratitude, or call it what you pleaſe, was too ſtrong for my ſpirits—I fainted a ſecond time.—I was put to bed in this ſituation, and a ſur⯑geon had opened a vein in my arm, be⯑fore I opened my eyes again.

Never can I forget the expreſſive look of ſorrow which appeared in Lord [31] Hume's countenance!—I confeſs it, Louiſa, it in one moment obliterated all his paſt offences, and he became even dearer to my heart than he had ever been before.—His ſaving my life, even at the hazard of his own, was only a proof of his ſpirit and humanity, which he ought to have exerted for any other woman, in the ſame dreadful ſituation:—But the tender anxiety he ſhewed towards me af⯑terwards, ſpoke the fond lover; and the delicacy of his behaviour from that event, has ſtrengthened his claim to that title.

As ſoon as my arm was bound up, I tried to expreſs my gratitude to Lord Hume, but could not—Tears ſtopped my utterance, but relieved the oppreſ⯑ſion of my heart.—He ſeemed as little able himſelf to ſpeak as I, but, in an in⯑coherent [32] manner, ſaid, he was the hap⯑pieſt man alive, and kiſſed my hand in tranſport.—Sir George then made every perſon withdraw, except my maid, and left me for ſome hours to compoſe my⯑ſelf.

I found, upon enquiry, that the fire which had conſumed three houſes, began at a ſugar baker's, who lived next door to us, and that it was not diſcovered till a part of our houſe was in flames.—An old ſervant of Lord Hume's was the firſt perſon who ſaw the blaze;—The poor man happened not to be well, and could not ſleep:—To his ſickneſs, under Pro⯑vidence, are we indebted for our lives, and he ſhall never more feel the fatigue of ſervitude or labour, his lord and my brother having rendered him inde⯑pendent for life.

[33]This accident, you may ſuppoſe, re⯑tarded our ſetting out.—Delia, who ſuf⯑fered leſs than I from the fright, was an equal loſer by the fire.—In ſhort, neither we nor our ſervants had been able to ſave any of our cloaths from the flames.—You may conclude, that the dear good Wal⯑ter ſupplied us with every neceſſary till we could get them made.

I fear the apprehenſion ſhe felt on our account, before ſhe knew that we were ſafe, has hurt her much.—She looked ſo very delicate when we parted, that I ſcarce dare flatter myſelf with the hopes of ever ſeeing her more.

While we were delayed at St. Omer's, a ſecond courier arrived from Mrs. Col⯑ville, with a letter to St. George, ack⯑nowledging [34] her paſſion for him, plead⯑ing that in her excuſe, and imploring him in the moſt abject terms, not to ex⯑poſe her weakneſs, by carrying on the ſuit againſt her; and aſſuring him of her full conſent to his marriage with her daughter.

In order to avoid being brought to England by the chancellor's meſſenger, ſhe has retired privately from Toulouſe, and has placed herſelf in a convent, but where we know not, nor ſhall ever en⯑quire.—I hope ſhe will remain, wherever ſhe is, for life, as I really believe, that the bare ſight of her would ſhock our poor Delia more than the fire had done.

She has ſent back the ſmall trunk which belonged to the perſon who died [35] at Amiens, and has deſired that Sir George may open it, in order to forward the papers in it, to the party for whom they are deſigned; if this can be diſco⯑vered from the initials, which is the only addreſs they have.—My brother has aſ⯑ſigned this commiſſion to me, and as ſoon as I have a moment's leiſure, I will exe⯑cute it faithfully.

If I continue to write ſo circumſtanti⯑ally, there will be no end of this letter; you muſt therefore take leave of St. Omer's, and ſuffer yourſelf to be inſtant⯑ly tranſported acroſs the water with me, as if you were reading one of Shakeſpeare's plays, and conclude us now ſafely arrived in London, whence I am now writing to you.

After my brother had waited on the chancellor, and ſhewn him Mrs. Colville's [36] letters, he moſt readily gave his conſent to Delia's marriage, and ſaid if he were a bachelor, he ſhould be very proud of ſuch an help-mate, as the fair lady,—meaning me, Louiſa,—who had acted with ſo much prudence in the conduct of this ex⯑traordinary affair.

As both the parties were very well in⯑clined to enter into the holy ſtate of ma⯑trimony, they readily diſpenſed with the parade of a public wedding; and on Sa⯑turday laſt, my brother had the happineſs of receiving his well-beloved wife, from the hands of my beloved huſband, that is to be—For we ſhall take more ſtate and form upon us than they have done, I aſſure you.

Joy to my Louiſa!—The happy pair ſet out next day for Cleveland-hall, whi⯑ther [37] I ſhall follow them in a very few days.—Mary Granville and Lord Hume are to accompany me; and the moment I know my Louiſa's heart is at peace, I ſhall give Lord Hume a legal claim to mine, but not till then; for indeed, my ſiſter, I cannot taſte of joy, while you are wretched!

Lord Hume and my brother have complained much of the dejection of my ſpirits ſince we came from France;—I have attributed the change in me to that of the climate; but I think they don't acquieſce in that opinion, and ſuſpect a hidden cauſe of ſorrow, though they know not from whence it can ariſe—O, be happy, my Louiſa! and make me ſo!

Lord Hume's chariot ſtops at the door—A lawyer with him—How tremen⯑dous! [38] and not a creature with me!—Run, Robert, for Miſs Granville—Horrid parchments!—Shocking deeds!—My hand trembles—I can never ſign them—How did you!

LETTER LX.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

IF you are not abſolutely dwindled in⯑to a ſtate of vegetation, and fixed like a plant to one peculiar ſpot, I conjure you, by all the powers of friendſhip, my dear Lucan, to ſet out on the receipt of this, to be witneſs to that happineſs, which I confeſs beyond either my expec⯑tation [39] or deſerts, and which I can hardly believe to be real.

Liſten—Fanny Cleveland's lovely hand,—what a contraſt to her cheek! then bluſhing like the roſy morn, has ſigned our marriage articles, and I now only wait for that ſhort paſſport to hap⯑pineſs, which is contained in a few myſti⯑cal words, that, I ſuppoſe, are to hold us inchanted for the reſt of our lives.

For my own part, I acknowledge the ſpell already.—Could all the arguments of philoſophy ever have convinced me, without my own experience, that the ſlighteſt touch of Cleveland's hand, ſhould communicate a richer tranſport to my ſoul, than the cloſeſt embrace of Marga⯑rita.—In one caſe I feel myſelf a man, in the other, but a brute. In the firſt inſtance, I [40] am ſenſible of the union of mind and bo⯑dy; in the ſecond, my ſenſations were to⯑tally devoid of all ſentiment whatever.—Is not this charming enthuſiaſm?—I miſtook my tranſports, before—Took giddineſs for frolic, extravagance for ſpi⯑rit, folly for fondneſs, and appetite for paſſion.

On my honour, Lucan! my Fanny is ten thouſand times more lovely than when I left England.—In ſhort, I did not know her then, or I could never have been ſo infatuated as I was, to a creature ſo every way her inferior—But come, my friend, come, I again intreat you, and ſee this earthly paragon.

You ſay you are at an immenſe diſtance from the object of your affection—What ſignifies then a thouſand miles, more or [41] leſs, ſince you are deprived of the plea⯑ſure of ſeeing her?—I begin to think ſhe muſt be ſome unnatural, manufactured prude.—Don't be angry, Lucan, I have no reaſon to abuſe her, but on your ac⯑count,—Not even to permit your writ⯑ing to her!—Perhaps your quitting the kingdom where ſhe is, may bring her to better temper.—I am but a bad judge in theſe romantic matters, though I am certain that no man living is at this mo⯑ment more ſincerely in love than I am.

Sir George Cleveland was married laſt week, and I had the honour of giving the bride away.—She is a charming girl, I confeſs, but nothing to be compared to my Cleveland.—But they have beauty enough between them to ſtock a ſeraglio.

[42]I do moſt ſincerely wiſh to have you at my wedding, Lucan; but I ſhall not wait an hour for your coming; nor ſhould I think of your being preſent at the cere⯑mony, but that my Fanny has declared ſhe will not beſtow her hand, without the concurrence of a ſiſter who lives in Ire⯑land, a Lady Barton.—Do you know her, Lucan? ſhe was a charming girl before ſhe married, though not quite as hand⯑ſome as my Fanny.

You ſee then you have no time to loſe; for I muſt not ſuppoſe that her Ladyſhip, however matronly ſhe may have become ſince her marriage, can poſſibly object now to a connection which ſhe ſeemed once to encourage and approve. Give the reins to your horſes, and away, my friend, to

P.S. If you ſhould not find me in London, poſt off to Cleveland-hall.—I long to introduce you to Sir George and his lady, but more particularly to my dear Fanny.

LETTER LXI.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

DO not, I conjure you, my dear Louiſa, add to my miſery, by de⯑laying your own happineſs—The firſt has already reached its zenith,—O may the latter do ſo too!

I will not enter into any further ex⯑planation, nor mention a ſingle particu⯑lar relative to myſelf, till I know that you are married. If, therefore, you are anxious about the moſt intereſting events [43] of my life, I ſhall ſhortly receive a let⯑ter, from Lady Hume, which will then entitle her to a confidence now with-held from my beloved Fanny Cleveland, by her

LETTER LXII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

I HAVE heſitated, for ſome time, dear Louiſa, whether, in your preſent de⯑jected ſtate of mind, I ſhould venture to communicate to you a ſtory of much woe, which was contained in the papers of the unhappy young woman who died at Amiens.

[45]The diverting of any current muſt ne⯑ceſſarily abate its force, and whatever can awaken our ſenſibility for the misfor⯑tunes of others, muſt, at leaſt for the time, render us inſenſible to our own.

I believe too, that compariſon weighs much in our eſtimation of good and evil; and though a generous heart, even la⯑bouring under the ſevereſt calamities, may be incapable of forming a wiſh for relief, at the expence of another's hap⯑pineſs, yet I am perſuaded, that there is a ſort of alleviation to be found, in re⯑flecting that there are, or rather, that there have been, others much more wretched than ourſelves.

Upon this principle then I ſhall ſend you this melancholy ſtory, which I ſhould never have been miſtreſs of, had [46] the papers in which it was contained, though unſealed, been properly addreſſ⯑ed; but as they were only ſuperſcribed with initials, I was obliged to look in⯑to the contents, in order to forward them to the perſon for whom they were deſigned; and I hope my tak⯑ing a copy of them, for you, and you on⯑ly, will not be conſidered as a breach of truſt, either to the living, or the dead.

As ſoon as my brother and ſiſter went out of town, which was the firſt moment I had leiſure, I opened the little trunk which Mrs. Colville's laſt meſſenger brought to St. Omer's, and which may properly enough be called the lachrymal urn, of the unfortunate Maria; for in it was the tearful narrative of a life of ſor⯑rows, depoſited; and though ſhe is now [47] removed from a poſſibility of feeling them, they ſtill retain the magnetic power of living grief, and muſt attract the ſigh of pity from every tender, every feeling heart.

The STORY of MARIA.

To Mr. EDWARD S—.

Will the moſt tender and affectionate of brothers, with patience, condeſcend to read the ſad confeſſion of a dying wretch, who owns herſelf unworthy of his kindneſs,—Yet, trembling on the verge of life, ſolicits to obtain his pardon and pity!—Alas! my Edward, they will never reach me!—No friendly voice can ever ſooth my ear, or ſpeak peace to my perturbed heart! for ſoon the motion of its pulſe ſhall ceaſe, and this poor ſhat⯑tered frame return to duſt.—Drop then [48] one fond forgiving tear upon theſe pa⯑ges:—'Tis all I now can aſk, or you, e'er long, can grant.

The ſtory of my miſconduct and miſ⯑fortunes, perhaps, will reach you, before this letter.—How does my heart now bleed for that indignant grief your gene⯑rous mind muſt feel, for a beloved ſiſ⯑ter's infamy!

I do not mean to extenuate my faults;—Alas! they will not bear extenuation!—And, conſcious as I am of my ap⯑proach to that tribunal, before which we muſt all e'er long appear, deceit or falſ⯑hood would be as weak as wicked.—Then hear the faithful ſtory of my heart, and judge me as one erring mortal ſhould another.

[49]In leſs than a year after you ſailed for Bengal, our dear father died—What an irreparable loſs was mine!—I need not tell you that as he was in the church, we were at once deprived of the principal part of his fortune, with his life, and that there did not remain above an hundred pounds a year, being a life annuity, pur⯑chaſed for my mother with her own por⯑tion, to ſupport her and me.

The altered countenances and behavi⯑our of thoſe we had formerly called friends, at Glouceſter, made my mother determine on quitting a place where, from her want of knowing the world, ſhe con⯑ſidered herſelf as particularly ill treated.—She was then firſt taught, that proſperity is the cement of modern friendſhip; and when that fails, the tottering ſtructure ſinks into decay.

[50]She condeſcended to conſult me upon our future ſcheme of life; though, as I was not then fifteen, I was but ill quali⯑fied for an adviſer; however, I had heard that Bath was a cheap place of reſidence, for thoſe who ſettle them⯑ſelves as inhabitants there; and as I alſo believed it to be an agreeable lively ſcene, I had often wiſhed to go thither, during my father's life; and therefore uſed all my little rhetoric with my mo⯑ther, to fix us there.

I prevailed; and the firſt year we ſpent in it, was by many degrees the happieſt of my life.—We lived in a ſmall houſe, near the Croſs-bath, with the greateſt oeconomy.—My mother did not go much into public, but we met with many for⯑mer acquaintances, who were ſo obliging [51] to matronize me to the rooms, play⯑houſe, and walks, as often as it was thought proper to let me appear abroad.

You cannot, my Edward, have forgot⯑ten my face and perſon, and may ſuppoſe that I was not without admirers, in the midſt of ſo many gay flutterers as abound at Bath.—There are, I believe, fewer ſe⯑rious engagements made there, than at any place where ſuch a concourſe of young people continually meet.—Whe⯑ther this is owing to the perpetual diſſi⯑pation they live in, or to the conſtant ro⯑tation of new faces that appear there dai⯑ly, is not to me material.—My heart, alas! was but too ſuſceptible of a tender impreſſion; and Captain L—, ſon to Sir Richard L—, firſt inſpired my art⯑leſs boſom with love.

[52]During the firſt three months of our acquaintance, we ſaw each other every day; nor did the idea of parting, or any other painful thought, obtrude upon our minds, to interrupt the pleaſing delirium of our mutual fondneſs.

Our happineſs was then moſt certainly too great to laſt.—A letter from Sir Richard L— to his ſon, acquainting him that he was promoted to the rank of Captain, in a regiment which was then ſta⯑tioned in Ireland, with a peremptory command to ſet out thither immediately, was the firſt, and we then thought the ſe⯑vereſt ſhock, that fate could inflict on us.

Though my mother was extremely in⯑dulgent to me, yet, from a delicacy natu⯑ral to young minds, I had never ven⯑tured [53] to acquaint her with my attachment to Captain L—. To this ſmall, but fatal error, I, perhaps, owe moſt of the ſubſequent miſeries of my life.

The moſt intimate acquaintance I then had, was a young married lady, about three and twenty, who ſeemed to have the greateſt friendſhip for my lover, and tenderneſs for me, imaginable—Her name is —, but I will not expoſe her, for the ſake of a reſpectable family to whom ſhe is allied—though ſhe has brought infamy and ſorrows upon me and mine.

I will call her Matilda—To her then I diſcloſed the anguiſh of my heart, at the ſad thought of parting with my lover, and wept upon her boſom—She ſeemed [54] to conſider my diſtreſs as trifling:—Told me I had too much ſenſibility to be hap⯑py, and adviſed me to conquer it;—then added, laughing, theſe firſt paſſions are always troubleſome, but you will not be ſo much affected at parting with your next lover. I was offended and diſguſt⯑ed at her ſpeech—The very idea had profligacy in it—She quickly perceived my reſentment, and had addreſs enough to change her ſtile, and ſoothe me into the moſt perfect confidence.

During the ſhort time that Captain L— remained at Bath, after his father's ſummons, we three were inſeparable.—He would have married me, at that in⯑terval; but, as he was not of age, being then but juſt turned of twenty, he could get no clergyman to perform the cere⯑mony [55] for us.—At length the fatal hour of ſeparation arrived—Happineſs and he were one, in my eſtimation—They fled, alas! together.

From his letters I received the ſole conſolation that could alleviate the pangs of abſence.—They were frequent and tender; yet I thought latterly, that I ſometimes diſcovered a little tendency towards jealouſy in them; but, uncon⯑ſcious as I was of having given the ſlighteſt ground for ſuſpicion, by my conduct, I thought it beneath me to en⯑ter into a particular defence againſt a ge⯑neral charge; and therefore ſuffered eve⯑ry hint upon this ſubject to paſs unno⯑ticed.

We had lived now above a year at Bath, and my mother began to find her⯑ſelf [56] extremely ſtraitened in her circum⯑ſtances—You had it not then in your power, my dear and generous Edward, to relieve her diſtreſs; and I am certain that one of the ſevereſt, which ſhe herſelf felt, was her not being able to aſſiſt you, in the firſt dawnings of your then infant fortunes.

My mother, though paſt the prime of life, was ſtill handſome; and, at ſuch a criſis, dreſs is of much more conſequence to a woman, than at an earlier aera; ſhe had been uſed to elegance and affluence, yet ſhe chearfully reſigned them all, and continued to wear deep mourning, in or⯑der to ornament me with the remains of her former paraphernalia, and every little addition that ſhe could make to it.

[57]Matilda uſed to take me with her fre⯑quently to the rooms, and generally in⯑vited me to private parties, at her own apartments;—ſometimes with my mo⯑ther, but oftener without.—She al⯑ways played high, and ſeemed ſolicitous to poſſeſs me with the ſame paſſion.—I reſiſted the temptation, for ſome time, on account of the danger and indecorum of ſuch a courſe of life.—To which ſhe replied, that as cards were now become the bon ton of all civilized nations, the latter of my objections was ſufficiently obviated; and that, in order to guard againſt the former, the earlier I began to practiſe, the better.—For, as I ſhould ſoon be a perſon of rank and fortune, by the death of Sir Richard L—, I could not think of living like a houſewife, in ſuch an improved and en⯑lightened [58] age, as the preſent; and that, as high play had now became the gene⯑ral amuſement and occupation of all people intitled to aſſociate in polite life, the ſooner I was initiated into the arts and ſciences of gaming, the ſafer it would be for my huſband's fortune, or my own.

She would ſometimes make me hold her cards, while ſhe ſat by, and inſtruct⯑ed me how to play them; then ſhe would make me join in the ſtake, and at laſt led me in to adventure for myſelf, on her promiſe to lend me what money I might loſe, till I ſhould be in a condition of repaying her.

I am convinced that there is but one ſtep eaſy to avoid, in vice, and that is the firſt.—The fear and diſguſt with which I [59] had engaged at play, at the begin⯑ning, wore off by degrees; and habit had ſeduced my mind into ſuch a paſſion for cards, in a ſhort time, that I regret⯑ted the Sundays that my mother con⯑fined me at home, after the church ſervice was over, to read proper diſcourſes, and liſten to her moſt excellent inſtructions.

Mr. W—, an elderly gentleman of fortune, uſed generally to be of our par⯑ties.—He ſeemed to diſtinguiſh me, in a particular manner, and uſed to favour me at play; which, as ſoon as I diſcover⯑ed, I immediately reſented, and declared I would lay down my cards, if he ſhould ever again attempt to pay me the leaſt compliment of the kind, to the diſad⯑vantage, either of himſelf, or any of the reſt of the company.—This pro⯑per [60] reproof of mine obliged him to re⯑ſtrain his too indelicate galantry towards me for the future.

My card-accompt preſerved itſelf pret⯑ty even for ſome time, without giving me occaſion to treſpaſs on the credit which my friend Matilda had made me ſo voluntary a proffer of; till one night that I happened to be led in by her, to engage at loo, which was a game I had never played at before, and knew ſo lit⯑tle of, as not to be aware how deeply I might be involved, upon a turn of luck againſt me.—The ſtakes were not high, but, as the ſorfeits were unlimited, I found myſelf indebted to Mr. W—, in the ſum of thirty guineas, when the party broke up.

I applied to my friend for the money, but ſhe put me off at that time, by ſay⯑ing [61] that I ſhould try my fortune again, the next evening, at her apartments; and that ſhe would then put whatever bal⯑lance ſhould appear againſt me on a pro⯑per footing for payment.—I was tempted to venture on a ſecond eſſay at the ſame game, and concluded the night with doubling the debt to the ſame perſon. I then claimed Matilda's promiſe; but ſhe anſwered me with great coldneſs, and a conſtrained ſmile, that my creditor was a gentleman of large fortune, and, as he had made her a confidant of his partiali⯑ty in my favour, ſhe ſhould think it a breach of honour to take me out of his hands, by releaſing me from ſo trifling an obligation as this was.

The ſurpriſe and alarm I felt upon this occaſion is not to be expreſſed—It was [62] too ſurely a preſage of all my future mi⯑ſeries!—I began to find that I had been moſt treacherouſly dealt by—I retired to my chamber, without ſpeaking even to my mother, and paſſed the night in walking about diſtractedly, and crying out, How ſhall I be ever able to diſcharge this dangerous debt! or how render a juſtifiable account of my conduct, either to my mother, to the world, but more eſpecially to my dear Captain L—!

I confined myſelf at home for ſeve⯑ral days after this adventure, during which time Matilda came often to ſolicit my returning into the world again, and affected to ridicule my prudery, in being rendered ſo unea⯑ſy about ſo inſignificant a circum⯑ſtance, which, ſhe aſſured me was [63] but one of the common events of life. However, I continued reſolute in keep⯑ing myſelf retired, and remained incon⯑ſolable, on this unhappy incident, till I received a letter from Captain L—, which I opened with tranſport, hoping it would calm my mind, and reſtore my peace again.—Alas! what an aggrava⯑tion to my misfortune and diſtreſs, did I meet with there!

He told me that his regiment was or⯑dered to America, and that he ſhould embark with it in leſs than ten days, which time was elapſed at the moment I received his letter.—He added, that my conduct had convinced him, that, if he ſhould never return to England, I would be eaſily conſoled for his loſs, though he ſhould never ceaſe to regret mine—Wiſh⯑ed [64] me every happineſs that a life of diſ⯑ſipation could yield, and bad me fare⯑well—For ever!

