LETTER CXVI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

SIR Arthur arrived in town this morning. He brought the uſurer Hen⯑ley up with him in the ſame carriage.

Young St. Ives ſet out before them, and was in London laſt night. He [2] drove directly to my lodgings, and I was fortunately at home. This did not look as if I were in the ſecret; and if he had any ſuſpicions he had not the courage to intimate them.

I condoled with him, ſaid it was a ſtrange affair, a riddle I could not read, a myſtery which time muſt elucidate, for it baffled all conjecture. He did little more than echo me, and I pretend⯑ed I would have ridden half over the world to recover his ſiſter, had there been but the leaſt clue; but there was not, and I found myſelf obliged to ſit ſtill in deſpair and aſtoniſhment.

He ſaid it was all very true, and he was very tired. He ſhould therefore drive home, get ſome refreſhment, and go to bed. This fellow, Fairfax, walks [3] on two legs, looks the world in the face, and counts for one on the muſter⯑roll. ‘But nature, creſcent in him, grew only in thews and bulk.’ Yet on the parade, fools and gapers will miſtake him for a man.

Contention with Anna St. Ives is ho⯑nourable, but to ſeem to ſhrink from beings like theſe, or to practiſe con⯑cealment with ſuch mere images of en⯑tity, is repugnant to the generous ſcorn they merit and inſpire. Imperious ne⯑ceſſity however preſcribes law, and I took care to prevent Sir Arthur's viſit to me, by having notice ſent me of his arrival, and immediately going to the encounter.

To anticipate is to overturn the card⯑caſtles of this puny race. Come upon [4] them unexpectedly, ſtare at them un⯑dauntedly, and interrogate them abrupt⯑ly, and they are put to the rout. Their looks even intreat pardon for the ill they thought, but durſt not utter.

Sir Arthur I own beheld me with a ſuſpicious eye; and though he endea⯑voured to ſeem to credit me, he did it with an aukward air.

Mrs. Clarke hearing I was there came in, and exceeding even all her former ſervour, importuned me, in the moſt direct and vehement manner, to tell what I had done with Mr. Henley and her dear young lady. She more than ever diſconcerted me. Her exuberant paſſion addreſſed itſelf alternately to me and her maſter. Her tears as well as her words were abundant, her urgency [5] and ardour extreme, and ſhe ended her apoſtrophe with again conjuring me to tell what was become of her dear, dear young lady!

"Ay, pray, pray do"—whimpered the baronet in a maudlin tone, moved by the unfeigned paſſion of his houſe⯑keeper. I gave him a look, and the driveller added—"if you know."

I was glad of a pretence to get away, and after telling him the diſtreſs of his mind was the only apology for his con⯑duct, I inſtantly quitted him, without any effort on his part to detain me.

Among other things, Mrs. Clarke re⯑peatedly reproached herſelf for not hav⯑ing written or ſent to my ſiſter; and the knight acknowledged—‘Ay, it was very neglectful! But his mind had [6] been ſo diſturbed that he had forgot⯑ten it too!’

Why do I miſapply my time on be⯑ings ſo imbecile? Maugre all my re⯑ſolves I have not ſeen her yet, Fairfax! Nor have I opened her letter! I dare not. Her Henley I am ſure is in it, and additional rage would be indubita⯑ble madneſs! Neither is this the thing moſt to be feared. She has an expanded heart, a capacious a benevolent heart, and ſhe may have ſaid ſomething which were I to ſee, and yet do the deed which ſhall be done, it might ſhew me more fiend-like than even the foul re⯑flection of my preſent thoughts. Per⯑turbation has done its work; it needs no increaſe. This quality of benevo⯑lence, in which they both glory, is tor⯑ture [7] to recollect. I ſay, Fairfax, I ne⯑ver aſked their charity. Did I not ſpurn it from me, the moment I was in⯑ſulted by the offer? Be pity beſtowed on beggars: the partiality that ſprings from affection, or the puniſhment due to neglect for me!

I will be with her ſpeedily, Fairfax! Though I linger, I do not relent. Such mercy as the being out of doubt can beſtow ſhe ſhall receive; the pleading world ſhould not wring a greater from me!