My mind already diſturbed and agi⯑tated, this cruel letter almoſt unhinged my reaſon, and ſunk me into the moſt pitiable ſtate of dejection.—My mother, who was ignorant of the real cauſe of my diſturbance, apprehended ſome heavy diſorder to be falling upon me, and at⯑tended me night and day, with the fond⯑eſt anxiety imaginable.

For ſome time I continued in a ſtate of the profoundeſt melancholy;—at length the voice of nature waked my reaſon.—The tears and ſighs of a fond parent, by ſympathetic force attracted mine, and called forth all my gratitude—I ſtrove to [65] hide my anguiſh, even in ſmiles, but it ſtill preyed upon my tortured heart.

The ſhame of having carried on a clandeſtine correſpondence, with a lover, who had now ſo plainly caſt me off, pre⯑vented my revealing to my mother any circumſtance of a connection, which I then conſidered as diſgraceful to me.—But I flew directly to Matilda, who had been my only confidant in this ſecret, and communicated the letter to her.—She re⯑ceived me coldly, as ſhe had done before, on my former difficulty—told me that this too was but another of the common events of life—That the moſt conſtant lovers were not to be conſidered more than perennials; but that Bath paſſions never laſted, beyond the ſeaſon—that [66] they were inſpired by the heat of the wa⯑ters, and cooled as they did.

What makes girls ſo woe-begone, ſaid ſhe, upon ſuch diſappointments, is the overweaning conceit they are too apt to frame of their own conſequence; but they muſt abate conſiderably of their ro⯑mantic ſelf-ſufficience, before they will find themſelves in the ſtation where na⯑ture has deſigned them.—A toy, a rattle, which ten will play with, for one who will think of becoming a ſerious purchaſer.

Such maxims as theſe, whether true or falſe, were not likely to aſſuage my grief, and I returned home the moſt un⯑happy creature breathing.—I accuſed Captain L— of falſehood, of perjury, [67] a thouſand times, alas! in vain, did I vow to caſt him from my heart and memory for ever.—Pardon, thou dear departed ſhade, theſe and all other injuries I have unwittingly been the ſad occaſion of to you!

During my confinement, Mr. W— made the moſt conſtant and obliging inquiries about me, and in the moſt friendly manner offered my mother a houſe he had near the Hot-wells at Briſ⯑tol, with the uſe of his carriage, ſer⯑vants, &c.—As I continued in a very low and languid ſtate, even after my re⯑covery, change of air was judged neceſ⯑ſary for me, particularly as the phyſi⯑cian who attended me, apprehended my falling into a conſumption.

[68]I had however, a very ſtrong objec⯑tion to accepting Mr. W—'s obliging offer, from an unwillingneſs to receiving farther favours from one, to whom I was already too much indebted.

But this difficulty was a good deal ob⯑viated, by his declaring that he was en⯑gaged on a party, for two months, to viſit Paris; and during that time, both his houſe and carriage muſt be entirely uſeleſs to him.

At my mother's intreaty, and not op⯑poſed by me, Matilda conſented to ac⯑company us; and I own I felt a gleam of joy, at removing from a place, where every object reminded me of my unhap⯑pineſs: I did not then reflect that I could not fly from myſelf, and that neither hap⯑pineſs or miſery are local.

[69]Mr. W— accompanied us to Briſ⯑tol, and put us into poſſeſſion of a very elegant houſe, in which he left four ſer⯑vants to attend us, at board wages—There was an ample ſupply of tea, wine, ſweet-meats, and every elegance, which he inſiſted on our uſing, as if they were our own, and took his leave, in the politeſt manner, earneſtly requeſting that he might find us there at his return.

The waters and the change of ſcene certainly conduced to the recovery of my health; but peace and chearfulneſs were both eſtranged from my ſad boſom, and the only moments I enjoyed, were thoſe in which I could prevail on Matilda to liſten to my griefs.—I ſoon diſcovered that ſhe grew weary of the painful office; ſhe was totally immerſed in gaiety, and [70] uſed oftener to rally, than ſoothe my af⯑fliction.

Under all the diſadvantages, which the gloomy veil of ſorrow had caſt ar⯑round me, a Yorkſhire baronet, Sir James D—, ſaw, and liked me; he immediately addreſſed himſelf to my mo⯑ther, and was by her moſt favourably received. She was overjoyed at the pro⯑ſpect, of what ſhe called my happineſs, and ſpoke to me of Sir James's propoſal with tranſport.

This was the ſecond outrage, if I may ſo call it, that my heart had ſuffered—I fell into an agony of grief, and before I could recollect myſelf, or ſhe prevent me, I vowed to heaven, in the moſt ſo⯑lemn manner, that I would never be Sir James's wife.

[71]Even at this moment, Edward, I be⯑hold the figure of my aſtoniſhed, my of⯑fended mother! She had however, ſo much reaſon at command, as not to urge my madneſs farther, but quitted the room, with a look of indignation, mingled with ſurpriſe and ſorrow.

In a few minutes I followed her into her chamber, and found her in tears; I could not bear them, Edward! I fell upon my knees before her, implored her pardon, and offered even to ſacrifice my⯑ſelf by marrying Sir James D—, ra⯑ther than render her wretched.

She anſwered with the utmoſt calm⯑neſs, I fear, Maria, it is out of your power to prevent my being ſo; you are unhappy, my child, and I muſt ſuffer [72] with you—I hoped—but it is over—For be aſſured that after the vow you have ſo raſhly made, no power on earth ſhould force me to conſent to my child's perjury. Sir James ſhall have his anſwer.

But let me now inform you of a ſecret I wiſhed to have concealed for ever from you—Penury and want ſurround us, and we ſhall ſoon be given up a prey to them—We muſt return to Bath, no more. I will mortgage our little income, to pay our debts; in ſome obſcure corner we muſt labour for our bread, help to ſup⯑port ourſelves in honeſt indigence, and ſtrive to humble our minds to our con⯑ditions.

I do not condemn you, my child—Af⯑fections are not to be forced—I flattered [73] myſelf that your youth and beauty might have obtained an advantageous match, which would have been a ſupport to me, and an eſtabliſhment to yourſelf. Sir James D—'s propoſal was beyond my hopes, but I do not wiſh to render you a victim for my ſake; nor ſhall this ſub⯑ject ever be mentioned more between us.

O, my brother! think what I ſuffered while my mother ſpoke—I would at that moment have died a thouſand deaths to have made her happy; yet even then I inwardly rejoiced at being relieved from my apprehenſions of marrying a man I could not love.

You may ſuppoſe I uttered all that gratitude could dictate, for my mother's kindneſs, and promiſed, for my future [74] life, to know no will but hers—Talked of contented poverty; preferred an hum⯑ble lot with peace of mind, to ſplendid miſery; and ſtrove in vain to combat with her ſorrows.

On this occaſion, I not only aſſumed, but felt a degree of chearfulneſs, to which my heart had long been a ſtranger. I triumphed over Captain L—'s unjuſt ſuſpicions; in the midſt of poverty, I re⯑jected an advantageous ſettlement, and deſpiſed a title which muſt be bought at the expence of love.

I expected Matilda would have ap⯑plauded my heroiſm, but was diſappoint⯑ed—She diſapproved my conduct, called me romantic and abſurd, condemned my mother's want of ſpirit, and ſaid that [75] had ſhe been in her place ſhe would have compelled me to marry Sir James D—, and made me happy in ſpite of my own folly.—

In about four days after this event, Mr W—, whom we had imagined to be in France, returned to Briſtol—As I was ſenſible of the higheſt gratitude to⯑wards him, I confeſs I felt a degree of pleaſure at his arrival, and received him with all the marks of regard due to a friend.

There was a vacant apartment in the houſe, which he aſked my mother's leave to occupy—ſhe certainly had not a right to refuſe, yet I could perceive that ſhe was vaſtly embarraſſed by the requeſt.—The next morning ſhe told me that ſhe [76] was determined to quit Briſtol, immedi⯑ately, though ſhe knew not where to bend her courſe, as ſhe did not think it proper to remain longer in Mr. W—'s houſe.

As this perſon was near fifty years of age, I had never conſidered him in any other light than as a father; however, the impropriety of living under his roof, any longer, ſtruck me as ſoon as it was mentioned—I told her I was ready to at⯑tend her, when and wherever ſhe pleaſ⯑ed.—She burſt into tears, and ſaid, ‘"Alas, my child, who will receive the friendleſs widow, and her helpleſs or⯑phan!"’

At that inſtant Mr. W—, who had overheard our diſcourſe, came into the [77] room, and taking my mother's hand, ſaid, ‘"Behold in me, Madam, a pro⯑tector, and a ſon, who will think him⯑ſelf happy in making you ſo."’

The firſt emotion of my heart, at this declaration, was gratitude—Modeſty alone reſtrained me from embracing Mr. W—; I cried out, in an extaſy, ‘"O Sir! you are too good, too generous! how ſhall we ever be able to make you an amends?"’

He inſtantly replied, ‘"It is in your power, Madam, to overpay all my ſer⯑vices; I aſk no more than that fair hand can give; but then your heart, as well as perſon muſt be mine; without the firſt, the latter would be worthleſs—I will not at this moment expect your an⯑ſwer, you are fully appriſed of your [78] mother's ſentiments and ſituation, and you alone can tell whether you chuſe or not to dry her tears."’

He quitted the room directly, but he might have remained there, and talked for an hour, without hazarding any in⯑terruption from me; I was abſolutely petrified with horror and ſurpriſe—Be⯑fore I could recover myſelf, my mother, with her eyes ſtill ſtreaming, threw her⯑ſelf on her knees before me, and preſſing my hand to her heart, ſaid, ‘"I do not aſk you, my beloved child, to ſacri⯑fice yourſelf for me—but, O conſider, my Maria! to what inſults and misfor⯑tunes your innocence and youth muſt be expoſed, when you ſhall loſe even the poor ſupport you have in me—I know I cannot long endure diſtreſs, [79] my death muſt leave you a prey to every ill, to every danger. You will then reflect, with grief and ſhame, on that falſe delicacy that actuates you now, and vainly lament the loſs of a fond parent, whom you have ſuffered to ſink with ſorrow to the grave."’

I could bear no more—I fell on my knees before her, I claſped her in my arms, and bathed her boſom with my flowing tears, while I cried out, ‘"O take me, ſacrifice me, do what you will with me, I will not be a parricide! But give me time to conquer this poor heart, and tear my L—'s much loved image from my breaſt."’

At the name of L— my mother ſtart⯑ed up, and raiſed me with her; then [80] looking at me with unutterable anguiſh, ſaid it muſt not be, if your heart feels a paſſion for another object, I will much ſooner die than make you wretched.—But who is Mr. L—, and how has he deſerved Maria's love?—Shame kept me ſilent; but when my mother repeated her queſtion, I replied, do not preſs me far⯑ther, Madam; Matilda can inform you both of my weakneſs and misfortune.

As I wiſhed to retire upon the inſtant, I opened a door that led by a few ſteps into the garden,—In my confuſion I miſſ⯑ed my footing, and fell from the top to the bottom.—My mother flew to my aſſiſtance, but could not raiſe me; ſhe called for help, and when Matilda and Mr. W—, who were in the garden, lift⯑ed me from the ground, I could not [81] ſtand.—I was carried into the houſe, and a ſurgeon ſent for, who acquainted them that I had diſlocated my right ancle.

In the midſt of the pain I ſuffered, even during the action of ſetting my an⯑cle, I ſecretly rejoiced in this accident, as it muſt, at leaſt for ſome days, retard an event to me more horrible than death.—My heart was overflowing ſtill with fondneſs for the faithleſs L—, and I was ſenſible of too much reſpect for Mr. W—, to love him.

The ſecond day of my confinement, my mother told me that Matilda had in⯑formed her of every particular relative to the attachment between Captain L— and me; that tho' ſhe conſidered it as a childiſh and romantic affair on my ſide, [82] and a mere matter of galantry on his; yet her tenderneſs for me, had made her conſent to Matilda's writing to him, and acquainting him with every particular of my preſent ſituation; and if, in anſwer to that letter, he ſhould declare a ſerious and honourable paſſion for me, ſhe ſo⯑lemnly promiſed never to oppoſe my in⯑clination, but chearfully wait his return, and yield her conſent to our union, but if, on the contrary—

Stop there, my deareſt mother, I ex⯑claimed, you have outgone my wiſhes; for if Captain L— ſhould heſitate a moment to receive me as his wife, not only [...]y hand, but my heart ſhall then be free; and gratitude to the beſt of pa⯑rents ſhall enable me to beſtow them, unreluctantly, on any perſon whom her prudence ſhall ſelect.

[83]My mother embraced me, and bathed my cheeks with tears of fondneſs. At that moment I thought myſelf the happieſt of mortals.—Matilda joined us, and read the letter ſhe had written to Captain L—. I did not think that it ſuf⯑ficiently deſcribed either my affection or my diſtreſs; but as my mother approved of it, I did not preſume to make any ob⯑jection, but only engaged her promiſe to add a defence of my conduct, from the miſapprehenſions or miſrepreſenta⯑tations he ſeemed to have conceived or received before, with regard to it.

You know, my Edward, that my mother was integrity itſelf; ſhe could not therefore bear to be guilty of the ſmalleſt deceit; and though Mr. W— had not preſſed for any anſwer to his pro⯑poſal, [84] on account of the accident that had happened to me, ſhe reſolved to tell him that there was a friend in America, without whoſe conſent I was determined never to marry; that this perſon had been written to, and that he ſhould be in⯑formed of his anſwer, the moment it arrived.

Mr. W— received this information with a very ill grace, but acquieſced ſo far as to ſay, that he could have no doubt of this unheard of guardian's conſent to ſuch an offer as his; and as an anſwer might arrive before I was perfectly re⯑ſtored to my health, there was no great harm in aſking it; but he did not ſup⯑poſe that we ſhould be weak enough to refuſe his alliance, even though this par⯑ticular friend might not approve of it.

[85]My mother, though extremely diſ⯑guſted at the roughneſs of his reply, concealed the coarſeneſs of his expreſ⯑ſion from me, and I conſidered myſelf extremely obliged to him for not per⯑ſecuting me any further, for the preſent, with his ungracious and unwelcome paſſion.

Matilda was obliged to return to her houſe at Bath; and as my mother ſpent moſt of her time in my chamber, and that Mr. W— was not permitted to make long viſits to me, on pretence of the neceſſity of my being kept quiet, he grew weary of paſſing his domeſtic hours alone, and to my very great joy, ſet out for London.

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[86]I have written ſo long, my dear Lou⯑iſa, that I am ſcarce able to hold the pen, but I could not poſſibly ſtop in this intereſting narrative, ſuch I hope you will think it, till I came to what may properly be called a reſting place—For though we do not leave Maria happy, her hopes and fears are held in equi⯑poiſe, and this perhaps may not be one of the leaſt eligible ſituations in human life.

Since I wrote to you I have had a let⯑ter from Mrs. Walter, my apprehen⯑ſions for her life are increaſed by it; they more than preponderate againſt my hopes, my ſpirits ſink with them—But I am in a gloomy mood, at preſent; I will try to ſhake it off; Lord Hume will aſſiſt me, I hear him coming up ſtairs—Till to-morrow, farewell, my loved Louiſa.

LETTER LXIII.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

I Shall proceed in my taſk of copying, like a clerk in an office, without at⯑tending to any thing but the draft before me, and indeed, my Louiſa, I find it ſufficiently intereſting to engroſs all my attention.—If it can exclude thoſe pleaſ⯑ing ſentiments which my preſent hap⯑pineſs ought, and does inſpire, may I not reaſonably hope that it will be able to ſuſpend, at leaſt during the time of reading it, that heavy weight which ſeems to preſs upon my ſiſters heart? Yes, I am perſuaded that it may, and un⯑der this belief, I reaſſume the pen.

[88] The STORY of MARIA, continued.

In leſs than a month, I was able to walk, with a little help, and moſt earn⯑eſtly wiſhed to quit Mr. W—'s houſe; as I had reaſon to hope from the juſtifi⯑cation of my character, which Matilda aſ⯑ſured me ſhe had undertaken, that there would be an end of all connection be⯑tween us, the moment I ſhould receive a letter from Captain L—; and that an interview, on ſuch an occaſion, muſt be painful to us both.

I therefore preſſed my mother to try to borrow the money ſhe wanted, at Briſtol, and return to Bath.—She complied with my requeſt, and judged it neceſſary to take up a larger ſum, on her annuity, than ſhe at firſt intended, as either my marriage with Mr. W—, or my wait⯑ing Captain L—'s return to England, muſt be attended with expence.

[89]In ſhort, on ſuch terms as the poor borrow, and the rich lend, ſhe obtained two hundred pounds, which I then thought an immenſe ſum; but did not conſider that we owed more than half of it already, including my debt to Mr. W—

I am thus circumſtantial with you, my dear Edward, that you may be perfectly able to judge of the motives which im⯑pelled me to my ruin—O would to hea⯑ven, that I alone had been to ſuffer the ſo much dreaded ills of poverty! I would have braved them all; but a beloved, and tender parent, whoſe fondneſs to⯑wards me had involved her in diſtreſs! It was not to be born.

My mother wrote a very polite letter to Mr. W—, thanking him for all his [90] civilities, and acquainting him with our return to Bath, where he joined us in a few days—He brought ſome very hand⯑ſome jewels, and other preſents, from London, for me, which I abſolutely re⯑fuſed, and even felt my delicacy offended at his offering them, as it ſeemed to hint at a certainty of my becoming his wife.

As the time approached when we might expect an anſwer from Captain L—, I counted the hours, and rejoi⯑ced in their flight; the anxiety of ſuſ⯑pence was viſible in my looks and words; I ſtarted at every ſound, and minutely inquired the buſineſs of every perſon who rapped at the door. At length the fatal moment arrived that was to change a ſtate of fond hope into the utmoſt deſpair.

[91]Matilda came to our houſe one morn⯑ing, and requeſted to ſee my mother alone; the gloom which ſat on her brow, announced the tidings which ſhe brought, and though ſcarce able to utter a ſyllable, I cried out, ‘"I will not leave the room, I know the worſt already, he is dead!"’ She anſwered coldly, no! and reached a letter to me—the contents whereof were as follows—

My faculties were all ſuſpended, for ſeveral minutes, after reading this inſult⯑ing letter—

I felt like one that had been ſtunned by a ſevere ſtroke—At length recovering [93] myſelf, I flung the hated paper from me, and taking my mother's hand, ſaid, with an effort of calmneſs, ‘"How poor, Madam, is the ſacrifice that I can now make to duty—A rejected hand, and heart! but diſpoſe of them as you pleaſe, and do it quickly, while my reaſon holds."’

My mother was more alarmed at my behaviour than ſhe would have been had I fallen into a paſſion, either of grief or rage—She wept abundantly, for my diſtreſs, and expreſſed every ſentiment of parental fondneſs—her kindneſs would have transformed me to a Niobe at any other time, but the ſorrow that had then taken poſſeſſion of my heart, was of too powerful a nature to be ſoftened by her tears, or diſſipated by my own—'Twas grief unutterable.

[94]My mother kindly indulged me, for ſeveral days, by allowing me to keep my chamber, on pretence of a ſore throat—this prevented my ſeeing Mr. W—, and gave me time to reflect upon my own ſituation.—I conſidered myſelf as an offer⯑ing that was to be ſacrificed, and deter⯑mined to ſupport the rôle that fate had allotted me, with becoming fortitude.

Mr. W— expreſſed the utmoſt im⯑patience for our marriage, and in about ſix weeks after the receipt of Captain L—'s letter, I was led to the altar, and became the wretched wife of Mr. W—.

In vain did I endeavour to aſſume an air of chearfulneſs, with a breaking heart; unuſed to deceit or artifice, the veil [95] which I put on could not conceal the gloomy tints which ſorrow had engraven upon my mind. I was hourly reproached by my huſband with ill-temper and in⯑gratitude, and my mother was accuſed of having drawn him into a match, ſo much againſt his intereſt, and ſo little conducive to his happineſs.

For her dear ſake, I exerted my utmoſt powers to pleaſe, but they ſel⯑dom met with ſucceſs; and I, with un⯑ſpeakable grief, now ſaw that ſhe was rendered infinitely more wretched by my marriage, than ſhe could have been in any other ſituation.

Mr. W—'s eſtate was in Devon⯑ſhire; he had an old family ſeat there, where I moſt earneſtly wiſhed to ſpend [96] my days in ſolitude and peace; but as he often told me, that he did not think we ſhould make a pleaſant tête-a-tête together there, he diſpoſed of his houſe at Briſtol, and hired one at Bath, from which he frequently made excurſions to London, or elſe-where, for a month or ſix weeks at a time.

During his abſence, I ſeldom ſtirred abroad, unleſs to church, to pay ſome viſit of ceremony, or to paſs an hour, or perhaps an evening, with Matilda.

From the moment I was married I had never mentioned the name of Cap⯑tain L— to my mother, Matilda, or any other perſon—This was a ſacrifice I thought due to my huſband; I would have done more, had it been in my [97] power, and baniſhed him for ever from my thoughts.

One evening, while Mr. W— was away, I was prevailed upon, by Matilda and my mother, to go to the Rooms, on a ball-night—I found my ſpirits ſtrongly affected with a ſcene that reminded me of happier days; and became ſo much abſorbed in my own reflections, that I ſcarce heard the ſound of the muſic, or obſerved the motion of the dancers, though Matilda was among then.

I was ſitting on one of the benches, oppoſite the door of the room, and had continued a conſiderable time in my re⯑verie, when my eyes were accidentally caught by the figure of a perſon, who was ſpeaking to a lady that ſat juſt be⯑fore [98] me—My mind heſitated, but my heart admitted not a doubt that it was Captain L—

Had I ever ſcreamed out in my life, I ſhould have done ſo then—So unex⯑pected a view had the ſame effect on me that is generally produced by thunder and lightning; it dimmed my ſight, and gave me ſuch a ſickneſs in my ſtomach that I could not long ſupport; a ſudden chilneſs ſucceeded this emotion, and my head reclined inſenſibly on the ſhoulder of the lady who ſat next to me.

What paſſed while I remained in that ſtate, I know not, but when my ſenſes returned, I found myſelf at home, my mother weeping by me, and Mr. W— ſtorming about the room like a mad⯑man [99] —not at my illneſs, but at the cauſe he imputed it to—for he declared, be⯑fore the ſurgeon who had juſt then bled me, that he had detected me in an in⯑trigue; and that on his ſudden and unex⯑pected appearance, in the Rooms, at the moment I was conferring with my ga⯑lant, the various paſſions of love, hatred, and fear, had overpowered my ſpirits, and occaſioned my fainting.