P. S. I muſt be ſpeedy: my ſiſter will hear of the affair by to-morrow's poſt, and I ſhall have her whole artillery playing upon me; and in the form of [8] letters I ſuppoſe; for I do not think ſhe will hope any thing from perſonal inter⯑view; I made her too ſenſibly feel her own inſignificance when laſt we met. I expected indeed an attack from her much ſooner, for the young lady does not want confidence in her own ſkill and courage: ſhe is of the Henley ſchool. However I do not intend to peruſe any of her epiſtles. I would ſend them back unopened, but that it would be an avowal of a knowledge of their contents; and I have no need to increaſe ſuſpicion, whoſe broad eyes are already glaring at me. But I will im⯑mediately put an end to the witch, and engender black certainty in her ſtead! The imp ſhall appear, and ſhake horrors from her ſnaky hair!

LETTER CXVII.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

ONCE more, though but in ima⯑gination, let me converſe with my friend. I know it is deluſion, but it was the ſweet cuſtom of our ſouls, and well may be indulged. Ignorant perhaps of the cauſe, my Louiſa is at this moment ac⯑cuſing me of a neglect which my heart [10] diſavows. Let me as uſual give her the hiſtory of that heart: it is a theme from which ſhe has taught me to derive pro⯑fit.

This is the fifth day of my confine⯑ment. I have the ſame walls, the ſame windows and bars to contemplate; and the ſame bolting, and locking, and clanking to hear. It is with difficulty that I can at ſome few intervals divert my thoughts from the gloom which my own ſituation, the diſtreſs of my family, and the danger of a youth ſo dear to virtue contribute to inſpire.

Nor do I know what at this moment may be the affliction of my friend. Should ſhe have heard, ſhe cannot but diſcover the principal agent of this dark plot; and exquiſite indeed would [11] be the anguiſh of her mind, could ſhe forget that fortitude and reſignation are duties. May they never be forgotten by me, during this my hour of trial!

My ſhoulder I fear has received ſome ſtrain or hurt: the pain of it continues to be great, and the inflammation is not abated. The bruiſes on my arms have in⯑creaſed in blackneſs, and their tenſion is not in the leaſt diminiſhed. The hands of thoſe bad men muſt have been as rough and callous as their hearts: they had no mercy in their gripe.

There is a loneſome ſtillneſs in this houſe, that favours the diſmal reveries which my ſituation ſuggeſts. If my handkerchief do but drop I ſtart; and the [...]ſtirring of a mouſe places Clifton full before me. Yet I repel this weak⯑neſs [12] with all my force. I deſpiſe it. Nor ſhall theſe crude viſions, the hi⯑deous phantoms of the imagination, ſub⯑due that fortitude in which I muſt wholly confide.

For theſe laſt two days, Laura has pretended to grieve at confinement: but it is mimic forrow; words of which the heart has no knowledge. She per⯑ceives I ſuſpect her, and her acting is but the more eaſily detected.

I know not whether it be not my duty to determine to exclude her; though that ſeems like cowardice. I think it is not in her power to harm me; and for telling, if ſhe have been falſe, ſhe has done her worſt. I never made a practice of concealment, neither will I now have recourſe to ſuch a fallaci⯑ous [13] expedient. Yet ſhe ſleeps in the ſame chamber with me; and ought I not to beware of inſpiring perfidy with pro⯑jects? 'Tis true my ſlumbers are broken, my nights reſtleſs, and the cracking of the wainſcot is as effectual in waking me as a thunder-clap could be. I am re⯑ſolved, however, to take the key out of the door, and either hide it or hold it all night in my hand. Miſchief is meant me, or why am I here?

I am continually looking into the cloſets, behind the doors, and under the beds and drawers. I am haunted by the ſuppoſition that I ſhall every mo⯑ment ſee this bad man ſtart up before me! What know I of the baſe engines he may employ, or the wicked arts to which he may have recourſe?

[14] But he ſhall not ſubdue me! He may diſturb me by day, and terrify me by night; but he ſhall not ſubdue me! Shall the pure mind ſhake in the pre⯑fence of evil? Shall the fortitude which ſafety feels vaniſh at the approach of danger?