What an infatuated diſtemper is jea⯑louſy! it realiſes chimeras, and draws concluſions, without premiſes—I was holding no conference with Captain L— he was only ſpeaking to a perſon who ſat before me, nor did I ſee my huſband, till I opened my eyes in my own chamber. However I ſuffered him to pour forth his whole ſtock of cauſeleſs abuſe with⯑out [100] the leaſt interruption; till at length, not meeting with reſiſtance, his rage was exhauſted, and the ſurgeon and he retired together.

I was put into bed, and determined, as ſoon as I was left alone, to tear the bandage off my arm, and ſuffer myſelf to bleed to death; but before I could put my reſolution in practice, a thou⯑ſand reaſons preſſed forward to reſtrain my trembling hand—What had I done to merit death? Would not the deſperate deed confirm the ſlander of my tyrant's tongue? And could I leave my mother at once oppreſſed with her own grief, and my infamy!

Perhaps the love of life pleaded, though ſilently, even ſtronger than theſe [101] motives, and with-held me from my firſt attempt towards guilt—Yet, O for⯑give me, Edward, that I now lament I did not perpetrate the fatal deed! I might have hoped for pardon of my firſt crime, but can accumulated ſins find mercy! Yet if contrition may avail a wretch, I ſtill will dare to hope.

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Here, my Louiſa, I muſt again break off my melancholy narrative, as I have been ſo much broken in upon, all day, by company, that I find it impoſſible to conclude it by this poſt; but as the mails to Ireland are ſometimes delayed by contrary winds, for ſeveral days, nay weeks, as I am told, you may poſſibly receive the whole ſtory at once—I will [102] not therefore create a further interrup⯑tion by talking on any other ſubject, but conclude as uſual,

LETTER LXVI.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

ONCE more, my ſiſter, I return to the ſad taſk of relating Maria's woes; I have not ventured to make any comment on her ſtory, nor do I mean to attempt it: my Louiſa can reaſon far better than I, and deduce effects from their cauſes.

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[103]The agitation of my ſpirits had redu⯑ced my mind to a ſtate of the loweſt weakneſs; I wept the whole night through, and when my mother eame to my bed-ſide, in the morning, I was ſcarce able to anſwer her tender inquiries after my health.

She told me that Mr. W— was per⯑fectly well acquainted with my former attachment to Captain L—, though he had never given the moſt diſtant hint of it before—She ſuſpected Matilda for having ſupplied him with this infor⯑mation—That by ſome chance he had heard of his being at Bath, and came poſt from London, directly; but when he arrived at his houſe, and heard that I was at the Rooms, he flew into the moſt violent paſſion, and ſaid every thing [104] againſt me that rage and miſtake could dictate.

My poor mother thought to qualify his fury, by aſſuring him that this was the firſt night I had gone into the Rooms, ſince his abſence—Perhaps this might have confirmed his ſuſpicion, as it looked the more like an aſſignation. He hurried on his cloaths, flew immediately to the aſſembly, and happened unlucki⯑ly, it ſeems, juſt to enter the door as Captain L— had walked up to the place where I ſat.

He conſtrued every thing againſt me, both appearances and ſurmiſes—‘"Tri⯑fles light as air,"’ &c. In fine I was condemned, without further examin⯑ation, he declared his full determination [105] not to live with me any longer, and commanded me to ſet out immediately for his houſe in Devonſhire, where he would take care that I ſhould not ex⯑poſe myſelf, or diſhonour him, any more for the future

Surely never was reprieve more wel⯑come to a ſentenced wretch, than the latter part of this diſcourſe to me—I had languiſhed for ſolitude, before my huſ⯑band's error had rendered me infamous; and earneſtly wiſhed to fly from ſociety, before I had reaſon to apprehend that I ſhould be abandoned by the world—But in my preſent ſituation, both of mind and circumſtance, the idea of retirement, nay abſolute ſecluſion from the whole univerſe, except my mother, was doubly dear to my ſad heart.

[106]I ſtarted up with all the alacrity of health, and chearfulneſs, and cried, I am ready to obey Mr. W—; let us be gone this moment, do not delay, my deareſt mother, but let us fly for ever from this hated place, this ſcene of all my miſery!

She anſwered with a ſigh, ‘"Your huſband has refuſed to let me go with you, or be a witneſs of the treatment, which you are too likely to receive un⯑der his tyranny—I ſhall behold you, or your, miſeries no more, but they will prey for ever on my heart—for I have cauſed them all—Your filial duty, more than your own ambition, was the ſole motive which has rendered you a victim to this unequal match—I reſpected the opinions of the world, more than the [107] philoſophy of nature, and the ſin of the parent is now ſeverely viſited on the unoffending child!"’—We wept in each other's boſom.

The thought of being ſeparated from this virtuous, this tender parent, quite overpowered me, and I ſunk almoſt ſenſe⯑leſs upon my pillow—I knew that ſhe had not now even the means of ſubſiſt⯑ence, when torn from me, and I had not the leaſt reaſon to expect that Mr. W— would have generoſity or huma⯑nity ſufficient to relieve her diſtreſs, or aſſuage her grief.

During the few days I remained at Bath, after this event, I never ſtirred out of my bed-chamber, nor ſaw any crea⯑ture, except my dear mother and a maid [108] ſervant, who had been hired upon this occaſion, to watch, rather than attend me, and was appointed, as one may well ſuppoſe, to be a ſpy upon all my actions during my exilement in Devonſhire.

The only favourable circumſtance that I remember, in this unhappy ſituation, was that Mr. W—, for I will no longer ſtile him huſband, no more diſ⯑treſſed me with his loathſome preſence, or his foul reproaches, while I continued under his roof.

Matilda never once came near me all this while; but this was not the firſt inſtance that gave me reaſon to ſuſpect her of inſincerity and double dealing. I feared ſhe had been the ſole cauſe of the breach between Captain L— [109] and me, and this idea not only inſpired me with my former paſſion for him, but added a tenderneſs and compaſſion to my ſentiments, that rendered me infi⯑nitely more wretched than I was before: the brutality of Mr. W— ſtill fur⯑ther ſtrengthened my affections towards him, and the ſtate of divorce to which his violence had now reduced me, diſ⯑ſolved that ſolemn and honourable tie, which would otherwiſe have reſtrained the wanderings of my heart, and ever preſerved my duty faithful to him.

It would be impoſſible to deſcribe the pangs I felt, when the hour arrived in which I was to be torn from a fond mo⯑ther's converſe—ſhe was all the world to me, at leaſt ſhe was all that I then thought truly loved me, in the world— [110] We parted—and at her moſt earneſt en⯑treaty, I promiſed to write to Mr. W—, as ſoon as my mind ſhould be ſufficiently compoſed, and to enter into a proper vin⯑dication of my hitherto irreproachable conduct.

More dead than alive, my duenna and I arrived at my deſtined priſon—The houſe was old, large, and gloomy, ex⯑tremely out of repair; the furniture as antique as the building, which was ſitu⯑ated on a bleak and barren ſhore, op⯑poſite the Iriſh coaſt.—For the firſt ten or twelve days that I paſſed in this diſ⯑mal manſion, I was delighted with the ſtillneſs and ſolitude that ſurrounded me—the family was compoſed of only three maids, and an old gardener; and I have ſometimes paſſed a dozen hours [111] without hearing any ſound, except the roaring of the ſea, the croaking of the ravens, or howling of a maſtiff.

But when the agitation of my mind began a little to ſubſide, I grew ſenſible to the horrors of my ſituation, and would have preferred a dungeon, with any hu⯑man creature I could converſe with, to the liberty of ſtalking through an unin⯑habited range of chambers, in ſilence and ſolitude.

Monaſteries afford ſociety, and goals are not deſtitute of companions, which are a ſolace even in miſery; but here I was both wretched, and alone—I uſed often to conſider myſelf as a delin⯑quent entombed alive, ſecluded from the univerſe, and only conſcious of ex⯑iſtence from continued regret.

[112]I ſought for amuſement in books, and found none that were capable of afford⯑ing me any; the few volumes that I met with, were meant to inſpire devo⯑tion, but as they were written on fanatical principles, they were either ſo ridiculouſ⯑ly abſurd as to create diſguſt, or ſo ex⯑tremely rigid as to induce deſpair.

In conformity to my promiſe, I had written to Mr. W—, but received no anſwer, and, what was infinitely more grievous to me, I had not the happineſs of hearing once from my mother, or any one elſe, though eight months had lag⯑ged with leaden ſteps along, ſince the firſt day of my confinement.

When the weather permitted, I ſome⯑times walked by the ſea ſide, and have [113] frequently poured forth my ſorrows to the deaf, unpitying waves.—Often, my Edward, have I ſighed out your name, and ſent forth ardent prayers for your return, to comfort and ſupport our hap⯑leſs mother! Yet I will own that the loved ſound of L—, ſtill oftener paſſed my lips—Was this a crime? My affec⯑tions were thrown back upon my hands, and this methought gave me a right to transfer them.

In this ſituation I had remained in my exile for a tedious interval, when one fine evening, having indulged my reveries by the ſea ſide longer than uſual, the twilight coming on warned me of re⯑turning home, when I ſaw two men, at a ſmall diſtance, walking ſlowly behind me—a ſight ſo unuſual, joined to an ap⯑prehenſion [114] that they might have over⯑heard my ſoliloquy, put my ſpirits into a flutter; though from their pace and manner, they did not ſeem as if they in⯑tended to purſue me—I was ſeized with an univerſal tremor, my limbs could ſcarce ſupport me, and I could march but ſlowly on.

Before I was able to recover myſelf, and mend my ſpeed, one of the perſons came up to me, while the other retired, as if for fear of alarming me—I did not venture even to look at him, and began to mend my pace; but ſight was uſeleſs, when his well known voice uttered theſe words, ‘"O fear no injury from me, my dear deceived, unhappy, and ſtill ador⯑ed Maria!"’

[115]Surpriſe, terror, hope, fear, love, an⯑ger, grief, and joy—in ſhort every paſ⯑ſion of the human heart, hatred alone excepted, ruſhed through my mind, and totally deprived me of the power of ut⯑terance, while he—need I write his name?—taking advantage of my ſilence, pro⯑ceeded thus.

‘"I have long ſought this opportunity of ſpeaking to you; but my tender⯑neſs, my delicacy, and reſpect, for the only woman I ever did, or can love, have prevented my attempting it hi⯑therto, in any way that might reflect upon the character of Mr. W—'s wife, and by that means countenance and juſtify the calumny with which he has aſperſed your reputation—The lucky moment I have ſo long watched [116] for in private, has at length arrived, and if you ever loved me, my Maria, you will not now refuſe to hear me, for a moment, while I tell you that you have been moſt cruelly deceived."’

‘"I know, it Sir, I replied; you need not now inform me of your own per⯑fidy—to you alone I owe the miſeries I ſuffer, and Mr. W— himſelf is innocent, when compared with you—Then let me go this moment, for how⯑ever my duty to him may have been diſſolved, by his unkindneſs, that which I owe myſelf, forbids my ever holding converſe with you more."’

I attempted to break from him, but he held me faſt, and vowed moſt ſolemn⯑ly, that he would never quit me, unleſs [117] I promiſed to meet him, the next even⯑ing, on the beach, and allow him to exculpate himſelf of the infidelity I char⯑ged him with, and which he then denied with the ſtrongeſt aſſeverations; adding, that Matilda had betrayed us both, and was the vileſt being upon earth—Then promiſed, if I would but hear him once, he would never importune me more.

Almoſt diſtracted with contending paſſions, and terrified leſt his imprudence might involve me in farther difficulties, I promiſed to comply with his requeſt, provided he would leave me on the in⯑ſtant, as I heard the ſound of voices, which I knew to be the ſervants coming in queſt of me, as they muſt neceſſarily be alarmed at my unuſual ſt [...]y—He preſ⯑ſed my hand to his lips, and withdrew directly.

[118]With trembling ſteps I purſued my way homewards, and met my maid, with the gardener, coming in ſearch of me—The agitation of my mind, was too vi⯑ſible in my countenance to paſs un⯑noticed, and they naturally inquired if I had met with any fright or accident? I told them that the night had fallen upon me ſooner than I had expected it, that I had been then alarmed at the lonelineſs of my ſituation, and the haſte I was obliged to make homewards had hur⯑ried my ſpirits a little—I deſired a glaſs of water, and pretended to retire to reſt.

As ſoon as I was left alone, I began to reflect upon the extraordinarineſs of my adventure with Captain L— upon the ſtrand, and on my own weakneſs in having conſented again to meet a per⯑ſon [119] who had deſpiſed and rejected me with the utmoſt inſolence and inhumanity.

It was however, ſtill eaſier to account for my conduct, on this occaſion, than for his; paſſion, ſelf-love, and curioſity, all conſpired to render me deſirous of finding a clue to that labyrinth in which I was involved. But wherefore ſhould he ſeek to diſtreſs me farther? Or why purſue a wretch, who, already intirely ſe⯑cluded from the world, had neither inclination or power to diſturb his hap⯑pineſs, or oppoſe his views in any ſcheme of life?

The hints he had dropped about Ma⯑tilda, puzzled me ſtill farther—Was ſhe not the companion of my youth, the friend of my heart, the confidant of all [120] my joys and ſorrows—Some inſtances of her levity and unkindneſs I did indeed recollect—But could ſhe betray me! im⯑poſſible! Nature could not produce ſo vile a monſter!

Or grant there could be ſuch a fiend cloathed in a female form—Yet ſtill why unprovoked ſhould ſhe exert her malice againſt me, who never had offended her, without a view to her own intereſt or advantage? And how could ſhe be pro⯑fited by my deſtruction?

The more I conſidered what Captain L— had ſaid, on this laſt ſubject, the leſs credit it gained with me; and I per⯑ſuaded myſelf that he had only named Ma⯑tilda as a lure to my curioſity.—The night paſſed away inſenſibly, without my being able either to form any ra⯑tional [121] conjecture, with regard to the motives of his behaviour, or any reſo⯑lution relative to my own—A thouſand times I determined not to keep my ap⯑pointment with him, and as often chan⯑ged my reſolves.

It would be endleſs to repeat the num⯑leſs arguments for, and againſt this meet⯑ing, that my love and reaſon ſuggeſted, and ſet in oppoſition to each other.—At length my evil genius prevailed, and de⯑termined me, for once, to hear what Cap⯑tain L— could ſay.

About ſix o'clock in the morning, I lay down on my bed, in order to make my maid believe that I had ſlept in it as uſual; I had lain but a ſhort time, when I found my harraſſed mind inclined [122] to reſt, and I fell into a ſlumber; out of which I was ſoon awakened by a dream, which affected my mind as much as a viſion would have done my ſenſes.

I thought that my father ſtood before me, under the ſame ſickly and emaciated appearance, with which that true di⯑vine conferred his laſt bleſſing on me—I threw myſelf on my knees, and endea⯑voured to embrace his; but with his face averſe he flitted faſt away—I roſe and purſued him to the brink of a precipice, when he turned quick upon me, caught me up in his arms, and plunged with me directly into the gulph.

I awakened with a loud ſcream, thought I was ſtill falling, and was for ſome time in doubt whether it was the reverie of a [123] diſturbed brain, or an apparition that had occurred to me; and only determined it to have been the former, by finding myſelf in the ſame place I had laid down to reſt.

I roſe up and walked about the room, till I had exhauſted my ſtrength, endea⯑vouring to ſhake off the kind of horror which had taken poſſeſſion of my mind and body, from this ſhocking dream; but it clung ſtill about me, like a win⯑try cloud, and chilled my nerves to numbneſs.

At length, towards evening, I began to recover myſelf again—I am not ſuper⯑ſtitious; beſides, what crime had I ever committed, that might conjure up ſpec⯑tres from the grave! My life had been [124] innocent, though unhappy, and my mind continued pure, though injured and provoked.

The reflections which this incident ſtirred up in my thoughts, more par⯑ticularly at this time, with regard to my dear father's goodneſs and virtue, ſerved principally to compoſe my ſpirits to peace—He was indeed a perfect chriſtian, both in faith and works; his character and converſation were of a piece; his ex⯑ample was precept, he urged no borrow⯑ed morals, but preached the very prac⯑tice of his life—his doctrines were ſtrict, yet indulgent; charitable, though ſe⯑vere—his auſterity was only in his ma⯑xims and his mind; his mildneſs in his cenſures and his heart.

[125]Theſe pious thoughts wrought me up to an enthuſiaſm of devotion; I fell on my knees to thank Heaven for having been derived from two ſuch pure ſources, as my father and mother, and prayed moſt fervently, that I might never be guilty of any thought or deed, which ſhould render me unworthy of ſuch faultleſs originals.

As the hour approached when I was to meet Captain L—, the terrors of my mind increaſed; yet I found myſelf ſo ſtrongly impelled, from the motives already mentioned, joined to a curioſity to know where the blame lay, between Matilda and him, that I could not reſiſt the temptation of hazarding the interview. I went ſoftly down the back ſtairs, which led from a cloſet within my apartment, [126] and found my way out, unſeen by any of the family.

The agitation of my ſpirits was ſo violent, that I ſcarce knew what I did; I ſometimes ran towards the ſhore, as if I had been purſued by wild beaſts; then ſtopped, and ſtood motionleſs, as if my faculties had ceaſed.—At length, I perceived Captain L—, at ſome diſ⯑tance; he flew to me, and caught me in his arms; I burſt into a paſſion of tears, and was incapable of utterance.

As ſoon as I could recover my ſpeech, I aſſumed all the dignity of reſentment, and told him that he was no longer to conſider me as the weak tender Maria S—, but as an injured and offended judge, who came to hear the poor de⯑fence [127] which he could make, for having ſo ungenerouſly wronged, and ſo cruelly injured her.

Again he preſſed me to his boſom, and exclaimed, ‘"O could I but repair the wrongs you have ſuffered, as eaſily as I can prove I never was the author of them, my loved Maria ſhould be mine and happy—and it ſhall ſtill be ſo—Victims of artifice and fraud, ſhall we continue to be wretched, becauſe Ma⯑tilda and your huſband have concur⯑red to render us ſo."’

‘"That fatal name of huſband, I replied, has fixed an everlaſting bar, between happineſs and me; but were there no ſuch perſon in the world, you cannot think of me ſo meanly, to ſuppoſe that [128] I would condeſcend to accept of one, who had rejected and deſpiſed me!—No blandiſhments, no arts, can ever ſoothe my tortured mind into forget⯑fulneſs of your contempt."’

He then begged that I would hear him juſtify himſelf, and began by informing me, that about a year before my arrival at Bath, he had gone there, as moſt young people do, in queſt of amuſement; that he happened to lodge in the ſame houſe with Matilda, and her huſband, who both ſought and cultivated his acquaint⯑ance; and as he had no particular attach⯑ment to any other perſons there, he de⯑voted himſelf intirely to them, was of all their parties, and never abſent from them.

He confeſſed that he liked Matilda, better than any woman then at Bath, and [129] that he began to flatter himſelf he was not diſagreeable to her; from the levity of her manners, he had reaſon to believe ſhe was not overſtrict in her morals, and on her huſband's being obliged to go to London, for a few days, ſhe convinced him that he had not been miſtaken.

Their guilty commerce laſted but a ſhort time; it began without paſſion, and of courſe terminated in indifference, at leaſt on his ſide. He quitted Bath without any deſign of ever returning, though Matilda and her huſband had ta⯑ken a houſe, and determined to fix their reſidence there.

Some months after, he was attacked with a violent bilious complaint, and ordered to Bath by his phyſicians; and [130] was juſt recovering from this diſorder, when my mother and I happened to bend our courſe thither—What paſſed between us, on our firſt acquaintance, I have al⯑ready told you, except Matilda's ma⯑chinations to break off our intercourſe, and recall him to his former attachment.

When ſhe found her arts were unſuc⯑ceſsful, ſhe changed her battery, and pretended to conceive a particular friend⯑ſhip for me, and became our mutual confidant; but at the ſame time, from her ſuperior regard for Captain L—, uſed often to remonſtrate to him, how much his family would be offended at his marrying a girl without rank or fortune.

But all theſe arts and inſinuations he vowed had not the leaſt manner of effect [131] upon his mind, or heart; his paſſion was too firmly founded, on admiration and eſteem, to be ſo eaſily ſhaken, and he declared that at the ſad moment of our parting, his whole affections and ſole purpoſe in life, were pointed to⯑wards our mutual happineſs and honour together.

He confeſſed, however, that during the unlucky interval of abſence, the hints and repreſentations of Matilda had wrought by degrees, the malicious ef⯑fect intended by them; for ſhe had framed a novel againſt me, with ſo much ad⯑dreſs and ingenuity, ſo guarded at all points, that each part of it ſeemed to vouch the truth of the reſt.

Even the indiſcretion of my having been led into play, by her own artifice, [132] ſhe moſt wickedly repreſented to him as a vice of mine, and reported the cir⯑cumſtances of my debt to Mr. W—, which ſhe alſo exaggerated, with ſuch reflections as placed me in the ſhocking light of a girl who was reſolved to make the moſt of her youth and beauty, with⯑out any further regard to morals or character.

In fine, he acknowledged that the plauſible manner in which ſhe gave him theſe advices, from time to time, with the tender and compaſſionate expreſ⯑ſions ſhe affected now and then to let drop, upon the unhappineſs of my con⯑duct, had at length ſo intirely injured me in his eſteem, that it occaſioned his writing me the letter, before mentioned, when he was going to ſet ſail for America.

[133]What a recital was this for me to liſten to, in my then unfortunate circum⯑ſtances! his juſtification but increaſed my miſery—I had never imagined there was ſo much vileneſs in human nature, as the baſe Matilda appeared now to be capable of, and was ſhocked to think that I was of the ſame ſpecies with ſuch a mon⯑ſter in wickedneſs—I wept—We both of us wept, while he thus went on with his ſtory.

‘"When I quitted Europe, con⯑tinued he, the poiſon of Matilda's correſpondence ceaſed its operations, my paſſion and reflection had liberty to exert themſelves, and I began to doubt the authenticity of the extraordinary accounts I had re⯑ceived about you—Your bloom [134] and beauty preſented themſelves to my fond imagination, in the warmeſt co⯑lours—Your candour, innocence, and ingenuouſneſs of manners, occurred then ſtrongly to my mind—Could ſuch a character become ſo quickly abandoned, ſaid I to my heart—It muſt be unnatural; and what is contrary to nature, muſt be improbable at leaſt, if not impoſſible."’