Louiſa, I will ſteel my ſoul to meet him! I know not how or when he will come! I cannot tell what are the vile black inſtruments with which he may work! Sleep I ſcarcely have any. I eat with heſitation, and drink with trem⯑bling. I have heard of potions and baſe practices, that make the heart ſhudder! Yet I ſometimes think I could reſiſt even theſe. He ſhall not ſubdue me! Or if he do, it ſhall be by treachery ſuch as fiends would demur to perpetrate.

[15] Why do I think thus of him? Surely, ſurely, he cannot be ſo loſt as this! Yet here I am! I own I tremble and recoil; but it is with the dread that he ſhould plunge himſelf ſo deep in guilt as never more to riſe!

Poor Frank! Where art thou? How are thy wretched thoughts employed? Or art thou ſtill allowed to think? Art thou among the living? If thou art, what is thy ſtate! Thine is now the mi⯑ſery of impotence, thou who haſt proved thyſelf ſo mighty in act! Thou wouldſt not ſtrike, thou wouldſt not injure; and yet thy foe would ſink before thee, had he not allied himſelf to perfidy, and had he but▪left thee free. His moſt ſecret machinations could not have withſtood thy ſearching ſpirit. Thou wouldſt have [16] been here! Theſe bolts would have flown, theſe doors would have opened, and I ſhould have ſeen my ſaviour!

He hears me not! Nor thou, Louiſa! I am deſtitute of human aid!

Farewell, farewell! Ah! Farewell in⯑deed; for I am talking to emptineſs and air!

LETTER CXVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

I AM here—At the ſcene of action—ſhe is in the room above me, and I am ridding myſelf of reluctance; ſtringing my nerves for aſſault. I know not why this ſhould be neceſſary, but I feel that it is!

[19] I am waiting to queſtion Laura; but I ordered her to be in no haſte to come down, when ſhe heard me ring. I would not have my victim ſuſpect me to be here. I would come upon her by ſurpriſe, and not when ſhe was armed and prepared for repulſe. I will order the old woman to go preſently and open and ſhut the gate; as if ſhe were letting the perſon out, who came in when I rung.

I expect, nay am certain, her reſiſtance will be obſtinate—But unavailing!—I ſay unavailing!—Neither houſe nor road are near, and yet I could wiſh the ſcene were removed to the dark gloom of a foreſt; emboſomed where none but tigers or hyenas ſhould liſten to her [20] ſhrieks—I know they will be piercing;—Heart-rending!—But—!

I tell you, Fairfax, I have baniſhed all ſenſe of human pity from my boſom: it is an enemy to my purpoſe, and that muſt be!—Though the heavens ſhould ſhake and the earth open, it muſt!

Yet do not think, Fairfax, bent as I am on the full fruition of love and vengeance, I would uſe cruelty—Under⯑ſtand me: I mean wanton or unneceſſary brutality. I will be as forbearing as ſhe will permit. I fear ſhe will not ſuffer me to careſs her tenderly—But ſhe ſhall never ſleep in the arms of Henley!—She never ſhall!—I will make ſure of that! My mind is reconciled to all chances, that excepted.

[21] As I paſſed, I called at the mad-houſe; where I found Mac Fane and the ſcowl⯑ing keeper in high divan. They have been horribly alarmed. Henley has at⯑tempted an eſcape, which he was in danger of effecting; but he is brought back, after having led them a ſhort chaſe.

The apprehenſions of theſe ſcoundrels concerning future conſequences are very great, and ſwell almoſt to terror. They talked ſtrangely, aſked which way we were to get rid of him at laſt, and con⯑ceive him to be a dangerous enemy. Their thoughts ſeem tinged with dark lurkings, which they dare not own; and certainly dare not act, without my leave. Theſe fellows are all villainy! A league with demons would be leſs abominable! [22] —I muſt cloſe the account, and ſhake off ſuch peſtilential ſcoundrels!—

Laura comes! I will queſtion her a little, and then—!

LETTER CXIX.
COKE CLIFTON.
TO GUY FAIRFAX.

FOR a few days after having ſecured my tormentors, I enjoyed ſomething like comparative eaſe: but the ugly imps that haunted me, in fiercer crowds again are ſwarming round me. I am too miſerable to exiſt in this ſtate; it [27] muſt be ended. It is a turmoil that ſurpaſſes mortal ſufferance! If ſhe will wreſtle againſt fate, it is not my fault. I have no wiſh to practiſe more upon her than is neceſſary. But the thing muſt be.

Sleep I have none, reſt I have none, peace I have none. I get up and ſit down, walk out and come back, mutter imprecations unconſciouſly to myſelf, and turn the eyes of inſolent curioſity and ridiculous apprehenſion upon me in the ſtreet. A fellow has juſt now watch⯑ed me home; deeming me a lunatic I ſuppoſe; for he had ſeen my agitation, and heard the curſes which I knew not were uttered aloud, till his impertinent obſervation of me brought it to my re⯑collection.

[28] But this ſhall not be! It ſhall end! Though I rend her heart-ſtrings for it, I will have eaſe! The evening ap⯑proaches; my horſe is ordered and I will be gone. I will not, cannot endure this longer!

LETTER CXX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

IT ſhall not be!—She ſhall not eſcape me thus!—I will not endure this inſuf⯑ferable, this contemptible recantation of my wrongs! Fear is beneath me, and what have I to hope? I have made mi⯑ſery certain! I have paid the price of [67] deſtruction, and will hug it to my heart! I know how often I have prevaricated, and have loitered with revenge; but I have not loſt the flame: it burns ſtill, and never ſhall expire!

The night at Brompton, though a night of ſtorms and evil augury, was heaven to the one I have juſt paſſed. Sleep and reſt have forſaken me. 'Tis long ſince I cloſed my eyes; I know not indeed when; but laſt night I did not attempt it. I traverſed my room, open⯑ed my windows, ſhut them again, liſ⯑tened to the diſcontented monotony of the watchman without hearing him, thought over my never-forgotten inju⯑ries, my vengeance, and all the deſola⯑tion that is to follow, and having ended began again!

[68] There were ſhrieks and cries of mur⯑der in the ſtreet, about midnight; and this was the only muſic by which I re⯑member to have been rouſed. But it was momentary. My reveries returned, and ſcenes of horror roſe, more ſwarm⯑ing, dun, and ghaſtly!

My waking dreams are eternal—Well, ſo I would have them!—They prolong revenge!—I would have him by the throat for ages!—Him!—Hen⯑ley!—Would grapple with him; would ſtab and be ſtabbed; not in the fictions of a torturing fancy, but arm to arm, ſteel to ſteel, poiſon to poiſon! Ay, did I not know he would refuſe my fair challenge, hero though he be and caſed in inno⯑cence, I would inſtantly fly to let him [69] looſe upon me, that I might turn and tear him!—

Why that were delectable!—And can it not be?—Can no ſufferings move, no wrongs provoke, no taunts ſtir him to reſentment? Is he God, or is he man? To me he is demon, legion, and has poſſeſſed me wholly!

Liar that I am! How came I to for⯑get the beauteous ſorcereſs with whom I found him leagued? I have heard them called angels of light; but I have known them only fiends! They goad me with their virtues, mock at my phrenſy, defy my rage; and though ſurrounded by rape, deſtruction, and deſpair, ſleep and ſmile, while I wake and howl!

P. S. They might have ſerved the cauſe in which they have engaged more effectually, had their proceedings been leſs violent and offenſive. They do but nerve me in reſolution. The leſs pub⯑lic they had made the affair the more they would have ſhewn their generalſhip. If they be thus determined to brand me, can they ſuppoſe that my vengeance ſhall not outſtrip theirs? I own I am perplexed about the means—Invention fails me! I have debated whether I ſhould call in the aid of Mac Fane; but the idea is too deteſtable!— [79] No! I would rather take a pair of piſtols, and diſpatch her firſt and my⯑ſelf next, than expoſe her beauties to ſuch ruffian deſpicable raſcals!—Beſide I would have her will concerned—And how to conquer that?—I ſhall be driven, I foreſee I ſhall, to ſome unheard-of act of deſperation!—Drugs are a mean a pitiful expedient: not to mention that ſhe is aware of them, and uſes a kind of caution which it would be difficult to overcome. She reſerves the meal of one day for the next, after having ſuffered Laura to eat her part; ſo that inanity, ſleep or other effects, if produced, would firſt appear in the maid. This perhaps is one of the reaſons by which ſhe is in⯑duced ſtill to keep her: and were ſhe removed, and could ſuſpect it were for [80] this purpoſe, I am convinced ſhe would eat no more—No!—She muſt be fairly told the deep deſpair of my mind! and if that will not move her, why then—Death!