‘"Thus did I often plead your cauſe, my ever loved Maria, againſt the foul charges of your enemy, whom I un⯑happily, however, did not look upon then in that light, but merely as an unfortunate woman, who having been guilty of vice herſelf, was, as too generally is the caſe, apt to conſtrue every action of others into the worſt [135] ſenſe, that the appearances or circum⯑ſtances of it can bear."’

‘"Upon this fair diſcuſſion of the point, I wrote once more to Matilda, expreſſing my doubts, not of her ſin⯑cerity, but about her miſapprehen⯑ſions only, of your conduct—Said that general charges, ſuſpicions and hearſays, were but inſufficient evi⯑dences where ſo choice a jewel as cha⯑racter was at ſtake; and called upon her for ſome facts of more public noto⯑riety, to ſupport her ſlanders."’

‘"As all correſpondence had been broken off between you and me, ſaid he, ſhe ventured now to ſpeak out more boldly, and without the leaſt equivocation in her terms, aſſured me [136] that you lived publicly with Mr. W—, and privately intrigued with Sir James D—; that the extravagance of your dreſs, pleaſures, and other ex⯑pences, was ſupported between them; that you had kept them both attached to you, by raiſing a ſpirit of rivalſhip between them; and uſed alſo to ren⯑der each of the galants jealous, in their turns, by alarming them with me."’

‘"With the letter ſhe wrote, as ſhe ſaid by your deſire, from Briſtol, ſhe ſent me another, in which ſhe told me that you had at length brought Mr. W—, to conſent to marry you, on account of your being with child, and that the letter was framed with a view either of duping me into a mar⯑riage, which ſhe believed you would [137] prefer, or of paying Mr. W— the compliment of ſacrificing me to him, if I ſhould return a favourable anſwer."’

‘"There is no deſcribing the height of reſentment to which I was affected upon this occaſion, and I ſhould have replied to the propoſal in the moſt outrageous terms imaginable, if my love and fondneſs for you, which ſtill remained, though my eſteem was flown, had not reſtrained my hand, and dic⯑tated thoſe cool, but not violent lines, I ſent her in anſwer."’

He told me, that when he returned to England, upon his father's illneſs, he felt himſelf impelled by a ſtrong deſire of ſeeking ſome proper opportunity of re⯑proaching me for my infidelity, and of [138] covering me with the utmoſt confuſion, by expreſſing the deteſtation and con⯑tempt, that even a man, and a ſoldier, was capable of conceiving at the breach of honour or virtue in a woman that he loved.

He mentioned this purpoſe, he ſaid, in a letter to Matilda, and ſhe moſt ſtre⯑nuouſly oppoſed it; ſhe told him that ſuch a ſentiment was no good ſign of a recovery from his infatuated paſſion, for ſhe feared much that ‘"All the malice of his heart was love."’ That this would be but affording me the triumph of thinking him ſtill my ſlave, and might put it in my power to involve him, perhaps, in a duel with Mr. W—, whom ſhe repreſented as extremely jea⯑lous, from very conſcious reaſons, if, as [139] it was more than probable, I ſhould be willing to exchange my wedding-gar⯑ment for a widow's weed.

However all theſe arguments not being ſufficient to deter him from coming to Bath, he wrote her word that he would be there on ſuch a day, and has had reaſon to ſuppoſe, ſince, that ſhe muſt have adviſed Mr. W— of this par⯑ticular, by his coming ſo critically from London, on the ſame day, and meeting him in the Rooms that fatal night which I have before mentioned to you.

I need not now, my dear brother, re⯑capitulate what paſſed, in conſequence of this vile woman's malice; you have hitherto ſeen me the innocent victim of her cruelty—Too happy ſhould I now deem myſelf, had I ſtill remained ſo.

[140]My fainting in the Rooms, at the ſight of Captain L—, awakened his former tenderneſs for me; and the inhumanity with which Mr. W— treat⯑ed me, on that occaſion, for the ſur⯑geon had made the ſtory public, ſeemed to demand his pity for a wretch doomed to be puniſhed for an involuntary and guiltleſs act.

He would have gone in perſon, the next morning, to Mr. W—, in order to have juſtified my character, as far as it related to the ſcandal then caſt upon it, with regard to him, but was reſtrained from the attempt by Matilda's ſaying that this would only make the matter worſe, in all probability; that the inter⯑fering between man and wife was a dan⯑gerous meaſure in any perſon whatſo⯑ever, [141] but that the lover, the very cauſe of the contention, muſt certainly be the moſt improper mediator in their recon⯑cilement, that could poſſibly be imagined.

She, therefore, adviſed him to wait with patience, till paſſion, on the huſ⯑band's part, might become calm enough to liſten to reaſon, and that reſentment peculiarly natural to a wife, ſuſpected in the wrong place, (this was her expreſſion) ſhould have ſomewhat ſubſided, and then promiſed him to undertake the inter⯑poſition herſelf, at the proper criſis, probably to better effect than it could be engaged in, even by her, during the pre⯑ſent violence of the parties.

He ſtayed at Bath while I remained there, and ſuffered an anxiety which in⯑creaſed [142] more and more, every day, a [...] by mixing with the company at th [...] Rooms, but more particularly with th [...] reſidents of the place, among whom m [...] late adventure was publicly talked o [...] he heard every one take my part, an [...] vindicate my innocence, from their for⯑mer knowledge and general good opi⯑nion of my character and conduct, eve [...] ſince I had firſt become an inhabitan [...] of that city.

In fine, he heard it agreed upon, o [...] all ſides, that Mr. W— could have n [...] other foundation for his jealouſy of m [...] except that ſort of ſuſpicion which is na⯑turally apt to ariſe from too great a di [...] ⯑parity in years, eſpecially in the breaſt o [...] a man, who had had but little acquain [...] ⯑ance with any women, except thoſe of [...] profligate character.

[143]Theſe fair reports in my favour, he ſaid, began ſoon to convince him of Ma⯑tilda's treachery, and he reproached her with it warmly one day; when with the greateſt ſang froid imaginable, ſhe an⯑ſwered him in theſe very words, ‘"There is no ſuch thing as eleemoſynary wiſ⯑dom in this life, let philoſophers and pedagogues ſay what they will—ex⯑perience muſt be purchaſed at our own proper coſt, and not at the expence of others—From this warning you will be taught ſufficient ſenſe to know, for the future, that to make a woman the confidant of her rival, is appointing a wolf to be the ſhepherd of a lamb—I forget whether this maxim be taken notice of in Ovid's Art of Love; if not, his precepts are imper⯑fect."’

[144]He aſſured me that, on this reply, his ſight and reaſon forſook him, for a time, and only returned to enable him to view the hag, as ſhe then appeared to him, with the greater horror, and to poſſeſs him with a rage that fell but little ſhort of madneſs. ‘"What would I have given, at that inſtant, cried he out, to have exchanged her ſex, into a dozen armed men!"’ and then concluded the ſen⯑tence with this expreſſion—‘"But I could not exert ſuch reſentment againſt her, as ſhe deſerved, becauſe ſhe was in my power."’

He did every thing he could to find out the place of my baniſhment, but could not diſcover it—He did not know of my being moved from Bath till after I had been ſent away, or he would have [145] employed ſome truſty perſon or other, to have watched me to the place of my deſtination—The ſurmiſes were various, upon this occaſion; ſome ſaid I was to be carried over to France, and forced into a convent; ſome, that I was to be locked up in Mr. W—'s houſe, in London; and others, that I was to be be⯑trayed into a private mad-houſe, and confined there for life.

During the uncertainty of all theſe ſeveral reports, Captain L— received an account of his father's illneſs, and im⯑mediately repaired to London, to at⯑tend on him. His filial duty claimed his firſt regard, and the exerciſe of that virtue ſerved to reſtrain his impatience, and ballance his anxiety on my account, for ſeveral months, while Sir Richard L— lingered before his death.

[146]Captain L—, now become Sir Thomas L—, with a large patrimony, being at length releaſed from any further reſtraint upon his time and actions, be⯑gan to turn his whole thoughts towards the unhappineſs of my ſituation, and conſidered himſelf bound, not as a knight-errant merely, but as a man of honour, to reſcue me from that diſtreſs which he had been the innocent cauſe of, through the treachery of one per⯑ſon, and the too haſty ſentence and un⯑warrantable ſeverity of another.—He re⯑turned immediately to Bath, in order to get what information he could, about me; and hearing that my dear mother had retired to a village in Flintſhire, took the reſolution of going to wait upon her there.

[147]As ſoon as he had informed her who he was, ſhe began to reproach him in the manner it was natural for her to have done, from the circumſtances of his conduct towards me, in the light it had hitherto appeared to her. But when he had diſcloſed the ſcene of villainy and deceit to which he had likewiſe fallen a victim, her affections ſoftened, and ſhe could not help looking upon him then as a third ſufferer in our complicated misfortune.

He contrived artfully to draw from her the ſecret of my abode, but without ſuffering the leaſt hint to eſcape him, of any purpoſe to ſeek me there. Then, taking her hand, and kneeling before her, vowed an attachment to me, during life; ſaid he would ever pay her the [148] reſpect and duty of a ſon-in-law, attend⯑ing till death, or ſome more ſpeedy ven⯑geance, might remove Mr. W— out of the way of his happineſs; and offered her an affluent ſupport out of his fortune, becoming the honourable connection which he had then declared between them.

My dear unhappy mother returned him the moſt grateful thanks for the kindneſs and generoſity of his offer, but her ſpirit and delicacy made her decline the acceptance of it. She confeſſed her⯑ſelf alarmed, even at his viſit, and urg⯑ed him to depart inſtantly, without ſuf⯑fering himſelf to be known, leſt this circumſtance, though accidental and in⯑nocent in itſelf, might poſſibly, in the train of our misfortunes, happen to be [149] made an additional article of ſuſpicion againſt us all. She plained the diſtreſs and difficulty of our ſituations—They embraced, and he retired immediately out of the town.

On his route to Devonſhire Bath lay in his way, where he happened to meet with Captain R—, who had been an officer in the ſame corps with him, in America. There had always ſubſiſted a particular intimacy between them; and as friendſhip is apt to inſpire a confi⯑dence, and that his heart was full, he imparted the whole ſecret of our loves and diſappointments to him.

He alſo informed him, at the ſame time, of his reſolve to go and conceal him⯑ſelf ſomewhere near the place of my re⯑tirement, [150] till he might meet with a fa⯑vourable opportunity, without hazard to my reputation, of ſeeing me even for a minute, in order to vindicate himſelf from the unjuſt opinion I muſt neceſſarily have conceived of his infidelity and baſeneſs; declaring alſo, that he thought it a duty incumbent on him to watch over my deſtiny, and at the expence of his for⯑tune, and the ſacrifice of his life, to defend me from any injury or violence that might ever be attempted againſt me.

Captain R— approved his motives, and commended his purpoſe, and ſaid that as it was a ſervice of danger, he had a right to claim the privilege of a friend and a comrade, in ſharing it with him—Sir Thomas readily accepted of his company, and they ſet out the next [151] morning for Hartland, which is with⯑in a mile of the caſtle where I reſided. They were attended only by two ſer⯑vants, and a couple of pointers, on pre⯑tence of going into that country merely as unconnected idle travelling ſportſmen.

Sir Thomas did not acquaint his friend with my name, nor where I was con⯑cealed, and uſed every morning and even⯑ing to wander alone round the place of my confinement, in hopes of ſeeing me, as I ſhould walk abroad, and of ſpeaking to me unobſerved; which, after about a fortnight's attendance, he hap⯑pened to meet with.

In this ſweet, but dangerous converſe, did we paſs the minute, for to us it ap⯑peared no more, of our aſſignation; and [152] now judge me, Edward, with your wont⯑ed candor, nor blame this fooliſh heart, if every tender, every fond ſenſation it had ever felt, returned with double force! Remember that I had never loved an⯑other, and that I ſtill loved him, even when I thought him falſe! What muſt my tranſports be, to find him true!

When, in my turn, I told him the in⯑human arts that had been practiſed to betray me, and eſtrange our mutual con⯑fidence, his paſſions roſe almoſt to mad⯑neſs, and he a thouſand times exclaimed that I was ſtill his wife, that our hearts were joined by heaven, and that no power on earth, ſhould ever part us more!

Too eagerly I liſtened to his ravings, and ſuffered the enchantment of his voice [153] to lull aſleep my prudence, and my rea⯑ſon—I felt as if there were but us alone of all our ſpecies, exiſting in this world, and all other connection, obligation, or regard, appeared to me then but me⯑taphyſical ſpeculation—Our ſad atten⯑tion to each other's woes, had ſo intirely engroſſed our thoughts, that night ſtole on us, almoſt unperceived; tears had quite dimmed my ſight, and my weak trembling limbs needed aſſiſtance to ſup⯑port my weight—I could not then re⯑fuſe his kind ſuſtaining arm, to help me on toward the manſion of my ſor⯑rows, the dungeon of my miſery.

While we were on our way, a ſudden ſtorm aroſe, and the clouds burſt forth in horrid thunder and lightning. By the time we had come within ſight of the [154] back-door, through which I had that evening ſtolen out; a violent ſhower came on, which obliged me to haſten my ſpeed—I intreated him to leave me, but he held me faſt by the arm, till we came to the houſe, which he en⯑tered along with me.

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Here drop the curtain, Edward! and let this firſt falſe ſtep of my whole life, ſtand as a mark for the innocent and un⯑wary to ſhun—Let them reſtrain the firſt encroachments of a favoured lover, nor vainly fancy when once they yield the reins, that they can after check the ardent courſer's ſpeed.

[155]Till that unhappy night, guilt was a ſtranger to my ſuffering heart, and there⯑fore I had never known remorſe, or fear—It was impoſſible to ſoothe my tortured ſoul to peace—The fond delu⯑ſion of his prior right, both to my perſon and my heart—My former arguments, of diſſolved tie, and transferred [...]ffections, appeared all but ſelf-deceit, in my pre⯑ſent circumſtances; the wretched ſo⯑phiſtry vaniſhed like a phantom, from me, and in its room the prieſt, the al⯑tar, all the awful ſcene, where I had bound myſelf by ſolemn vows to be another's wife, now ruſhed upon me; and in the anguiſh of my heart, I bit⯑terly exclaimed againſt him, as the prime ſource of all my miſery, and bad him fly, for ever, from my ſight.

[156]Sir Thomas ſaid every thing that ho⯑nour could dictate, or love inſpire, to temper my emotions of grief and rage; threw himſelf at my feet, intreated my forgiveneſs, called me his wife, his be⯑trothed before heaven, vowed eternal faith and conſtancy to me, and offered to fly with me to any part of the globe. At length, ſeeing that nothing could calm my diſtraction, he ſtarted up, laid his hand to his ſword, and declared that he would inſtantly put an end to that exiſtence, which my reſentment had now rendered miſerable to him.

His violence ſuſpended for a time, my agitations, by adding terror to my other feelings—I caught hold of his arm, and now became a ſuppliant, in my turn, begging that he would not further in⯑jure [157] me by ſuch an horrid outrage, and promiſing to compoſe my mind by pe⯑nitence and prayer, as ſoon as I was left alone; but upon this condition only, that he ſhould never attempt to ſee me again, till it was poſſible for us to meet, for life, without a crime. We parted, mutually wretched, in agony and deſpair.

The horror with which I was ſeized, the moment he had quitted me, is not to be conceived, without guilt. I loſt that firmneſs now, which had hitherto born up my ſpirits under all my ſuffer⯑ings. Purity, the only reſource in afflic⯑tion, was now fled for ever from my breaſt—I felt the full weight of all my ills; and what appeared before oppreſ⯑ſion on my innocence, ſeemed now but juſtice on my crime. I rejoiced I had [158] no ſiſter! I thought of you, my brother, of my dear mother too, and with a ſhower of tears, took leave of theſe fond names, for ever.

I ſtood in life alone, ſevered from all connection! The ſuſtaining hope of being again reſtored to honour and ſociety, like the fair fruit that ſprang in Pandae⯑monium, now turned to bitter aſhes. What had I further to do with the world? Alas, I had already forfeited all protection! My laſt night's dream—ſay rather viſion—ſtared me full in the face, and upbraid⯑ed me with the recollection of a maxim I had often heard my parent ſaint de⯑liver, that ‘"we ſhould ever conſider thoſe perſons we had a reſpect for, as preſent, when abſent, and as living, when dead."’ I kneeled down, and [159] ſtrove to pray, but could not; I felt myſelf in a ſtate of reprobation, and was almoſt fallen into deſpair—I had no ſtay, no ſupport, no reſource, in ſtore—In all the other ills of life, heaven ſuffers us not to be afflicted, beyond our ſtrength; but wretchedneſs, with guilt, exceeds the ſcheme of Providence.

I then endeavoured to riſe, but was not able to ſtand—my exhauſted ſpirits failed me, and I ſunk down again upon the floor, where I continued ſome time, in a ſtate of ſtupidity; till my maid's opening the door of the ante-chamber, warned me to diſguiſe my diſturbance—I concealed my diſtraction as well as I could, by keeping my face turned from her as much as poſſible, and for the firſt time felt what an irkſome thing it is to have any thing to hide.

[160]The ſtorm continued all the night, with extreme violence; but the thunder and lightning did not alarm me as they had done on the evening before—I had now a louder monitor in my breaſt than the one, and with what open arms and welcome greetings, ſhould I then have embraced the other!

How long Sir Thomas ſtaid at Hart⯑land I cannot tell, for I never ventured abroad, from that time, even to take a walk in the gardens, and he behaved with ſo much honour as to obey my laſt injunction to him, by not ſeeking any further opportunity, as far as I could learn, of ſeeing me again, or even of at⯑tempting to write a line to me, leſt it might, as it certainly would, have been intercepted. So that I began ſoon to re⯑concile [161] myſelf to my preſent ſituation, by making that ſolitude and confine⯑ment a voluntary penance, which I had hitherto looked upon as the ſevereſt in⯑fliction; conſidering it but as a convent within the ſequeſtered walls of which I ſhould then moſt aſſuredly have concealed myſelf from the world, had I been at liberty to have choſen my ſituation.

I conformed myſelf intirely to a true monaſtic ſtate, for a time, by ſpending my days in faſts, in contrition, and in prayer, hoping that my ſorrows would ere long have ended with my life; but I was, alas! too ſoon convinced that fate had not yet emptied all its quiver againſt me; for I had the inexpreſſible ſhock to find that I was likely to bring an inno⯑cent being into the world, at once to prove, and ſhare my infamy.

[162]I ſhall not attempt to deſcribe the agonies of my mind, upon this diſ⯑covery—I muſt live to have endeavoured ſtill to ſolicit that death, which my deſ⯑pair had tempted me to wiſh ſo ardently for before, while it related only to my⯑ſelf, would have been a double guilt, in my preſent circumſtances—I muſt therefore ſubmit to become more miſer⯑able, in order to render myſelf leſs criminal.

In ſuch a miſerable and forlorn ſitu⯑ation, what meaſure was left me to pur⯑ſue! There was indeed, but one; and let the fatal neceſſity of it, plead my excuſe—I had refuſed to fly with Sir Thomas, when he begged it on his knees; I could not yield deliberate con⯑ſent to vice, or think of delivering my⯑ſelf [163] over to a life of profligacy. But I muſt now temporize with guilt—I muſt now extricate myſelf from my preſent difficulty, ſhame, and danger, at any ex⯑pence; though with a determined pur⯑poſe to cover my head, immediately after, in ſome ſevere convent, there to endure the harſheſt penances, and hide me from the world for ever.

In the confuſion and diſtraction I was in at that time, I could not frame any certain ſcheme for my relief; beſides, that point depended on the concur⯑rence of another; I therefore wrote a letter to Sir Thomas, entreating the fa⯑vour of him to come to me directly, upon a buſineſs of conſequence to us both, and in which ſomething more than my own life, was the object of my anxiety.

[164]I did not know where Sir Thomas then was, but ventured to direct it to him according to my former addreſs from Bath, to his father's houſe in Bloomſbury ſquare.

But when I had ſealed this billet, a new difficulty occured to me, how I could poſſibly get it conveyed to him—All connection between me and the world had been cut off, from the moment of my commitment. My duenna had, at firſt, refuſed to let a letter from me, even to my mother, be carried to the poſt; and told me frankly then, that any directed to me were ordered to be returned from thence, unopened, to Mr. W—

The danger preſſed, and ſome at⯑tempt muſt be hazarded. I recollected [165] that there was a labourer who gene⯑rally worked in the garden, and appear⯑ed to be a perſon of rational intelligence; I therefore went out to him, and gave the letter into his hands, with a bribe of five guineas, which fee I promiſed to double for him, on his return with an anſwer, and hinted to him all proper cautions, with regard to the ſecrecy of his commiſſion.

I inſtructed the meſſenger to make ſome pretence or other, of private buſi⯑neſs, for abſenting himſelf from his ſer⯑vice, and deſired him not to attempt to deliver the anſwer of my letter to me, till he ſhould meet me alone in the gar⯑den—I had a full view of it from the windows of my apartment, and watched with the utmoſt impatience, for his ap⯑pearance [166] again, from the moment that I thought it poſſible for him to have re⯑turned. How much did I envy, during this anxious interval, the infinitely pre⯑ferable ſtate of the meaneſt peaſant I heard whiſtling careleſsly acroſs the de⯑meſne, who enjoyed peace and compe⯑tence, without a conſciouſneſs of guilt, or the fear of detection!

At length I had the ſatisfaction to ſee my courier arrive, and waiting till I perceived the coaſt clear, I ſtole out to him, and had the pleaſure to receive a letter from Sir Thomas, filled with the tendereſt profeſſions of love, and the fulleſt aſſurances of honour. He pro⯑miſed to be with me that very evening, juſt at night fall, and deſired I would meet him at the end of the grove, near the houſe.

[167]I was punctual to time and place, and found him alſo exact to his appointment.

He was full of tranſport at the ſight of me, but I was not in a fit diſpoſition of mind to attend to his extaſies—I begged he would compoſe himſelf while I looked about through every avenue, to ſee that no prying eye was near, to ob⯑ſerve our motions; then led him with fearful hands, and trembling ſteps, into the houſe, and we retired up ſtairs to⯑gether, to my apartment.

As I had not uſed myſelf to eat ſuppers, ever ſince my confinement in this place, I always diſmiſſed my atten⯑dant as ſoon as ſhe had left candles lighted on my table, chuſing to ſit up alone, moſt part of the nights, employed [168] in reading, muſing, and working; ſo that I was under no ſort of apprehenſion, of being at any time interrupted in my privacy.