LETTER CXXI.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO HER BROTHER COKE CLIFTON.

WHERE is Anna St. Ives?—Where is my friend? Where is the youth to whom you owe exiſtence?—Man of revenge, anſwer me! Oh God! O God!—Is it poſſible?—Can it be that you, Coke Clifton, the ſon [82] of my mother, the hoped for friend of my heart, the expected champion of vir⯑tue, can turn aſide to ſuch baſe and pi⯑tiful vice; ſuch intolerable, ſuch ab⯑ſurd, ſuch deep hypocriſy? And why? What cauſe? Is this the re⯑ward of their uncommon virtues?

And you, Oh man! Did they not labour hourly, inceſſantly, with the pu⯑rity of ſaints and the ardour of angels, to do you good? Was it not their ſole employment; their firſt duty, and their deareſt hope? Did they ever deviate? Did they not return urbanity for arro⯑gance, kindneſs for contempt, and life for blows?—Can you, Clifton, dare you be thus wicked? And will you per⯑ſiſt?—

If you have brought them to harm, [83] if your practices have reached their lives, earth does not contain ſo foul, ſo wicked a monſter!—

Surely this cannot be! Surely you have ſome drop of mother's blood in you, and cannot be actuated by a ſpirit ſo wholly demon!

What ſhall I do? What ſhall I ſay? How ſhall I awaken a ſoul ſo ſteeped in iniquity, ſo dead to excellence, ſo obſti⯑nate in ill?—Clifton!—You were not formed for this! You have a mind that might have been the fit companion of divine natures!—It may be ſtill!—Awake! View the light, and turn from crimes, pollution, and abhorrence, to virtue, love, and truth!

Know you not the beaming charity of [84] her whom you perſecute, if—Oh God!—Surely this is vain terror! Sure⯑ly Anna St. Ives is ſtill among the li⯑ving!—

Clifton, once again I ſay, remember the untainted benevolence of her ſoul! Is it, can it be forgotten by you? Which of your good qualities was ever forgotten by her? Hear her deſcribe them in her own language! ^*

LETTER CXXII.
LOUISA CLIFTON.
TO MRS. WENBOURNE.

YOU have been kindly pleaſed to requeſt I would give you ſome account of the means we are purſuing, in hopes to obtain traces that ſhould lead to a diſcovery of the very ſtrange affair by [88] which we are all perplexed and afflicted. I am ſorry to ſay that I can do little more than narrate the diſtreſs of the va⯑rious parties, who think themſelves in⯑tereſted in the loſs of the dear friend of my heart, and of the youth ſo well wor⯑thy of her affections.

Of the grief of Sir Arthur, madam, you have yourſelf been a witneſs: nor does it ſeem to abate. I ſhould wonder indeed if it could; for though I wiſh to cheriſh hope, I own that the ſecrecy and ſilence with which this black ſtratagem has been carried into effect are truly terrifying.

Highly as I eſteem and reverence the virtues of young Mr. Henley, I have been free enough to own to you, madam, I never was any admirer of the qualities [89] and proceedings of his father. Juſtice however obliges me to ſay that he at preſent expreſſes a regret ſo deep, for the loſs of his ſon, as to prove that he has a conſiderable ſenſe of his worth. Money has been the ſole object of his efforts: yet, though his ſon had ſo great a ſum in his poſſeſſion at the time he diſappeared, he ſeems to think but little of the money, compared to the loſs which is indeed ſo infinitely more deplo⯑rable.

While I live I ſhall love and eſteem Mrs. Clarke, and her niece Peggy; whoſe kind hearts overflow with af⯑fection, both for my Anna St. Ives and young Mr. Henley. Well indeed may Peggy remember poor Frank. He was her ſaviour in the hour of her [90] diſtreſs. She takes no reſt herſelf, nor will ſhe ſuffer her huſband or her brother to take any. They are all continually on the watch; and to do the men juſtice, they do not need a ſpur.

Mr. Webb, her brother, with whoſe unfortunate hiſtory I ſuppoſe you are acquainted, gives proofs of zeal which are very affecting. The tears have fre⯑quently guſhed from me, at ſeeing the virtuous anxiety of his mind, and at re⯑collecting what that mind was, how and by whom it was preſerved, and that its whole activity is now exerted, with the ſtrong and cheering hope of returning ſome portion of the good it has re⯑ceived!

I know, madam, how great your ſor⯑row [91] muſt be, as well as that of all the once happy relations of a young lady of endowments and virtues ſo rare. Yet deep as this ſorrow is, I think it ſcarcely can exceed the anguiſh I feel; convinced as I am that my miſtaken, my unhappy brother is the cauſe of this much dread⯑ed miſery.

I told you, madam, I would go to him. I have been, and could gain no admiſſion. I have written; and have received no anſwer. Theſe circum⯑ſtances, added to the perturbation of mind which was ſo diſcoverable in him when he was laſt at Roſe-Bank, do but con⯑firm my fears of his guilt.

But as it becomes us to act, and not to lament, while there is any poſſibility [92] that action ſhould give us relief, I joined Mr. Abimelech Henley in his opinion, that we ought to apply to the civil power for redreſs. We firſt indeed prevailed on Lord Fitz-Allen to ſpeak to Mr. Clifton; but it was to no purpoſe: my brother behaved, as I propheſied he would, with diſdainful ſilence. I own I had ſome hopes that my letter would have touched his heart: I am ſorry to find they were ſo ill▪founded.

Mr. Clifton having refuſed even to deny his knowledge of the affair to his Lordſhip, he conſented that application ſhould be made to a civil magiſtrate. But Lord Fitz-Allen is ſtrangely preju⯑diced, and is perſuaded, or affects to be, that Mr. Clifton, being a gentleman, is [93] incapable of a diſhonourable act; and that young Mr. Henley and Anna St. Ives have eloped. The ſum of money Mr. Henley had in his poſſeſſion con⯑firms him in this opinion: and he has ſeveral times half perſuaded Sir Arthur, and ſome others, to be of his ſenti⯑ments.

Hearing this, and finding no poſitive accuſation, and that nothing but ſurmiſe could be preferred againſt Mr. Clifton, whoſe character was underſtood to be highly vindictive, the magiſtrate refuſed to do any thing more than ſend a polite requeſt, that he would come and ſpeak in his preſence to the parties con⯑cerned.

My brother refuſed in terms of me⯑nace and defiance; and we returned [94] home hopeleſs; yet again having re⯑courſe to watching the door of my bro⯑ther's lodgings, as has been done for theſe ſeveral days. But we have learnt nothing. And what indeed can we learn? Mr. Webb and his brother-in-law have twice followed him on foot, to the livery ſtables; and have ſeen him mount his horſe, and ride out of town: but the ſpeed with which he went quickly took him out of ſight.

The roads he choſe were in oppoſite directions: but that they might eaſily be, and yet lead to the ſame place. They are out at preſent; for their induſtry is unwearied.

It is in vain to think of purſuing my brother on horſeback; for he muſt infal⯑libly ſee his purſuer. He went one time [95] over Weſtminſter-bridge, and the other through Tyburn-turnpike up to Pad⯑dington. Their preſent project is, the firſt time he goes out, to waylay both theſe roads, and to get aſſiſtants. Mr. Webb is a ſwift runner: but the chance of ſucceſs I am afraid is very ſmall in⯑deed! However it becomes them, and us, and indeed every body, not to deſiſt, till the whole of this dark tranſaction be brought to light.

LETTER CXXIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

WHY ay! He who opens the flood-gates of miſchief is neceſſarily in moſt danger of being ſwept away by the torrent!—I have drunken deeply of ruin, and ſoon ſhall have my fill!

You warned me to beware of this raven: you told me he ſcented car⯑rion!— [97] I laughed at your prophecy!—It is fulfilled!—I am a gull!—The fleeced, cheated, deſpicable gull of the infernal villain Mac Fane!

It was right that I ſhould be loaded with every ſpecies of contempt for my⯑ſelf. I have been the fool, the gudgeon, the ineffable aſs to loſe a ſum of money to him, which to pay would be deſtruc⯑tion!—I begin to hate myſelf with moſt ſtrange inveteracy! Could I meet ſuch another fellow, I would ſpit in his face—Fairfax, it is true—By hell I hold my⯑ſelf in moſt rooted and ample antipa⯑thy!