As ſoon as we had got into the room, Sir Thomas attempted to catch me in his arms, but I ſtarted from his em⯑brace—I told him that we were neither of us in time, place, or circumſtances, to admit of unwarrantable liberties; that I had deſired this meeting to implore the aſſiſtance of his friendſhip and ho⯑nour only, not to receive his love; the leaſt overture of which, as I had de⯑clared to him before, I was firmly reſolved to oppoſe, till ſuch a time, if ever that happy aera ſhould arrive, as might intitle him to aſk, and me to grant, the unreſerved completion of his [169] wiſhes—With true humanity and gene⯑rous acquieſcence he immediately de⯑ſiſted from all further importunity.

As he gueſſed the ſituation I was in, from the hint in my letter, and there⯑fore concluded what the purport of my ſummons tended to, he had the tender⯑neſs and politeneſs not to wait for any further explanation of the matter; but immediately propoſed to me that we ſhould directly abſcond together to ſome diſtant part of the kingdom, from whence we might ſail over to the continent, and there ſecrete ourſelves for life, in ſome retired ſpot, ſafe from purſuit or inquiry; adding that he ſhould not look upon this retreat to be an exile, to him⯑ſelf, as he might well be ſaid to carry his country along with him, while he [170] was in poſſeſſion of all he loved or va⯑lued in it.

I had no other reſource left me now; and the choice is ſoon made, where there remains but one option—I rendered the moſt grateful acknowledgments to him for the generoſity of his offer, which I readily accepted of; told him that I, from that moment, reſigned my fate into his hands, and that he ſhould thence-forward be the ſole arbiter of my deſtiny, ac⯑countable to himſelf alone for all my future weal or woe—He kneeled, took my hand, kiſſed and bathed it with his tears.

You do not, I hope, my dear bro⯑ther, imagine me ſo devoid of ſenſibility, as not to ſuppoſe that I then felt the diſ⯑grace [171] which my miſconduct muſt en⯑tail upon an honoured parent; nor were you abſent, Edward, from my thoughts. But let me ſay this in my excuſe, that I then flattered myſelf my flight, or ra⯑ther the motives for it, might remain for ever ſecret, and that living in a fo⯑reign land, under a feigned name, my perſon might poſſibly never be diſ [...]over⯑ed—and in that caſe, thoſe dear con⯑nections could be as little involved in my reproach, as they were concerned in my guilt.

Here end all the reflections I ſhall ever make—The following part of my unhappy ſtory, while I relate it, har⯑rows up my ſoul, congeals my faculties, and impels me to wild diſtraction, or to reprobate deſpair.

[172]When we had thus ſettled the ar⯑ticle of our flight together, we agreed further upon the manner and circum⯑ſtances of it: Sir Thomas was to retire immediately to his inn, before my gar⯑riſon ſhould be ſhut up for the night, and ſend off an expreſs to Exeter, for a poſt-chaiſe, with relays of horſes, to be ready, the next evening, at the further end of the grove, where I promiſed to meet him at the cloſe of day, from thence to launch into a world unknown, without a ma⯑tron, without a guardian—for I had loſt my innocence.

Juſt as I was riſing up to convey him out of the houſe, I heard ſome haſty ſteps paſſing through the antechamber, the door of my room was ſuddenly burſt open, and I ſaw Mr. W— enter, with [173] a piſtol in each hand. Sir Thomas laid hold of his ſword, but before he could draw it, received a bullet in his breaſt—He fell—and, do I ſurvive to tell it! I heard his laſt groan, and ſaw him ex⯑p [...] at my feet—I heard, nor ſaw, no more, bu [...] falling ſenſeleſs on his lifeleſs boſom, was for a while releaſed from agonies too great [...]

But my miſeries were not ſo ſoon to have an end. I was dragged back again to life, by the ſtill cruel hands of Mr. W—, who aſſiſted my maid to raiſe me from the floor, and lay me on the bed—The firſt uſe I made of my return⯑ing ſenſe, was to riſe upon my knees, and, with uplifted hands, implore his mercy to terminate my misfortunes and my life together—He looked as if he [174] would do ſo, but turning from me, cried, ‘"No, thou ſhalt be reſerved for more ex⯑emplary vengeance;"’ and walked im⯑mediately out of the room, taking the maid along with him, but leaving the diſcharged piſtol by me, on the bed

With my reaſon, my ho [...] returned—Let compaſſion but reflect on my ſitu⯑ation! Barbarity itſelf muſt ſoften into humanity, at the thought.—Loaded with infamy, encompaſſed with miſery, entombed, as it were alive, with the dead! and gazing horribly, without the relief even of tears, on the ſad victim of my ill-ſtarred deſtiny! At length, fran⯑tic with grief, with terror and deſpair, unknowing what I did, and without any purpoſed end, I ruſhed down the back⯑ſtaris, and iſſued through the private door, from that accurſed manſion.

[175]Fear gave wings to my ſpeed, yet at the ſame time retarded my flight; for though I ran as faſt as it was poſſible, I frequently ſtopped, for ſeveral minutes, to liſten to every ſound I heard; and ſometimes clambered over high ditches, and laid myſelf flat on the ground, to prevent my being ſeen, in caſe I was purſued; though the night was ſo dark, that I could almoſt feel an object be⯑fore I ſaw it.

My haſte was urged by inſtinct mere⯑ly, determined to no point, but like a frightened animal I fled from danger without direction in my courſe—My mind was all the while in the ſtate of a dream—I knew of no aſylum, I could frame no purpoſe—At length, exhauſted by fatigue, and oppreſſed with ſorrow, [176] I ſat myſelf down in the corner of a field, ſurrounded by a little coppice, juſt high enough to conceal me from the view of paſſengers—Here nature, till now re⯑ſtrained, ſtill active for its own relief, began to releaſe the utterances of grief, and at the very moment that I felt my heart going to burſt aſunder, my tears broke forth, and I found myſelf at libery to expreſs my ſufferings, in moanings and exclamations.

This gave me eaſe, at firſt, and I therefore indulged it, for a while, till I began to apprehend, towards day, that the loudneſs of my complaints might poſſibly reach the ear of ſome traveller or villager, and betray the ſituation of my concealment, and the particular cir⯑cumſtances of my ſtory—But yet I could [177] not ſilence my cries and lamentations; I became deſperate of all human ſuccour, and thought that even the hands of cruelty might relieve me from the ef⯑fects of my own diſtraction, by putting an end to my life, without any additional guilt of mine.

At length my voice was heard, and anſwered by one who came ruſtling through the coppice, and in a ſoft ſlen⯑der tone, cried out, Where are you, who are you, and what ails you? The ſound at firſt, alarmed me, till I was ſtruck with the appearance of a beautiful boy, of about ſeven years old, at a little diſ⯑tance, who, as ſoon as he ſpied me, came running up and told me, that his mamma had been awakened in bed with my cries, had rung her bell, and ordered her ſer⯑vant [178] to go ſeek the perſon in grief, but that he got out of the houſe before him, was glad he had ſound me firſt, and begged I would go home along with him, directly, out of that naſty cold place, to make his mamma's mind eaſy.

The prettineſs of the child's perſon, with the good-natured impatience and anxiety it expreſſed about my ſituation, charmed me in that inſtant of diſtreſs and woe, till he came up cloſe to me; when I felt a ſudden ſhock, at the ſight of him—He ſeemed to be a ſon of Mr. W—'s; he had every feature of his face—I ſtarted and trembled—however, I ſoon recovered myſelf, concluding that ſuch an idea muſt be owing merely to the ſtrong impreſſion which his coun⯑tenance had made on my mind, at our [179] laſt interview, and which a terrified im⯑magination might poſſibly have trans⯑ferred a likeneſs of, to any object viewed in the uncertain light of a juſt opening dawn—I therefore embraced the lovely child, and walked away with him, leaning on the ſervant's arm, who was then come up, to a neat cottage, which was but a few yards from the ſpot I had been found in.

I was received at the door of the houſe, by a lady of a genteeler appear⯑ance than one could naturally expect to have met with, under ſo mean a roof, who with a voice of ſweetneſs welcomed me to what hoſpitality her circumſtances could afford, and taking me by the hand, led me into her beſt apartment—I ſat down on the firſt chair I could reach, [180] and begged for a glaſs of water, to pre⯑vent my fainting, which I apprehended, from my feelings, might probably ſoon happen.

The room we were in was ſoon light⯑ed up with fire and candles, the blaze of which offended my tender ſight, al⯑ready dimmed by the darkneſs of the fore⯑going night, and weakened by my tears, which prevented me from being able to view objects diſtinctly enough, at firſt; but when the agitation of my ſpirits had been ſomewhat abated, and that my eyes had recovered their ſtrength a little, I perceived the lady to be a perſon of about four and twenty years of age, and extremely handſome, but ſeeming much impaired in her appearance, by grief, or ſickneſs.

[181]Here I began to ſhudder again; for the reſemblance between her and Mr. W—, ſtruck me more forcibly than it had done before, in the child—There could be no equivocation, in this in⯑ſtance—her features marked the likeneſs ſtronger, and the clear light, I had then an opportunity of viewing her by, put the ſimilitude beyond a doubt—This myſtery alarmed me—I feared I had fallen into dangerous hands; but it would have been doubly improper to have aſked for a ſolution of this riddle, on account either of the ſeeming to pry into her ſecret, or the hazard of betraying my own.

I therefore concealed my ſurpriſe, though I could not avoid ſhewing my uneaſineſs; which ſhe perceiving, but [182] without ſuſpecting the cauſe, and imput⯑ing ſolely to my misfortunes and fa⯑tigue, which ſhe ſeemed to think were ſufferings I had not been much accuſ⯑tomed to, intreated me to repoſe myſelf on the bed that was in the chamber, as long as I pleaſed, without fear of inter⯑ruption, till I ſhould be inclined to ac⯑cept of any other kind of comfort or refreſhment, that might be within the compaſs of her poor means to afford me.

The voice of kindneſs to an oppreſſed heart, at once ſoothes, and gives vent to its ſufferings. I anſwered only with my tears; ſhe roſe, and taking her child by the hand, ſaid that ſhe was too well ac⯑quainted with ſorrow to attempt to re⯑ſtrain its courſe, or think it capable of any other relief, than time and prayer; [183] adding, that I need be under no man⯑ner of apprehenſion that any curioſity of her's ſhould prompt her to inquire into my ſtory, as the meaſure of her own misfortunes was too full already to ad⯑mit the addition of another's grief, with⯑out the power of alleviating it. She retired immediately without waiting for a reply.

Being now ſheltered from all outward ills and violences, the diſtraction of my mind began to feel itſelf under the leſs controul; deſpair and phrenzy now triumphed over my reaſon and religion; I looked about for ſome inſtrument of deſtruction, to put an end to my miſer⯑able exiſtence, and ſnatching at a ſword that hung unſheathed over the chimney, I had juſt ſet the hilt of it to the ground, [182] [...] [183] [...] [184] when my guardian hoſteſs, attentive to my motions, running into the room to ſee what had occaſioned my diſturbance, had juſt time enough to ſtrike the point aſide, ſo that I fell unhurt upon the floor.—

‘"O ſtop the hand of raſhneſs! ſhe exclaimed, nor dare to limit mercy! He who ſeverely tries, as amply can re⯑ward the patient ſufferer; let thy proud heart bow to his high decrees, and learn to bear thy burthen with ſub⯑miſſion."’

While thus ſhe ſpoke, I gazed upon her with a ſilent awe, and thought her more than human—She raiſed me from the ground, with looks of tenderneſs, and thus proceeded—‘"That ſorrow has [185] beſet, and has ſubdued you, I can well perceive—Alas! what is your ſtrength or mine, oppoſed to its rude graſp! But wherefore then ſhould we rely upon ourſelves, when offered aid bends from high heaven for our acceptance, and bids our weak humanity be ſtrong in its almighty power!"’

I ſunk again upon my knees before her, and cried out, ‘"I have no hope in heaven or earth! Thou meſſenger of grace, thy proffered aid is vain! I am an out-caſt from ſociety, nor would even your charity extend itſelf to ſuch a wretch as me, were you to know my crimes."’

‘"I will not hear them then, ſhe anſwer⯑ed quick, but ſure there is no guilt, ex⯑cept [186] deſpair, that may not hope for pardon—Remove that gloomy vice from your ſad heart, and penitence ſhall heal the wounds of your offenc [...], and bid your bleeding boſom be at peace."’

By ſlow degrees this more than wo⯑man, this heaven-inſtructed comforter, calmed my diſtracted ſoul, and reaſoned down my frenzy—I paſſed my word to her not to attempt my life, and I have kept it; have waited till the lingering, though ſure bane of human health, un⯑ceaſing ſorrow, ſhall releaſe my promiſe, and lay me gently in the ſilent grave.

As ſoon as my mind had become ſome⯑what more compoſed, I began to reflect upon the circumſtances of my late mis⯑fortune [187] —I thought with horror on the impiety [...] neglecting a duty toward the manes, of the unhappy ſacrifice of my wayward deſtiny; I felt like an ac⯑complice in the guilt, if I ſhould not en⯑deavour to reſcue the remains of that dear and unfortunate object, from the ſtill continued barbarity of his mur⯑derer, and attempt to procure it the rites of chriſtian, at leaſt of human, ſepulture.

The idea that firſt occured to me, upon this occaſion, was to fly off directly to the inn at Hart [...]nd, to Captain R—, for Sir Thomas had told me that his friend and confident had accompanied him now, as before—and to have ac⯑qu [...]inted him with the fatal cataſtrophé of my ſtory—But how to appear before a [188] ſtranger, or indeed any perſon whatſo⯑ever, under the ſenſation of [...]onſcious guilt, and public infamy! Beſides, mig [...] I not happen to be detected there, and poſſibly have involved a third perſon in my complicated misfortune! However, I contrived to qualify theſe ſcruples, by the ſubterfuge of writing a note to him, containing only theſe few words.

‘"Your friend is, alas, no more! he lies murdered at Caſtle W—. I do not mean by this notice to call even for juſtice againſt his aſſaſſin, but only hope that your humanity and friendſhip may be able to defend his hapleſs corſe from any further indignity or outrage."’

To this billet I did not ſubſcribe any name, but got my kind hoſteſs to ſend [189] it off immediately to the inn, by one of the villagers, who was inſtructed not to ſay from whence he came, nor to await an anſwer.

This moſt excellent woman, ſo far from deſiring to dive into the ſecret of my diſtreſs, made it a point rather, that I ſhould not reveal it, whenever ſhe heard me begin to mourn; but in order, as ſhe ſaid, to convince me that mine was not a partial lot, and that ſhe had herſelf ſeverely taſted of the bitter cup, ſhe would relate ſome of thoſe very un⯑common misfortunes which had attend⯑ed her through life, and which might, perhaps, in ſome meaſure, reconcile me to my own.

But firſt ſhe inſiſted that I ſhould en⯑deavour to recruit my ſtrength and [190] ſpirits with food and reſt, as the preſerv⯑ing the proper temperament of the body, was certainly one requiſite towards reſtoring the health of the mind—I ac⯑cepted her hoſpitality, and breakfaſted on tea, but could not eat—She did not preſs me—She was reaſonable in all things; entreaty, in my ſituation, would have but added to my fatigue, and increaſed my diſguſt. She thought that ſleep might, for a time, better ſupply the place of food; ſhe therefore obliged me to undreſs my⯑ſelf and go into bed; where after having cloſed the windows, as it was now full day, and removed every implement of miſchief out of the room, ſhe left me to repoſe myſelf—if poſſible.

I did what I could, for that purpoſe—I owed that duty to the infant yet un⯑born, [191] and was ſolicitous to preſerve that part of myſelf, at leaſt, that was inno⯑cent. But my ſorrows kept me long awake, till nature, taking advantage of my weakneſs, at length delivered my body over to ſleep, though without compoſing my mind; for my diſturbed imagination purſued me ſtill throughout my ſlumber, preſenting viſions of ſlaughter, gibbets, and executions, to my tortured fancy, all the while; which inſtead of yielding me any manner of refreſhment, by fre⯑quent ſtarts awoke me; adding the pains of labour to my other ills, which brought on a miſcarriage, towards the evening.

My humane hoſteſs attended on me with the kindneſs and tenderneſs of a ſiſter, ſupplied me with cordials, kept every thing quiet about me, and would [192] ſit up all night, by my bed-ſide, notwith⯑ſtanding every oppoſition I could make to it. The next morning ſhe prevailed on me to take ſome ſuſtenance, after which I claimed her promiſe of letting me into the hiſtory of her life; which however, I did not do to ſatisfy an idle curioſity, but thought that the circum⯑ſtances of her recital, might perhaps amuſe my mind from too fixed an atten⯑tion to my own ſorrows, and that the gentle murmurs of her voice, with the monotony of narrative, might poſſibly have conduced to ſlumber.

But judge of my amazement when ſhe began by telling me that ſhe was the daughter, the only child of Mr. W—! I was near betraying myſelf—I could not conceal my ſurpriſe, but cried out, ‘"It [193] is impoſſible! you cannot be his off⯑ſpring!"’ She calmly anſwered, ‘"You know him then;"’ and without inquir⯑ing further, thus proceeded.

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But as the unhappy Maria is come now to a pauſe in her misfortunes, let us, my dear ſiſter, take this opportunity of reſting a little ourſelves, after the fatigue and horror of her ſtory, before we enter upon an other. I confeſs, that when I came to this part of it, I rejoiced to think ſhe was dead? my humanity felt leſs from the reflection that her ſufferings were at an end. As we are affected more by the diſtreſs we ſee, than by what we only hear of, ſo is our compaſſion always [194] ſtronger for the living ſorrow, than the dead one—Yet one muſt ſtill weep for Hecuba.

The wind is become fair for this nar⯑rative, but my anxiety has been in⯑creaſed at not hearing from you before it changed.

LETTER LXVI.
Miſs CLEVELAND to Lady BARTON.

THE following epiſode of the fair Cottager, though ſhort, will be ſome relief to us both, before we pro⯑ceed to the cataſtrophe of the main action, and conclude the Hiſtory of the unfor⯑tunate Maria, whoſe peculiar fate ſuf⯑fered [195] not her indignities to terminate with her life, but afterwards delivered over her corſe into the clutches of the brute Colville, to be carried in the pro⯑ceſſion of a mock funeral, at Amiens.

The STORY of Mrs. N—.

My mother was the only child of Cap⯑tain H—, a younger brother of a diſ⯑tinguiſhed family; her ill fortune brought her acquainted, very young, with Mr. W—, while he was a ſtudent at Ox⯑ford, and under age—They ſaw, liked, and wedded, without the conſent of pa⯑rents on either ſide—Captain H— was afterwards made acquainted with the marriage, but died before my other grandfather, from whom it was thought prudent to keep it ſtill a ſecret, as my dear mother inherited but a very incon⯑ſiderable [196] portion. This was made a pretence for keeping their union con⯑cealed, during the life of his father; and my mother, who tenderly loved her huſband, conſented to let their connec⯑tion ſtill wear the veil of myſtery, ra⯑ther than injure his intereſt, or offend his father.

The doubtfulneſs of her ſituation by degrees detached her own friends in⯑tirely from her, and, for ſome years be⯑fore the death of his father, ſhe lived in perfect ſolitude, hardly ever ſeeing any perſon but her huſband and me, her only child, who were the ſole objects of her care and affection.

I was about ſeven years old when my grandfather W— died, and I am [197] perſuaded that if my mother felt any joy upon that occaſion, it was for my ſake only, as ſhe wiſhed to have my legitimacy acknowledged, and my edu⯑cation properly attended to—A long ha⯑bit of retirement had weaned her from the world, and though of an age to re⯑liſh all its pleaſures, being then but four and twenty, ſhe thought of return⯑ing into it rather with diſguſt than delight.

Upon various pretences my father declined owning his marriage, for about two years, and the gentleneſs of my mo⯑ther's temper prevented her from im⯑portuning him, on this or any ſubject; but when ſo long an interval had elapſed, ſince his father's death, and that ſhe per⯑ceived a viſible alteration in his beha⯑viour [198] towards her, ſhe with the utmoſt mildneſs expreſſed her wiſhes to live with him publicly as his wife—He ſtrove for near a year more, to evade her requeſt; but when her apprehen⯑ſions began to be alarmed by his conduct, and that ſhe ventured ſo far as to preſs him on the ſubject, he ſlew into a rage, and utterly denied his having ever been married to her.

Tears and prayers were all the wea⯑pons with with ſhe attempted to aſſert her rights—They had, alas! no power on his obdurate heart—Grief preyed upon her tender frame, and when I had juſt entered my tenth year, ſhe fell into a conſumption—ſhe was ſenſible of her approaching fate, and though ſhe had remitted her own claim to my father's [199] rank or fortune, ſhe determined not to leave me in the power of a man who had abandoned her to unmerited infamy, but immediately to ſet about proving her marriage, and by that means entitling me both to his name, and a proper pro⯑viſion from his fortune.

She ſoon found out that Doctor N—, the clergyman who had married her, lived in the pariſh of —, in this ſhire; and that my grandfather, old Mr. W—, had preſented him to that living, which was incumbent on ſome part of my fa⯑ther's eſtate—She took me with her, and ſet out immediately for his houſe; which expedition ſhe could eaſily make with⯑out her huſband's knowledge, as they had ſeldom lived under the ſame roof to⯑gether for ſome time paſt.

[200]It is impoſſible to expreſs this worthy man's ſurpriſe at the ſight of my mother and me, as my father had informed him that ſhe was dead above three years before, left no child, and earneſt⯑ly requeſted him never to mention his having been married to her, as it could anſwer no end to her then, would cer⯑tainly diſoblige ſome of his relations, through whoſe aſſiſtance, he ſaid, he had conceived reaſonable hopes of ſtrength⯑ening his intereſt in the ſhire, and of im⯑proving his fortune.

As ſoon as my mother had acquainted him with her ſtory, the good old man promiſed her to pay a viſit, the next day, to my father, who had been his pupil at the univerſity, and endeavour to influence him, by gentle means, to [201] do her the juſtice he owed her, rather than reduce her to the irkſome neceſ⯑ſity of expoſing him and herſelf, by an appeal to ſome higher and more legal tribunal; aſſuring her, at the ſame time, that if his mediation ſhould not be at⯑tended with that ſucceſs which he wiſhed, and had reaſon to expect from it, he would no longer heſitate a moment about proving the marriage, through all the forms of law.

My dear unhappy mother wept and thanked him, and the doctor, accord⯑ing to his promiſe, proceeded the next day to Caſtle W—, which is about ten miles from this village, being the manſion ſeat where my father then reſided. It happened that he was from home, at the time the doctor went to his houſe; [202] and in the fullneſs of his zeal, he wrote him an admonitory letter upon this intereſting ſubject, and returned much diſappointed at not having ſeen him.

In a few days after this event, my father came to doctor N—'s, and en⯑deavoured to make my mother's mind eaſy upon the equivocal appearances of his conduct towards her, imputing it all to the prudential reaſons he had before mentioned to the doctor, in which he ſaid that the future welfare of herſelf and family were equally intereſted; adding, that their living together in England could not be long concealed, but that he was ready to retire with her to any part of Flanders, upon pretence of his going to travel for a few years, till the ſchemes he had in agitation might be [203] brought to bear, when they might re⯑turn home again and enjoy the remain⯑der of their lives in happineſs and ho⯑nour together.

My dear mother, as was natural to an unſuſpecting and ingenuous mind, was fondly amuſed with this artifice, and wept with tranſport, at his mock pro⯑feſſions; the doctor too bleſſed his pu⯑pil, with tears of joy, and my father re⯑turned back to Caſtle W—, the next day, in order to prepare every thing ne⯑ceſſary towards our departure for the continent, without any further delay.

But this deluſion did not long con⯑tinue, for the morning after he had left us, Mr. N—, a young enſign, and nephew to Doctor N—, happened to [204] come from Exeter, where he was then ſtationed, to pay a viſit to his uncle; and among other articles of news, told him that his landlord and patron, as he ſtiled my father, was ſoon to be mar⯑ried to a young lady of family and for⯑tune, in the city he came from, and that he ſuppoſed the doctor would be then called upon to perform the ceremony.

The young man had never heard any thing of our ſtory, and only men⯑tioned this particular among ſome other indifferent circumſtances of the time—His uncle did not open his mind to him upon the ſubject, but retired immediately to my mother's apartment, who happened luckily not to be by when this matter was related, and after endeavouring to prepare her as much as [205] poſſible for the ſhock, acquainted her with the intelligence he had juſt re⯑ceived.

To you, dear Madam, who ſeem to have known affliction, it muſt be need⯑leſs to deſcribe the emotions of my un⯑happy mother, upon this occaſion—The humane doctor N— ſaid every thing he could think of, to aſſwage her diſtraction, and repeated the promiſe he had made her before, of concurring with her in an immediate vindication of her rights, ſeeing there was now no time to loſe, and that it was ſufficiently apparent Mr. W— meant to take advantage of her too long acquieſcence under the concealment of her marriage, and, by this new and more public engagement, to bar her claim forever.

[206]He confeſſed, that notwithſtanding his plauſible profeſſions to them both, at part⯑ing, his mind could not help ſtill har⯑bouring ſome doubts with regard to the ſincerity of them—For however, ſaid he, my chriſtianity may incline me to a perfect faith in the efficacy of divine grace, one is naturally apt to ſuſpect your extempore converts, eſpecially where the reformation ſeems, as in this caſe, to have been brought about by the neceſſity of ſome preſent urgency.

He concluded then, that my father's ſcheme, in carrying my mother and me out of the kingdom, muſt be to ſepa⯑rate us from the advice or aſſiſtance of whatever friends we might have here, and that being bereft of the protection of Engliſh laws, he meant to ſhut us up [207] in a convent together, for life, upon ſome forged pretence or other; which would leave him at liberty to return in triumph home again, and complete his baſe purpoſe with his new miſtreſs at Exeter.

That very day doctor N— gave my mother a regular certificate of her marriage, ſigned by himſelf, as the clergyman who had performed the cere⯑mony, referring to the page of the pariſh regiſtry, where that tranſaction was en⯑tered; at the bottom of which he put a memorandum of the names of the two witneſſes who were preſent, one of which is ſtill alive, if that were an article of any manner of conſequence to me now.

The next day my father came to the houſe, with a carriage to convey us off [208] privately, through the country, to Wey⯑mouth, where he told us he had pre⯑pared a ſhip to ſail over directly to the continent. My mother made no reply, but wept, and quitted the room, to leave Dr. N— at liberty to explain the rea⯑ſon of her ſilence and ſorrow.

Their converſation was warm, but ſhort—The doctor made remonſtrances to him upon his behaviour, both from religion, morals, and the laws; which my father reſented with the higheſt in⯑temperance, declaring that he had happily one way ſtill left, to ſcreen himſelf from perſecution and proſecu⯑tion both, and then ruſhed out of the houſe; which expreſſion was, ſoon af⯑ter, more fully explained, by hearing that he had gone off to France, whither no legal proceſs could purſue him,

[209]Theſe tranſactions were kept a perfect ſecret from me for ſeveral years—My fond mother thought it too ſoon for me to become acquainted with affliction, and our worthy protector had alſo conceived a certain delicate idea, about me, with regard to vice—His opinion was cer⯑tainly juſt, that the longer young people are kept ignorant of it, the ſafer for their morals—Purity of thought, and inno⯑cence of action, ſhould be ſuffered to gain ſtrength by habit, before they know that there is ſuch a thing as wickedneſs in human nature—The ſhock and ab⯑horrence will be the greater on the firſt inſtance, and the danger of example leſs.

Doctor N— kept us with him, and ſupported us out of his own fortune, while my poor mother lived, or rather [210] languiſhed, which ſhe did for about two years, and then expired of a broken heart. The doctor was ſo generous as to make her laſt moments eaſy, by pro⯑miſing to take care of me, till he could force my father, by law, to make a pro⯑viſion for me, as his legitimate child; ſaying, that he thought it his duty to pay the debt of gratitude he owed to my grandfather, to the only part of his family now that deſerved it.

My father's emiſſaries ſoon informed him of my mother's death, and he re⯑turned to his ſeat, a joyful widower—The doctor immediately applied to him on my behalf, but ſo far from being ſoftened by his interceſſion, he loaded him with abuſe, and threatened him with ruin if he did not inſtantly conſent to [211] my being ſent to a convent abroad, and ſolemnly ſwear never to mention his mar⯑riage with my mother, nor again inter⯑fere in his domeſtic affairs, upon any occaſion or pretence. What became of his Exeter amour, I know not, having never heard a word about it, ſince.

Faithful to his promiſe, the doctor re⯑fuſed to give him the ſatisfaction he re⯑quired, nor would he conſent to my going into a convent, upon any terms. Conſcious of the purity of his life and actions, he diſregarded my father's threats, and continued to treat me with the ſame kindneſs as if I had been his daughter.

My Father, who was lord of the ma⯑nor, ſtirred up moſt of the doctor's pari⯑ſhioners to non-payment of tithes, and [212] ſupported them in every kind of inſolence and injuſtice againſt him. This excellent divine, who was really a believer and follower of the doctrine which he taught, ſuffered thoſe who had taken his cloak to take his coat alſo, and having no ac⯑tivity in him, but for others, in a very ſhort time was deprived of the means of ſupport, either for himſelf or family—But why ſhould I dwell longer on thoſe miſeries, of which I was the unhappy, though innocent cauſe!

This beſt of men breathed his laſt ſigh in a priſon, about three years after my mother's death, and muſt latterly have wanted even the common neceſſaries of life, but for the duty and affection of his nephew, who was now become a captain, and more than ſhared his little income [213] with him and me, who, from the time that my dear guardian was thrown into confinement, had been placed by him to board and lodge with the wife of his pariſh-clerk.

During all the ſufferings of this true divine, he was never prompted to revile the cruel author of them; nor to repine at the wretched ſtate to which he was re⯑duced; and even to his laſt moments comforted and exhorted both me, and his fellow priſoners, to bear their croſſes with reſignation, with chearfulneſs, and with forgiveneſs to their perſecutors and oppreſſors.

While the doctor was able to keep houſe, captain N— uſed often to vi⯑ſit there, and ſtay ſometimes whole [214] months together, with us; and after his uncle's misfortune, which ſeparated us, he came frequently to ſee me, at my new lodgings. He was a very worthy agreeable young man, we had inſenſibly conceived a liking for each other, and juſt before his uncle's death, he aſked his conſent to offer his hand and heart to me.

The good man confeſſed himſelf much pleaſed at this overture, and upon men⯑tioning it to me, ſaid, that when I ſhould no longer have a protector in him, I muſt be either thrown upon the world, to get my bread in a ſtate of ſervitude, which he thought both dangerous, and improper for me, or obliged to ſue to my father for a ſupport, which he feared he would refuſe, unleſs he were to confine me in a convent, which he moſt earneſtly [215] entreated me not to conſent to, but to perſevere in ſuffering for the faith wherein I had been bred.

And with regard to his nephew, he paid me the compliment to think I was capable of rendering him happy, and that eventually I might turn out a good for⯑tune to him, either by my father's death, or reformation. I received the propoſal, I confeſs, with pleaſure, and readily pro⯑nounced that conſent with my lips, which my heart had given before—My more than father! my guardian! my pro⯑tector! now ſaw his deſire accompliſhed in our union—With his dying hands he joined ours, and then ſlept in peace.

For three whole years I was the hap⯑pieſt of human kind; my huſband was [216] all that my fondeſt wiſhes could have framed; that child you ſaw, was his delight and mine; no frown e'er clouded either of our brows, or ſlighteſt con⯑tradiction paſſed our lips: I was—I was too bleſt! till heaven reclaimed its beſt its deareſt gift, and took him early, to reward his virtues.

Tho' bred with ſuch a ſhining pattern as doctor N— before me, and long nurtured as I had been, in the ſchool of adverſity, yet this trial was too much for my weak mind, which ſunk op⯑preſſed into lethargic woe—The voice of reaſon is not heard by grief, religion only reaches the ſad heart—Cheered by the boundleſs hope of paſſing an eternity of bliſs with him I now lamented, I raiſed my drooping eye lids from the [217] grave, and turned my views to heaven, implored its grace to bend my ſtubborn ſoul, to its high will, and ſoothe my war⯑ring paſſions to ſubmiſſion—My prayer was heard; no murmurs, no complain⯑ings, from that pious moment of re⯑flection, have iſſued from my lips; in humble confidence, without impatience, I wait for my diſmiſſion from this vale of ſorrow.

Yet let me own that were there not a weight thrown in that ſcale that ties me down to earth, my reſignation would have had more merit. My dear, my much loved boy, abates my ardor for the land of bliſs, and makes me fear that while his fate is doubtful, I ſhould even ſhudder on the brink of my long wiſhed-for voyage.

[218]In a heart rightly formed there cannot be a void—Maternal fondneſs now fills the place of chaſte connubial love, and in this ſoft exerciſe of my affections, no griefs diſtract, no tranſports rend my ſoul.

This place I live in, is a freehold that Captain H—, my grandfather had purchaſed, ſoon after I was born, for the term of three lives; his own, my mother's, and mine—His wife had been dead, ſome years before. It conſiſts of this cottage, a ſmall plough-land, a cloſe for paſture, and a little garden; at an in⯑conſiderable rent—Here I have lived all my life, except while I was ſheltered under the protection of the good doctor N—; during which interval the farm was let to a tenant at will, till I was mar⯑ried, when my dear huſband and I came to [219] reſide here, as much as his military duty would permit; and here he left me, when he was ordered with the regiment abroad, laſt war; in the firſt campaign of which he was killed.

The produce of this ſmall demeſne, with my penſion as a Captain's widow, is all I have to maintain my child and me, and require the cloſeſt attention and oeconomy to render them ſufficient—And even theſe pittances depend upon the precarious tenure of my life—but I will not doubt the goodneſs of Provi⯑dence, and truſt it will raiſe him up a ſupport, when it ſhall think proper to withdraw mine.

Now judge, unhappy ſtranger, ſhe con⯑tinued, if I have not a right to ſpeak of [220] patience, of reſignation and religion, as the ſureſt balm of ſorrow! Philoſophy and faith concur in this, there is a hope beyond the grave, and nought but vice, unatoned by penitence and piety, need ever urge deſpair!

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I had hung with mute attention on her ſtory, my tears had flowed with her's, and while ſhe ſpoke, her griefs ſuſpended mine; admiration of her virtue now ſuc⯑ceeded, and kept me ſilent ſtill, but there, alas! our ſympathy muſt end, ſhe might rejoice in her afflictions paſt, whilſt I muſt mourn for ever!

I paſſed ſix days with this uncanon⯑ized ſaint, this living Patience, of whom [221] Shakeſpear's image was but a prototype^*. She knew me not, all the while, and I could not reveal myſelf, nor had the par⯑ticulars of my ſad ſtory yet reached her incurious ears, to have given her the leaſt cauſe of ſuſpecting who I was.

By various methods, and ſlow degrees, I purſued my journey towards Flintſhire. As I drew nearer to my mother's peace⯑ful cottage, I anticipated the miſery and horror ſhe would feel, when ſhe ſhould know my ſituation, and conſidered my⯑ſelf as a wretch who was going to com⯑municate an incurable diſeaſe, to the fond boſom that had nurſed and cheriſhed it—Prophetic were my thoughts!

[222]The firſt emotions ſhe felt on ſeeing me, were thoſe of love and joy; ſhe ſtrained me to her honeſt breaſt, with true maternal tenderneſs, and exclaimed, ‘"Mr. W— has at laſt relented, and bleſſed me with a ſight of my Maria!"’ Whilſt I, o'erwhelmed with her unmerited kindneſs, ſunk ſpeechleſs to the earth—Tears were the ſole return that I could make to her careſſes and inquiries.

My mother was alarmed; ‘"Sorrow, ſhe ſaid, my child, we both have known, but ſure that ſhould not ſeal your lips to thoſe who wiſh to ſhare and ſoothe your griefs, or render you inſenſible to love like mine."’

I graſped her honoured hand, preſſed it to my heart, and vainly ſtrove to ar⯑ticulate a ſound—For ſeveral hours I re⯑mained [223] in this ſituation—At length my ſpeech returned, and throwing myſelf on my knees before her, I could not be prevailed on to forſake that poſture, till I had recounted to her the whole of that horrid tale, which you have juſt now read.

I will not wound your heart, my bro⯑ther, with attempting to deſcribe the agonies ſhe ſuffered, during the ſad recital of my ſtory, yet this truly virtuous, this ſcarce erring woman, pitied the crimes which ſhe herſelf deteſted, and ſpoke of peace and pardon to my afflict⯑ed ſoul! even to the lateſt moment of her life—for ſhe is dead!—She ſtrove to hide her anguiſh, and to leſſen mine.

The night I got there, after I had been in bed, and juſt falling into a ſlum⯑ber, [224] from the fatigue of my journey and the waſte of my ſpirits, I was alarmed by the noiſe of ſome perſons, who knocked loudly at the door of the houſe, and de⯑manded admittance—The people with whom we lodged refuſed them entrance, unleſs they would firſt declare the pur⯑poſe of their errand—This they refuſed, but ſending for a ſledge, ſoon battered down all oppoſition, and ruſhed in.

My mother and I had but juſt time to hurry on our cloaths, when an ill looking fellow, with a candle in one hand, and a piſtol in the other, came into our cham⯑ber, attended by two other ruffians.—Upon their appearance we inſtantly of⯑fered to ſurrender all our effects, and promiſed neither to make reſiſtance nor purſuit. They ſeemed highly to reſent [225] our manner of reception, and replied, that they ſcorned to uſe any manner of vio⯑lence that might not be juſtified by the law.

The principal of the men then told me that he was ſteward to Mr. W—, and had been diſpatched by him with a war⯑rant to apprehend me, for the murder of Sir Thomas L—, early the next morn⯑ing after the fact, and my flight for the ſame, with directions to come and look for me in that place, as it was natural to ſuppoſe that I ſhould have flown to my mother for refuge, after my crime—He ſaid that he had examined and inquired for me, all along the road, and had con⯑cealed his buſineſs in that village, for ſeveral days, lying in wait for my ar⯑rival.

[226]Horror and amazement ſeized both my unhappy mother and me—I pitied her more than myſelf—I was hardened to ſufferings, I wiſhed to die, though not with ignominy, and felt diſappointed at finding the purpoſe of theſe houſe⯑breakers had ended with ſo little violence to my life—I apprehended no danger from the proſecution; but to think of an arraignment and a public trial, was diſtraction! I reflected deeply on the di⯑vine and ſuſtaining ſentiments of the amiable Mrs. N—, and her precepts and example had a ſalutary effect on my mind.

The ſteward then returned to the inn, to ſend off to Cheſter for a chaiſe to carry me to Exeter, the county town of De⯑vonſhire, to take my trial at the next [227] aſſizes, which were immediately to be held there; but left his two guards in the houſe, to prevent my eſcape—My afflicted mother, who had fallen upon the bed when ſhe heard the ſhocking ſentence pronounced, lay ſilent for a minute, then turning to me, who was ſtanding ſpeechleſs, and motionleſs, be⯑fore her, with a look of wildneſs and deſ⯑pair, cried out, ‘"I'll go with you, I'll die with you, we never ſhall be parted more."’ I threw myſelf down by her, we embraced and lay folded in each other's arms, till we were ſummoned, the next morning, to begin our journey.

We travelled with all the expedition that our conductors were pleaſed to make, and ſuffered every indignity and inſo⯑lence of office, all the way, that mean [228] perſons are apt to inflict on thoſe above them, whenever they happen to gain an authority over them.—All this I felt not but as I ſympathized with my unhappy mother, for as to myſelf I welcomed every mortification and diſtreſs I met with, and even wiſhed them ſtill more ſevere.

We were at length relieved from this oppreſſion by arriving at Exeter, where we were carried directly to the ſheriff's houſe, and delivered over into his cuſ⯑tody; for my dear mother would not quit me, but ſaid that the ſame priſon, or the ſame grave, ſhould receive us both—This humane perſon behaved with the utmoſt tenderneſs and polite⯑neſs toward us, offered us every refreſh⯑ment and accommodation that his hoſpi⯑tality [229] could afford, and told me that he would impoſe no other reſtraint on me than an earneſt requeſt that I would accept of the beſt apartment in his houſe, and prevail on my mother to ſhare the ſame comforts and conveniences with me—He then bowed and retired.

He returned ſoon after, to introduce a gentleman to us, who he ſaid had ſome affair of buſineſs to communicate to me, and then withdrew again. But how was I overwhelmed with confuſion, when the perſon announced his name to be Captain R—! The confidant of my ſhame, ſtood before me—My trial was began, already—I felt as if I was at the bar.

This gentleman behaved with great good-breeding and compaſſion to me, on [230] that occaſion; he ſcarcely looked at me, but going up directly to my mother, whom he ſaw in tears, aſſured her that ſhe need not ſuffer the leaſt uneaſineſs on account of her daughter, as he had already made her innocence appear ſo fully to the Juſtice, that ſhe was not to be arraigned, on the trial, and might now conſider herſelf perfectly free from her arreſt.—He prevented us, he would not liſten to our acknowledgments, but di⯑recting his diſcourſe to me, though with⯑out turning his eyes towards me, thus proceeded.

‘"In order to make you acquainted with the preſent ſituation of this un⯑happy buſineſs, it is neceſſary for me, Madam, to recount the regular pro⯑ceſs of it, from the moment I had [231] been informed of the event, by an anonymous billet, to this time. I ſoon gueſſed the writer, and as quickly ſuſ⯑pected the author of the tragedy—Upon theſe hints, I immediately ap⯑plied to a magiſtrate in the neighbour⯑hood, and after having given in my depoſitions, according to the notice I had received, I became armed with proper force and authority, and rode directly to Caſtle W—.’

‘"I was not denied admiſſion, and upon opening my commiſſion, Mr. W— charged you, Madam, directly with the fact; ſaid you had abſconded immediately after the murder, and that he had juſt then iſſued a warrant, and diſpatched a purſuit after you, in order to have you apprehended and [232] delivered over into the hands of juſ⯑tice—Then, by way of ſupporting his aſſertion by circumſtances, led me up ſtairs into the room where the corpſe lay extended on the ground, ſhewed me the diſcharged piſtol lying on the bed, and pointed to the blood, with which the coverlet had been ſtained in many places.’

‘"I wept over the body of my dear friend,"’ ſaid he, ‘"then turning to Mr. W—, ſhewed him the note I had received, and aſked him if he knew the hand? Yes (he replied quick) it is my wife's, and one line in it I think ſufficiently certifies againſt her—I do not mean by this notice to call even for juſtice againſt his aſſaſſin. Whoſe danger, I pray you, do you imagine ſhe ſhould be ſo tender of? Would [233] ſhe not have named the aſſaſſin, if that might have been done, with ſafety to herſelf?’

‘"Sir, I replied, you will now give me leave to reaſon upon the circum⯑ſtances relative to this melancholy affair, in turn. It cannot be difficult, conſidering the ſeveral parties, both ſeparately and connected, to ſuppoſe the motive of Sir Thomas's errand hither; and whether it were moſt na⯑tural for the fond miſtreſs, or the jealous huſband, to have been the murderer, is a queſtion ſitter to be ar⯑gued in a court, than diſcuſſed here. For which reaſon, (concluded I) I ſhall pretend to act but miniſterially upon this occaſion, and therefore I do now, in the name of juſtice, arreſt you and your whole houſhold, in [234] order to take your trials, jointly and ſeverally, for this murder.’

‘"Mr. W— ſeemed ſtartled at this diſcourſe, but talked highly, and began to put himſelf into a poſture of defence; upon which I preſented a piſtol to his breaſt, and pointing to the mangled corpſe, cried, There, Sir, is your exam⯑ple, ſhould you attempt to reſiſt. He then ſurrendered himſelf a priſoner, the reſt of his family did the ſame; and after I had got the body laid with decency on the bed, left the ſervants of the de⯑ceaſed to attend it, and given charge of the funeral to the clergyman of the pa⯑riſh, I eſcorted my captives to the goal in this city, where they have remained ever ſince.’

‘"Upon their examination before a ma⯑giſtrate in this town, (continued he) the [235] maid ſervant, who ſaid ſhe had attended on you, Madam, turned evidence, to ſave her life, and charged her maſter with the murder. She ſaid that he had come to the houſe, in the evening, pri⯑vately, and deſired her to conceal his arrival from her miſtreſs. That he told her there was an aſſignation fixed for that night, between Sir Thomas L— and his wife; and about the time that he thought they might have put out the candles, he took her with him to the room, to be a witneſs of what he ſaid would intitle him to a divorce; but that being diſappointed in that circumſtance, and alarmed at ſeeing Sir Thomas put⯑ting his hand to his ſword, he diſcharged the piſtol, and killed him on the ſpot.’

‘"Mr. W— did not make any man⯑ner of interruption or reply to this wo⯑man's [236] depoſition, while it was going on, ſaying only, after it was over, that he thought himſelf ſufficiently juſtified in the action, both from law and con⯑ſcience; and that juſtice without fa⯑vour, was all he ſhould deſire, to in⯑demnify him on the day of trial.’

‘"Thus ſituated is this unhappy affair at preſent; and with regard to your arreſt, Madam, I have had that ſuper⯑ſeded already, before you arrived in town, as the warrant was only founded on ſurmiſe; and I have myſelf given bail for your appearance on the trial, juſt to corroborate the ſervant maid's teſtimony."’

I had hitherto lain reclined on my arm, hiding my face, tears, and bluſhes, [237] with my hand; but when he came to the laſt expreſſion, I forgot all reſerve, and ſtarting up, ‘"No, ſir, ſaid I, it can⯑not, ſhall not be—I will never appear in evidence againſt Mr. W—: you may drag me before the court, but no violence ſhall make me ſpeak there. Juſtice I acknowledge to be a duty, but there are ſituations which may exempt one from the obſervance of it. Duties cannot contradict duties, and I have already too far erred againſt mine to him, to think of adding a further injury—And if my death is to be the conſequence of my ſilence, I am willing to pay that forfeit, to redeem his."’

Captain R— ſeemed ſtruck with my ſentiments on ſo difficult an occaſion, and told me that he would conſult his [238] lawyers that night, whether my evi⯑dence might be diſpenſed with; and would wait on me again, the next morn⯑ing—He then took his leave, and left my poor mother and me to paſs an an⯑xious, ſleepleſs night, in mourning the diſtreſs of our preſent ſituation.

The next day he came to us, and ſaid that his counſel had told him, that as he was the proſecutor, he might excuſe what⯑ever witneſs he pleaſed, eſpecially as the ſervant maid's teſtimony was full enough to the point already—We thanked him extremely for his humanity and polite⯑neſs, and the inſtant he retired we hired a chaiſe, and drove out of the town, on our road back to Flintſhire, flying as faſt as poſſible from a ſcene of ſo much horror.

[239]The anxiety of mind and fatigue of body which my dear mother had laboured under, all this while, had brought on a fever that confined her in bed, from the moment we reached her habitation in Flintſhire. I wept, prayed, and at⯑tended on her, during her illneſs, till her laſt moment—She bleſſed her children—even me ſhe bleſſed, and prayed for peace and pardon to my polluted ſoul! ſhe expired in my fainting arms—leave⯑ing me friendleſs, in a world alone!

But fate had not yet done with me! I was not yet unhappy enough! About two days after her death, I received a letter from Captain R—, who had found out the place of my reſidence, from Mr. W—'s ſteward, which brought me the following account from Exeter.

[240] ‘"The facts and arguments upon which Mr. W— grounded his de⯑fence, were theſe—When Mrs. W— had given her letter for Sir Thomas to the meſſenger, he mentioned it to the gardener, and he communicated his intelligence to her maid, who had been appointed a ſpy over all her ac⯑tions—She took it from the man, in⯑cloſed it to her maſter, and ſent him off directly with it to London.’

‘"As ſoon as he received it, he broke it open, and took a copy, which he made his own man compare, and wit⯑neſs, then ſealed and ſent off the ori⯑ginal to Sir Thomas, by a ſpecial meſ⯑ſenger, who pretended he had come from Caſtle W—, not caring to in⯑truſt the fellow who had brought it, leſt he [241] ſhould have betrayed him, as he had before deceived Mrs. W—. The anſwer he proceeded with in the ſame manner, and then diſpatched the firſt carrier with it to Mrs W—.’

‘"This ſtate of the caſe Mr. W— had ſent up to London, along with the atteſted copies of the letters, for the opinion of an eminent counſel, to know whether, upon ſuch a certainty of the fact, and finding the adulterer in ſuch an improper ſituation with his wife, the laws did not grant ſome indul⯑gence to the tranſports and reſentment of a provoked and injured huſband?’

‘"The lawyer's reply was, that ſuch conſiderations had, indeed, been ſome⯑times permitted to be laid before a [242] jury, in alleviation of the crime he had been guilty of, but that it was only in caſes where no premeditation had ap⯑peared in the matter: and that his was a very different ſituation, as he had confeſſed his having been appriſed of the aſſignation, aſſiſted in forwarding the appointment, and had travelled above an hundred miles, with a malice praepenſe to take Sir Thomas L— at an unfair advantage. From all which circumſtances he concluded that the laws would not conſider him as a pro⯑voked huſband, but a deliberate aſ⯑ſaſſin.’

‘"This anſwer deprived him of all hope, and drove him to diſtraction—Could the articles mentioned in the ſtate of his caſe have been prevented [243] from coming before the court, he might, perhaps, have had ſome chance of eſcaping, but the meſſenger of the two letters was among the perſons that had been taken up for the murder, had made a depoſition in his own defence, and was to be produced on the trial. This particular confirmed his deſpair, and in a tranſport of madneſs the un⯑happy man put an end to his life, in the priſon, the day before the aſſizes began."’

Prepared though I was to expect an account of Mr. W—'s death, the manner of it, however, filled my ſoul with horror, and had a more immediate effect upon my conſtitution, than any of the ſhocks I had received before. From that ſad hour, when no kind prop [244] remained to ſtay my overburdened heart, I have ſunk beneath its weight; my waſting form and ſlackened nerves give hopes of my releaſe, and with this heavy taſk, which now draws near an end, I truſt my woes ſhall ceaſe.

The firſt thing that occurred to my mind, upon this tragical event, was the benefit that my humane and hoſpitable friend of the cottage, and her lovely child, might poſſibly receive from it; and I had the ſatisfaction, before I left the kingdom, to hear that Mrs. N— had ſufficiently proved her mother's marriage, by the certificate and witneſs, and taken poſſeſſion of caſtle W—, as ſole heireſs to her father's eſtate and fortune, which were very conſiderable.

[245]I did not make myſelf known to her, as under our different circumſtances no manner of connection could ever pro⯑perly have ſubſiſted between us; but, as I was entitled to a jointure of four hundred pounds a year, by marriage ſettlement, I put the deed, which had been left in my mother's poſſeſſion, into the hands of an attorney at Cheſter, to claim my rights, which were not denied; and on receipt of the firſt payment I quitted England, for ever, and came over here to France, with a purpoſe of retiring immediately into a convent, for life.

I began my narrative of woe, before I left England, and have completed it ſince I came over, and ſhall put it into the India Houſe for you, at Paris, if I [246] may have life enough to carry me thi⯑ther, as I deſign to fix my reſidence in ſome of the diſtant provinces beyond it. But I have been confined here, theſe two days, not being able to proceed further, from the failure of my ſtrength, and the dejection of my ſpirits.

Adieu, my deareſt brother! may watchful angels hover round you, and guard and guide your footſteps in the paths of virtue! I feel myſelf growing weaker, every line I write, and think that here my journey and my cares will ſhortly end together. With my laſt ſigh I pray to be forgiven by Heaven and you! and now, once more, adieu, I hope, for ever.

LETTER LXVII.
Lady BARTON to Miſs CLEVELAND.

YES, Fanny, your remark is juſt—The tears which flow for foreign griefs, help ſomewhat to ſoften the poig⯑nancy of home felt ſorrows. I ſympa⯑thized throughout every circumſtance of the ill-fated Maria's diſtreſs, and was rejoiced at her lucky eſcape from the deſperate guilt of ſuicide.

It is intolerance not intolerability, impatience not ſuffering, that ever im⯑pels to ſuch an act. For it requires no further argument than this, that God is juſt, to evince that our ſtrength of mind and body muſt be equally balanced by [248] nature; ſo that the one may be ſuffici⯑ently able to bear, whatever can be in⯑flicted on the other, until death, with⯑out precipitation, neceſſarily comes to the relief of the overburdened ſufferer. For pain or grief are able to do their own buſineſs, without the aſſiſtance of a crime.

From whence I argue, that reſolution may laſt as long as life, and that a vir⯑tuous ſoul may be ſooner ſeparated than ſubdued.—I have endeavoured to ex⯑preſs myſelf upon this ſubject, with all the energy I could—I feel an intereſt in this reaſoning, at preſent, and ſhall repoſe my truſt in it.

Maria was certainly more wretched, than I am, by the addition of one cir⯑cumſtance, [249] which alone was ſufficient to have rendered her ſo; but ſurely we may hope, without offence to the moſt rigid virtue, that penitence and ſufferings, ſuch as hers, may have atoned for her tranſgreſſion, and that ſhe now is happy—It is to be innocent, to be unhappy—Whilſt I muſt ſtill ſubſcribe myſelf your unhappy, but affectionate ſiſter.

LETTER LXVIII
Lady HUME to Lady BARTON.

YOUR Fanny, my Louiſa, has obeyed your kind command, and now claims the ſad indulgence promiſed in your laſt—I long, yet dread to know [250] what thoſe events can be, which you deem more intereſting, than any of thoſe extraordinary circumſtances, which have already happened to you!

I cannot expreſs the mixed ſenſation which my heart is at preſent ſenſible of! While I give it up to that joy, which hap⯑pineſs like mine ſhould inſpire, I fancy I defraud you of that portion of ſorrow which is due to your diſtreſs; and while I tenderly reflect upon your ſufferings, and buſy my imagination in trying to diſcover thoſe additional woes you hint at, the big drop which ſteals down my cheek, ſilently reproaches me with in⯑gratitude to my dear brother, to his amiable wife, to my reclaimed prodigal, to Providence! and when, as it ſome⯑times happens, my melancholy becomes [251] contagious, and that I ſee a gloomy look of inquiry ſpread over thoſe countenances, which ſhould be lighted up with ſmiles, I ſtrive, forgive me, my Louiſa! to forget your ſorrows, and diſpel the cloud I have created, by affected efforts of chearfulneſs.

But I will no longer, like Miſs Howe in Clariſſa, content myſelf with poorly lamenting the unhappineſs of my friend—I can have no doubt of Lord Hume's indulgence, I will requeſt his permiſſion to ſee and embrace my ſiſter—Her ſighs and tears ſhall flow upon my boſom! and I will try to pour the balm of comfort into her's.

You did not date your laſt letter, ſo ſo that I cannot even gueſs where you are, [252] at preſent; but I ſhall direct this to South⯑field, and impatiently wait for the ex⯑planation of that gloomy myſtery in which you ſeem involved.—All here ſalute you with the tendereſt affection, for as I now conſider myſelf accountable to lord Hume, for every moment of my time, I proclaimed my intention of writing to you, before I retired from the drawing-room; and ſhall try to return to it with as chearful a countenance as I can poſſibly aſſume; but be aſſured, that my heart will never be truly at eaſe, till I know that your's is ſo—As I ſhall never ceaſe to be your faithfully affectionate

LETTER LXIX.
Lady BARTON to Lady HUME.

THE knowing that my Fanny is happy, is certainly a reaſon for my being leſs wretched than when I wrote laſt; but then the cruel thought of in⯑terrupting her felicity, muſt add to my diſtreſs—And can it bear addition! O yes! yes! the torturing ſuſpence which I now feel, too ſurely informs me that there yet remains many arrows in the quiver of adverſity, which may ſtill be pointed at my ſad heart, and yet not pierce it through.

O Fanny, it is very difficult to die! at leaſt I find it ſo—Death ſports with human miſery, and would rather increaſe, than end them—‘"'Tis his delight to bid [254] the wretch ſurvive the fortunate! the feeble wrap the athletic in his ſhroud, and weeping parents build their chil⯑dren's tombs!"’

Excuſe this rhapſody—I will try to collect myſelf, and acquaint you with the particulars of my preſent diſtreſs.

The morning after I had written to you, from Elm-grove, I ordered my car⯑riage, as I had intended, and at breakfaſt acquainted Lady Creſwell with my deſign of ſetting out for Southfield.—Every argument that friendſhip or po⯑liteneſs could urge, were uſed, to pre⯑vail on me to ſtay with them, for a few days longer; but I continued firm to my purpoſe.

I told Harriet, that ſhe might remain with lady Creſwell till ſhe came to re⯑turn [255] my viſit, which both ſhe and Sir Harry promiſed ſhould be in ten days, or a fortnight—Harriet declined my in⯑dulgence, and entreated me, with un⯑common earneſtneſs, to take her with me—I conſidered her refuſal as the ef⯑fect of her attention and complaiſance to me, till with a very ſolemn air ſhe ſaid to me, when we were alone, ‘"If you, Madam, think it neceſſary to quit Elm-grove, I am ſure I ought to do ſo too."’ I acquieſced in her opinion, and deſired her to get ready immediately.

Lord Lucan, to my great ſatisfaction, did not appear at breakfaſt—when he was inquired for, the ſervants ſaid he had rode out, very early in the morning. I took my friend lady Creſwell aſide, and requeſted her, not without ſome con⯑fuſion, [256] to deliver my letter to his lord⯑ſhip, as ſoon as he returned from riding. Almoſt at that inſtant, a ſervant of Sir William's galloped into the court-yard, and preſented the following billet to me.

[257]I have already told you that Lady Creſwell was with me, when I received this ſhocking ſentence—Amazement ſuſpended all my powers, while I read it! my ſight forſook me, the paper dropped out of my hand, and I fell al⯑moſt ſenſeleſs, upon a couch! When I recovered my ſpeech, I bid her read it, and tell me what it meant?

She quickly ſaw through the deteſted villainy, and at once exclaimed, ‘"your huſband is abuſed! that wicked Co⯑lonel Walter has deceived him—My aunt, unhappy and infatuated woman! correſponds with him, and has doubt⯑leſs tranſmitted an account of Lord Lucan's being here."’

Her ſurmiſe was equal to conviction, and I that moment beheld myſelf the [258] victim of that wretch's diſappointed paſſion—O could my heart have told me I was an innocent one, how ſlightly ſhould I have regarded the utmoſt ma⯑lice of this fiend!

I need not attempt to deſcribe the diſtraction of my mind, during the jour⯑ney. Harriet was ſo viſibly affected with my grief, though unknowing of the cauſe, that I would, if poſſible, have con⯑cealed it from her; and even accuſed myſelf for making her heart ſo early ac⯑quainted with ſorrow.

When we arrived at Southfield, Ben⯑ſon, with tears in her eyes, informed me, that Sir William was dangerouſly ill; the vein in his lungs, which had been cloſed, for ſome time, had opened, and the phyſician who attended him, had but [259] very faint hopes of his life—The agony which this account threw me into, I ſhall leave to your own ſenſibility to im⯑agine—I fell upon my knees, and in an heart felt extaſy, cried out, ‘"Gracious God! have pity on me! ſpare my huſband's life! and let not his murderer triumph over him and me, at once!"’

Harriet and Benſon raiſed me from the ground, with a mingled expreſſion of pity and horror in their looks—they thought me mad—I was, alas! too ſen⯑ſible, at leaſt to miſery!—When I became a little more calm, Harriet aſked me if I would not go to ſee Sir William? I ſtarted up at the queſtion, and would have flown that moment to his bed-ſide, had not Benſon interpoſed, by telling me he was juſt fallen into a ſlumber, and that the doctor had given orders he ſhould not be diſturbed.

[260]The idea that his mind was at reſt afforded a little eaſe to my own; the tears ran ſilent and plenteous down my cheeks, while my heart offered up the moſt fer⯑vent petitions to the fountain of life, for his recovery!—By degrees I became compoſed, and, at Harriet's entreaty, I tried to eat, and retired to reſt.

In the morning, doctor Hartford, who attends Sir William, deſired to ſee me—He told me that the ſudden and violent return of his patient's diſorder had proceeded from ſome perturbation of mind, and that the only chance he had for his life, was the being kept in a ſtate of apathy, as much as poſſible, and adviſed my not ſeeing him, for ſome days yet, as even the moſt pleaſing emo⯑tion might be productive of fatal con⯑ſequences.

[261]I told him I would not attempt any thing that ſhould injure his health, though I moſt earneſtly wiſhed to ſee him.—He ſaid he had taken the liberty of preventing two letters from being delivered to him, for the reaſons he had then given me—He preſented them to me; I ſaw that one of them was the letter I had ſent, by the ſervant, the other was from Colonel Walter.

Surely, if a breach of truſt could ever be deemed pardonable, the peculiarity of my ſituation might have furniſhed an excuſe for reading this letter! but my heart revolted at the mean idea—I gave both of them to Harriet, and bid her keep them till her uncle ſhould be able to read them himſelf.

[262]About an hour after this, Sir Wil⯑liam ſent for Harriet; the moment he ſaw her, he cried out, ‘"Where is ſhe?"’ ‘"In her chamber, Sir, weeping your illneſs, and praying for your recovery’—‘For my death, you mean."’ ‘"Indeed you wrong her, Sir; I never ſaw any perſon ſo truly concerned for another."’—‘"Where is lord Lucan? Why do you bluſh, at that queſtion? what then! art thou become the confident, the vile accomplice, of your aunt's infamy."’ ‘"Believe me, Sir, I never heard, or ſaw, a word or action of her's, that ſhould be called ſo—She is the beſt of women,"’—‘"If that be true, the whole ſex are paſt redemption—But where is Lord Lu⯑can?"’ ‘"We left him at Elm-grove—My dear, dear uncle! let me entreat you to compoſe yourſelf; indeed you wrong my aunt moſt cruelly."’

[263]She fell on her knees at his bedſide, and kiſſed his hand.—‘"O Harriet! I am but too well convinced that your expreſſion refers more juſtly to her—It is ſhe has wronged herſelf, and me too—But perhaps I have de⯑ſerved to loſe her affection, though mine was true to her.—Yet for her own ſake, for the honour of her fa⯑mily, I did not think ſhe would have been abandoned—But d—n d—n her!"’ He wept, while he pronounced theſe horrid words!

Harriet deſcribed the ſtrong emotion ſhe had ſeen me feel, on hearing of his illneſs; he wept again, yet called me an hyena; and then cried out, ‘"Why does ſhe not appear before me? O, ſhe is conſcious of her crime, and [264] dare not look upon me!"’ Harriet then acquainted him of the reſtraint his phy⯑ſician had impoſed on me. ‘"It is very true, he replied, the ſight of her would kill me! but let her write, if ſhe has any thing to ſay in her defence."’

She then gave him my letter—He ſeemed much agitated while he read it; then ſaid he was too weak to bear theſe painful conflicts, and bad her tell me he would receive me, as ſoon as he was able, but only to confront me with ſuch proofs, as were indubitable, and never, from that moment, ſee me more.

Alas! my ſiſter, what will now be⯑come of me! grant it were poſſible I could be able to undeceive Sir William, [265] and remove even the ſhadow of ſuſpicion from his thoughts, muſt I not always live in fear? a fear which my own con⯑ſciouſneſs will ſtill create! That mutual band of conjugal felicity, a perfect con⯑fidence! is now for ever broken—The gloomy reflections that dwell within my boſom will ſtill appear, and raiſe up freſh diſquiets and alarms within my huſband's breaſt: though he conceals his doubts, my heart will feel them, and ſecretly repine that even the ſacrifice of my unhappy paſſion has not been able to procure his peace! yet this is the ſole proſpect, this the compounding hope, of ſuch a wretch as I!

Harriet has ſeen her uncle every day; and, in conſequence of their converſa⯑tions, I have written to him twice—He [266] ſeems much affected while he reads my letters, and yet returns again to his unjuſt ſuſpicions—Colonel Walter's let⯑ter has been delivered to him; he in⯑quired whether I knew who it came from, and upon Harriet's telling him I did, he replied, that has more weight with me than all that ſhe has proteſted under her hand—There is, yet at leaſt, ſome virtue in her.

Indeed, my ſiſter, were I not convin⯑ced it is my duty to calm Sir William's mind, I could, with the utmoſt compo⯑ſure, ſubmit to, and ſink under, the cruel calumny thrown out againſt me—The world, and all that it contains, ſeems to recede from my now feeble graſp—The dejection of my ſpirits has diffuſed an univerſal languor through [267] my whole frame, and ſome bleſſed in⯑telligence whiſpers me, that ſoon, very ſoon, this poor torn heart will be at peace! ſurely, my Fanny, you will, you ought, I mean, rejoice, at my deli⯑verance!

I am glad of your happineſs, of my brother's, and of every one's; I could at this moment rejoice in a cer⯑tainty of my being the only wretched creature upon earth.—I wiſh I could prevent your ſending a thought, or a ſigh, this way! your ſorrow for my mi⯑ſery can but increaſe it—Strive to forget it, then, perhaps I may yet do ſo too—But never ſhall I ceaſe to remember, that I am

LETTER LXX.
Lord HUME to Lord LUCAN.

WOULD you believe it, Lucan, I am become a philoſopher! and that by the worſt of all poſſible means, ex⯑perience—I find there is no ſuch thing as permanent happineſs, for in the very moment that I looked down with pity upon kings, my cup has been daſhed with a good ſmart doſe of coloquintida.

For ſome time before my marriage, both Sir George Cleveland and I obſerv⯑ed that my dear Fanny was frequently dejected, and melancholy; but whenever we ſeemed to take notice of this indiſpo⯑ſition of mind, ſhe attributed it to the change of climate, and immediately aſ⯑ſumed an air of chearfulneſs.

[269]For my own part, I ſometimes thought that her uneaſineſs might pro⯑ceed from a recollection of my former conduct, and therefore endeavoured to diſſipate her ſuſpicions, by every mark of the ſincereſt attachment—I flattered myſelf I had ſucceeded, as ſhe had gi⯑ven me her hand without the leaſt affec⯑tation of reluctance, which young la⯑dies ſometimes aſſume the appearance of, in order to enhance the value of the gift.

I think there never was a blither bridegroom than myſelf—indeed I felt myſelf moſt truly happy—Yet my Fanny's fits of melancholy frequently returned, and I have ſometimes ſurpriſ⯑ed her in tears! I uſed to kiſs them off, and begged to know the cauſe; ſhe conſtantly evaded my requeſt, but with [270] ſo much tenderneſs and delicacy, that I could not inſiſt on her compliance, or even let her ſee that I was unhappy my⯑ſelf, leſt it ſhould render her more ſo.

In this kind of mortal ſtate we paſſed ſeveral weeks; but a letter that was de⯑livered to her lately, has unravelled the myſtery.—We were alone in her dreſ⯑ſing-room when it was brought to her—While ſhe read it her countenance changed ſo viſibly, that I could not avoid taken notice of it to her; ſhe burſt into tears, and exclaimed, my unhappy ſiſter! What! is ſhe dead? I aſked—Not yet, ſhe anſwered, and ſunk back as if near fainting in her chair—By Heaven, Lucan, I would not go through ſuch another moment, for the diamond eyes of the Indian idol—I forget his name—that are computed to be worth a million and a half!

[271]As ſoon as ſhe had recovered, ſhe en⯑treated me not to mention what had happened, to Sir George, or his lady; then told me that Lady Barton was the moſt miſerable being upon earth, from the villainy of a vile fellow who lives in their neighbourhood, and was himſelf in love with her, who, by a falſe accuſa⯑tion of her to her huſband, has rendered him ſo outrageouſly jealous, as almoſt to endanger Sir William's life; that, from her ſiſter's letters, ſhe had reaſon to believe that ſhe alſo was dying, and implored me to ſet out for Ireland with her imme⯑diately, in order to reſcue lady Barton, if poſſible, by removing her from that ſcene of miſery and diſtreſs.

I readily acquieſced in her deſire, diſcovering ſtill new charms in her ten⯑der [272] and generous affection for her un⯑happy ſiſter, which has been the ſole ſource of her melancholy—She gave me many prudent reaſons for not acquaint⯑ing her brother with this affair; ſo that our ſcheme was mentioned at dinner, as a ſudden thought, and every thing was fixed for our ſetting out in two days—But pity me, Lucan, when I tell you that my whole of life, my heart's dear Fanny, was taken ill that night, the next day grew much worſe, and on the third, the phyſicians pronounced her diſorder to be a miliary fever. She is now, thank Heaven! out of danger, but weak, low, and in her bed. I did not know how truly, how fondly, I loved her, Lucan! till now—I am not aſhamed of the blot a tear has juſt made.

[273]Her impatience to ſet out for your country is unabated, but I fear it will be ſome time before her ſtrength will be equal to the journey. She has com⯑manded me to write a few lines, in gay⯑eté de coeur, to lady Barton, as if jealous of the correſpondence between them, and ſaying that I will only allow her to anſwer her letters, in perſon—This is meant to excuſe her ſilence, without alarming her about her illneſs—How tender, how conſiderate!

I hope to ſee you ſoon in Dublin, and that we ſhall return to England to⯑gether; if Lady Barton ſhould come with us, we ſhall be a good melange enough for a parte quarré—I am reſolved to be gay; my wife will, I hope, be chearful, when ſhe has reſcued her ſiſter [274] from the green-eyed monſter—You will be polite, and agreeable, at leaſt; and I think lady Barton will have no great cauſe to be ſorrowful at leaving a huſ⯑band, with whom ſhe has never been happy, as Fanny has now confeſſed to me, on this occaſion.

In my next, I hope I ſhall be able to fix the day of our ſetting out—Till we meet, adieu, my dear Lucan,

LETTER LXXI.
Lady BARTON to Lady HUME.

IT is over, my dear ſiſter! my trial and condemnation are paſt, and I now ſink under the weight of his cenſure, from [275] which I neither ought, nor deſire to ap⯑peal—Yeſterday Sir William deſired to ſee me; I inſtantly obeyed his ſummons, and approached him pale and trem⯑bling—But my wanneſs was the effect of ill health, and my tremor aroſe from weakneſs—Yet he perhaps might have attributed theſe ſymptoms to guilt, or fear; for a perſon arraigned, is generally half condemned.

I dreaded his flying into a rage at ſeeing me, but, to do him juſtice, he was unuſually calm—As I entered the cham⯑ber, he ſaid, ‘"I am ſorry, Madam, that we ſhould meet thus"’—I told him I was ſincerely grieved for having been the innocent cauſe of ſo much uneaſineſs to him—He repeated the word innocent, and then launched out into the moſt cruel, [276] and I am happy to ſay, falſe accuſation, that ever was uttered.

Wretched! wretched man! my heart this moment feels for what his muſt one day ſuffer! He was violently agitated, while he proceeded in his accuſation; and I ſometimes thought that he appeared to doubt the improbabilities he uttered, till he produced lord Lucan's picture, which ſeemed like a viſible miracle to corroborate the whole legend.

I offered not the leaſt interruption, while he ſpoke; but when he had ended, I threw myſelf upon my knees before him, and in the moſt ſolemn manner aſſured him, that I had never been guilty of an act of diſhonour, though I con⯑feſſed that my affections had not been in⯑violably [277] reſtrained to him; perhaps from the harſhneſs of his manners, perhaps from my own weakneſs.

He was variouſly affected whilſt I ſpoke, and often broke out into extrava⯑gant exclamations, denying the truth of what I ſaid, by recurring to the charge againſt me—At other times he appeared ſoftened, for an inſtant; but then the picture, like Othello's handkerchief, ſtill turned his heart to ſtone.

Why was I not at liberty to unravel that myſtery? But my word was long ſince paſſed to keep it ſecret, and never ſhall that bond be forfeited; nor ſhall my innocence ever be juſtified by diſho⯑nour. Beſides, this was but a circum⯑ſtance, and that equivocal, at moſt.

[278]He then ſaid, that as my family, all but myſelf, were truly reſpectable, he would, for their ſakes, take ſome time to conſider how he ſhould act, before he branded me with infamy; and that I might remain a priſoner in his houſe, till he had determined on my ſentence—But from that moment interdicted me from quitting my apartment; and, what was ſtill much more ſevere, from ſeeing or converſing with my ſole comfort, the tender, the affectionate, the amiable Harriet.

I wept, but it was in ſilence, and yielded to this hard decree without a murmur—He might have been more cruel to me—Benſon is ſtill permitted to attend me; nor has he yet forbidden me the melancholy pleaſure of writing to my [279] ſiſter! I thank him, moſt ſincerely, for theſe two indulgencies, and moſt de⯑voutly hope I ſhall not want them long.

While I live, I ſhall never ceaſe to lament my being the fatal and ſole ſource of ſorrow to my beloved ſiſter—O, dry your tears, my Fanny, and turn your eyes to happier views—See an adoring huſband, and a tender brother court you to happineſs—Forget the wretch that mars your preſent bliſs, and renders you ungrateful for Heaven's bounty.

My heart ſinks in me—My friend, my little Harriet, is juſt ſent away! I hear the wheels that carry her from hence—they roll upon my heart! pro⯑tecting angels guard her innocence! and ſoothe the ſorrows of her tender mind! [280] I know it, Benſon, ſhe was drowned in tears—I feel them ſtream this moment on my breaſt—Alas! my Fanny, my head turns round, I cannot write another line,

LETTER LXXII.
Lady BARTON to Lady HUME.

DID you not think I was completely wretched when I laſt wrote to you? I thought ſo then, but find my error now—There is no bounds to miſeries like mine; the ſwelling waves riſe upon one another, and overwhelm me—Why does this feeble bark ſtruggle ſo long, why not ſink down at once to dark oblivion! But I will ſilence this repining heart, nor murmur at my ſufferings.

[281]About eight o'clock, this morning, there arrived a meſſenger from Walterſ⯑burgh, and in a few minutes after, Sir William ruſhed into my room, with an appearance of frenzy in his air and countenance.—‘"Vileſt of women!’ cried he out, ‘"you have now completed your wickedneſs—But think not that either you, or your accomplice, ſhall eſcape—That pity, which pleaded in my weak heart, even for an adultreſs, will but increaſe my rage againſt the murdereſs of my friend."’ He then quitted me abruptly, as if bent upon ſome horrid purpoſe.

Yes, Fanny, I have heard my name traduced by the two vileſt terms that ever diſgraced human nature, and yet I neither ſighed nor ſhed a tear—I be⯑came [282] petrified with horror, and fixed my eyes in ſtupid ſilence on the door at which Sir William iſſued, till Benſon opened it ſome minutes after, and found me quite immoveable.

I blame him not for his intemperate wrath; he thinks he has juſt cauſe—There has been a duel—Lord Lucan is in fault—he was the challenger—He has deſtroyed my fame and peace of mind, for ever! It is but juſt it ſhould be ſo, that he who cauſed my weakneſs, ſhould puniſh it.

I hear that he is dangerouſly wounded, and Colonel Walter mortally—O could I hope my prayers might reach the throne of mercy! But am I not, as Sir William ſtiles me, a murdereſs? too [283] ſurely ſo! I am the fatal cauſe of all theſe crimes—forgive me, gracious Heaven! No words can paint my agonies! death only can relieve them.

A note from Sir William! it has broke my heart—I fear I cannot ſee to copy it.

I wrote upon the inſtant, but even at this ſhort interval cannot recollect what I ſaid—My ſenſations were too much diverſified, too rapid, to leave ſtrong traces on the memory—What did I not feel! horror! pity! grief! and even a gleam of joy! joy that my name [286] ſhall not diſgrace my family, nor make it hateful, when I ſhall be but duſt!

Sir William's kindneſs in reſtoring Harriet to me is the moſt pleaſing proof that he could give of his returning confidence—I know that it will make her happy, and therefore do I doubly thank him—All other marks of his regard muſt come too late—We cannot live together—Yet I feel that death alone will part us—His approaches have long been welcomed by me; I have thought his harbingers were ſlow, and chid their tardy, though ſure progreſs—Yet would I now delay their lingering ſteps, till I could ſold my ſiſter to my heart, then bid it ceaſe to beat—This is a cruel but a natural wiſh—I will not preſs for the indulgence of it.

[287]I am moſt truly thankful that Lord Lucan's life is ſafe, but cannot form the leaſt conjecture why he ſhould hazard it, as he has done—It is impoſſible that he ſhould know the injuries I have ſuſ⯑tained from Colonel Walter—To you alone have I revealed my ſufferings. Even Harriet was a ſtranger to the cauſe of my diſtreſs, till Sir William's violence informed her of his ſuſpicions; and ſure I am, ſhe would not publiſh my diſgrace. This is a point that I could wiſh was cleared—Yet of what moment is it to me now?

I have juſt received a letter from Lord Hume—excuſe my ſilence to him, and aſſure him of my affectionate regards—My trueſt tendereſt love awaits my bro⯑ther—and I charge you, Fanny, never [288] to let him know what I have ſuffered—it would wound his peace, when I ſhall be at reſt.

Another note from Sir William, con⯑taining unbounded thanks for what he calls my condeſcending goodneſs—Can there be any merit in the forgiveneſs of one frail and erring being, to another! I will try if I can reſt—good-night, my deareſt ſiſter,

LETTER LXXIII.
Lady BARTON to Lady HUME.

SIR William returned, about ten o'clock this morning, from Walterſ⯑burgh, and I was not up—I uſed to be an early riſer, Fanny—But may now ſay with Anna, in Douglas—

It was near eleven before I rang my bell; and though Sir William expreſſed the greateſt impatience to ſee me, he would not ſuffer Benſon to diſturb me—Why do theſe petits ſoins appear too late for him or me to profit from! As ſoon as ſhe informed me that he was in the houſe, I roſe and dreſſed me with the utmoſt expedition; then ſent to let him know that I was ready to receive his commands—I found my mind infinitely more agitated than when he had ſum⯑moned me to appear before him; yet I did not tremble as I then had done, but my heart beat quicker.

He approached me with a look of tender anxiety, which I had never ſeen [290] him wear; I aroſe as he entered, he caught my hand and dropped upon one knee, ‘"Lady Barton, ſaid he, it is im⯑poſſible for words to expreſs my feel⯑ings; could you be ſenſible of what they are, you would both pardon and pity me!"’ I made the ſtrongeſt ef⯑fort in my power to raiſe him from the ground, but both my ſtrength and ſpeech forſook me, and I ſunk motion⯑leſs within his arms.

When I recovered, I found myſelf re⯑clining upon Benſon's boſom, and Sir William walking about the room, like a diſtracted perſon, exclaiming, ‘"She is loſt! is gone for ever! and I have killed her! I am the murderer, now!"’

The moment I could ſpeak, I ſaid every thing in my power to calm his [291] mind, but he continued to accuſe him⯑ſelf much more ſeverely than he could deſerve; and when he looked upon my altered face, tears ſtreamed from his ſad eyes—Indeed I am much changed from what I was—I think you ſcarce could know me.

Colonel Walter is no more—Though I have no faith in the efficacy of prayers for the dead, yet I cannot refrain from offering up mine—For religion, prompt⯑ed by misfortunes, is apt to exceed to ſuperſtition. But enough, or rather ſay too much, of this ſad ſubject.

Harriet is returned—She ſtarted at ſeeing me—It is amazing what a viſible alteration a few days has made in my ap⯑pearance; I do not myſelf perceive any [292] great internal change; an encreaſing weakneſs is all that I am ſenſible of—Death ſeems to be grateful for the ar⯑dent wiſhes I have ſo often made for him, and approaches me with the gen⯑tleneſs of a friend—The variety of ter⯑rors I have gone through, have diſarmed him of his, and though they at preſent ſeem to be paſſed, (pardon me, my ſiſ⯑ter!) I cannot help conſidering my diſ⯑ſolution as a deliverance.

As ſoon as Harriet arrived, Sir Wil⯑liam brought her by the hand, and pre⯑ſenting her to me, ſaid, ‘"I am happy, my dear niece, to reſtore you again to the protection of the beſt, and moſt in⯑jured woman breathing—My future conduct to her, joined to your care and aſſiduity, will, I hope, reſtore her health, and make us all happy, once more."’

[293]I bowed aſſent to Sir William's impoſ⯑ſible wiſh, and embraced my beloved Harriet with all the fondneſs of a mo⯑ther—I ſhall be a loſs to her, Fanny; my heart melts at the idea of her diſtreſs—I am not able to hold the pen longer, at preſent, I will reaſſume it to-morrow.

I hope that contrary winds are the ſole cauſe of my not hearing from you—The agitation of my mind, for ſome time paſt, has prevented my thinking too deeply on your ſilence—I flatter myſelf that the next poſt-day will prevent my future anxiety.

LETTER LXXIV.
Lady BARTON to Lady HUME.

MY illneſs, or rather languor, en⯑creaſes ſo faſt upon me, that it is with much difficulty I can ſupport myſelf in my chair, for an hour together; yet they talk of carrying me to Liſbon—How abſurd! as if a long journey could cure a broken heart—Mine is the gentleſt of decays; the marks of my ap⯑proaching diſſolution are almoſt as viſible in the faces that ſurround me, as in my own—Sir William is the very ſtatue of grief; no pen or pencil can deſcribe the tender expreſſion of concern and ſolicitude that appears in Harriet's face—Benſon is become a ſpectre; and doc⯑tor [295] Hartford, though long uſed to look on the approaches of death, ſeems ſtartled and affected by them now.

The unhappy affair of the duel has not yet been explained; but I have nei⯑ther curioſity or concern about that, or any thing elſe, now left—Even my un⯑happy paſſion have I long ſince ſacrificed to my duty—Be witneſs, for me, Hea⯑ven! that from the moment of Sir Wil⯑liam's danger, the fond delirium vaniſh⯑ed from my heart, and left not even one tainted trace behind!—You have known all the conflicts of my ſoul, and were there ought that could diſturb it now, to you I would confeſs the painful per⯑turbation, as to Heaven—but all is calm, my ſiſter!

May the laſt lines be prophetic! Amen! Adieu! I will not yet ſay a laſt one, to my beloved ſiſter.

P.S. You are at liberty to acquaint my brother with my ſituation—No ſtain will now reflect on him, from me. My memory will ſtill be dear to thoſe I love, to him, to you, my ſiſter—This thought will ſmooth my paſſage to the grave, and I ſhall reſt in peace.

LETTER LXXV.
Lord LUCAN to Lord HUME.

YOUR laſt letter has brought about a fatal event. I ſhall make no merit of letting you into a ſecret, which is now at an end for ever! Lady Barton was the charming woman, to whom my heart had dedicated my life. Her beau⯑ty, purity, and frankneſs, ſure never yet were equalled! My attentions and regards, I fear, were too much marked towards her, for it ſeems they were ta⯑ken notice of by a gentleman, Colonel Walter, who likewiſe viſited at her houſe.

[298]This happened unfortunately to excite ſome jealouſy in his breaſt. Though how was it poſſible for ſuch a being as her to inſpire a love without honour! He gave hints of his ſuſpicion, though they then appeared to be of no conſe⯑quence; but upon reading your letter, my mind quickly referred to the perſons in queſtion, though you neither men⯑tioned his name, or mine.

I was ſhocked at the falſhood and vil⯑lainy of the ſtory—Had Lady Barton been an object of the utmoſt indifference to me, honour and humanity muſt have excited me to exculpate both her and myſelf, from ſo vile a ſlander—But, adoring her as I do! mere juſtice was too lukewarm a principle of action—I added reſentment to it.

[299]I ſet out immediately for his houſe, and charged him with his perfidy—He denied it at firſt, but when I had pro⯑duced my voucher, he attempted to ex⯑cuſe himſelf, by ſaying, ‘"that as the la⯑dy had herſelf acknowledged a paſſion for me, to him, it required no great reach of philoſophy to deduce the na⯑tural concluſion he had drawn from ſuch premiſes."’

‘"I ſhall then render myſelf worthy of ſuch a confeſſion, ſaid I, by chaſtiſ⯑ing your breach of honour in repeat⯑ing it."’—I had come prepared, and told him ſo, deſiring him to follow me to the end of a grove near the place, which he ſoon did—We were both wounded, but he mortally. I took care of him home—He ſeemed ſenſible and ſorry [300] for his crime, and ſaid he would repair it—He is ſince dead.

Lady Barton is now languiſhing in the laſt ſtage of a conſumption—And I am the moſt wretched being upon earth—I would fly out of the kingdom this moment, but that I muſt ſtay to take my trial here—Alas! of what uſe would flight be to me—Can I leave the remem⯑brance of my ſorrows behind! Let me ſee you as ſoon as you arrive, and be⯑ [...]ieve me

LETTER LXXVI.
Lady HUME to Lady BARTON.

IN what terms ſhall I expreſs the feel⯑ings of my heart, for my more than amiable, my unhappy ſiſter! her ſuffer⯑ings have brought me near the brink of the grave, and now that they are paſt, why does ſhe cruelly refuſe her own aſ⯑ſent to life, and happineſs? Live, my Louiſa! and do not doom me for ever to lament that I was bleſſed with ſuch a friend!

I am ſcarce recovered from a dan⯑gerous fever, and yet have got ſo far on my way, to aſſiſt your recovery, un⯑mindful of my own—Let not my fond attention be thrown away, I conjure you! [302] but in pity to Sir William, to the gen⯑tle Harriet, and to me at leaſt, exert a wiſh to live—I aſk no more! the reſt may be expected from your youth, and the unceaſing aſſiduity of ſuch tender friends.

I have not ſtrength to undertake a journey through Wales; beſides it muſt delay our meeting—I ſhall ſail this night from Pargate—My dear lord trembles for what I may ſuffer from ſea ſickneſs—I can feel no ills but your's—the moment we land, I ſhall ſet out for Southfield; I hope I ſhall be there before this let⯑ter—I am incapable of writing, my fears diſtract me, yet I will ſtrive to hope.

I acquainted my brother with every particular of your ſtory, the moment I [303] had received your permiſſion, which was the very hour before we parted—He wept, and would have accompanied me, if his Delia had been in a condition for travelling.

The tendereſt of huſband's joins me in the moſt fervent prayers and wiſhes for your recovery—O live to be a witneſs of the happineſs I experience from his kindneſs, and that happineſs will be then complete—Adieu, my deareſt ſiſter!

LETTER LXXVII.
Lady HUME to Sir GEORGE CLEVELAND.

YES, my dear brother, I have ſeen her! but fear I ſhall not long enjoy that bleſſing—Death lies in ambuſh on her lovely cheek, and lurks beneath the dimples of her ſmiles.

My lord ſaid ſhe never looked ſo beau⯑tiful as now—I think ſo, too! Why muſt thoſe beauties periſh in the grave? She was tranſported at ſeeing me, joy over⯑powered her feeble frame, ſhe became quite exhauſted, and was obliged to re⯑tire to her chamber, very early.

The next morning ſhe ſent for Sir William and me, into her dreſſing-room; [305] She appeared more animated than I had ever ſeen her, when ſhe addreſſed him thus—‘"Heaven has indulged my ut⯑moſt wiſh, in granting me the happi⯑neſs of ſeeing my beloved ſiſter; but I ſhould be unworthy of this bleſſing, if I did not endeavour that you alſo ſhould be a gainer by it—Here, Sir William, pointing to me, here is the witneſs of my weakneſs and my virtue, every movement of my heart has been laid open to her view, and to her I dare appeal, to juſtify its purity, while with myſelf, ſhe muſt condemn its frailty—If there yet needs a farther proof to ſatisfy you, I will entreat my Fanny to ſubmit the letters which have paſſed between us, to your peruſal—There you will ſee the conflicts of a weak, not wicked mind; and for the [306] ſingle treſpaſs of my heart, though an involuntary one, I now upon my knees implore your pardon."’

Sir William caught her in his arms, before ſhe could kneel, and bathed her face with his faſt flowing tears—His voice was inarticulate, and he could ſcarce pro⯑nounce, ‘"'Tis I that ought to kneel, and ſue for pardon, my angel! my Louiſa! O ſpare yourſelf and me theſe ſtrong emotions! I, only I, have been to blame! And could I now reſtore your life and happineſs, by parting with my own, I ſhould not think my puniſhment ſevere—But O, to loſe you thus! is miſery extreme."’

How ſeverely do I now reproach my⯑ſelf for not ſooner acquainting you with the unhappy ſituation of our dear ſiſter! [307] Perhaps you might have rendered it more eaſy, and ſaved her precious life! But it was at her requeſt that I concealed it till Colonel Walter's dying confeſſion had cleared her innocence.

I cannot write more, my heart is breaking! ſoon, too ſoon! ſhall I, I fear, ſubſcribe myſelf your only and

LETTER LXXVIII.
Lady HUME to Sir GEORGE CLEVELAND.

SHE is gone, for ever! I ſhall no more behold her! her gentle ſpirit took its flight to heaven, while theſe fond arms in vain endeavoured to ſup⯑port [308] the feeble frame from whence it parted—She ſunk upon my boſom, and expired! nor ſigh nor groan gave warn⯑ing of her death, ſhe cloſed her eyes, and ſlept for ever!

No words can paint the grief and diſ⯑traction, of her unhappy huſband, the tender ſorrow of the gentle Harriet, or the heart-felt anguiſh of your