I find I have ſtrangely miſtaken my own character and talents—I once thought to have driven the world before [98] me, and to have whipped oppoſition into immediate compliance: but it ſeems I am myſelf one of the very ſorry wretches at whom I was ſo all alive and ready to gibe, and ſpurn! Theſe are odd and unaccountable things! And it appears that I am a very poor creature! A moſt indubitable driveller! The twin-brother of imbecility! Ay, the counterpart and compeer of Edward St. Ives, and the tool of the moſt barefaced of cheats, as well as his familiar!—Well! I have lived long enough to make the diſcovery; and it is now high time to depart!

I wrote to you but yeſterday: but events haſtily tread on each other's heels, and if I do not relate them now I never [99] ſhall. I told you I expected the gambler to ſupper, by my own invitation—Ay, ay!—I am a very Solomon!—

I dined at home. I knew not indeed to what extremes the St. Ives hunters might proceed: or whether they would make accuſation upon oath, ſufficient to authoriſe a magiſtrate in granting a warrant, to bring me before him; but the attempt muſt have been im⯑potent and abortive, I therefore de⯑termined to brave them: however I heard no more of them or their ſuſpi⯑cions.

As I ſat ruminating on paſt events, on my ſiſter and her epiſtle, and par⯑ticularly on the zeal with which Anna St. Ives appealed to the letter written [100] by her, which I had received from Laura, my curioſity was ſo far excited that at laſt I determined to read them both. I own, Fairfax, they both moved me!—This ſiſter of mine, enraged as I am againſt her, has ſomehow found the art of making herſelf reſpected. Her zeal has character and efficacy in it: I mean perſuaſion. I could not re⯑ſiſt ſome of the ſenſations ſhe intended to inſpire. She cited paſſages from the letters of her friend that were dag⯑gers to me! At the very time I was ſeeking to quarrel with Anna, ſhe angel-like was inceſſant in my praiſe!—And ſuch praiſes, Fairfax—! There was no reſiſting it!—She thought gene⯑rouſly, nobly, ay ſublimely of me: while [101] my iraſcible jealouſy, falſe pride, and vindictive ſpirit were eager only to find cauſe of offence!

And yet I know not!—I cannot keep my mind to a point! Surely I had cauſe of offence: real cauſe?—Surely the re⯑tribution I ſought had juſtice in it?—She could not be wholly blameleſs?—No!—That would indeed be diſtraction!

I then ventured to read the letter of Anna—On paper or in ſpeech ſhe is the fame: energetic, awful, and affecting!

While I was reading this laſt Mac Fane entered, and ſoon put an end to my meditations. Did I tell you I had been fool enough to invite him to ſup⯑per?—He had not been with me half an hour before I was moſt intolerably weary of his company!

[102] After having vapoured of the feats of himſelf and the ſcowling raſcal his col⯑league, to remind me of my high obli⯑gations to them, and talking as uſual with moſt bitter malevolence againſt Henley, he ſoon began to deſcant on the old ſubject; gaming—To aſk a madman why he is mad were vain! I was importuned by his jargon—‘He had been pigeoned only laſt night of no leſs than ſeven hundred pounds!’ Repetitions, imprecations, and lies, all of the ſame kind, ſucceeded as faſt as he could utter them!

I know all this ought to have put me upon my guard; and I know too that it did not. I believe I had ſome lurk⯑ing vanity in my mind; a perſuaſion that I could beat him at picquet. I was [103] weary both of myſelf and him; was primed for miſchief, and cared not of what kind. If you aſk me for any bet⯑ter reaſon, why, knowing him as I did, I ſuffered myſelf to be the tool of this fellow, I can only ſay I have none to give!

I ordered my own ſervant to fetch half a dozen packs of cards, and ima⯑gined this precaution was ſome ſecurity. What will not men imagine, when their paſſions are afloat and reaſon is flown?

To give you the hiſtory of how I was led on, from one act of idiotiſm to ano⯑ther, or how after having loſt one thou⯑ſand I could be lunatic enough to loſe a ſecond, and after a ſecond a third, and ſo on to a tenth, is more than my pre⯑ſent temper of mind will permit. It is [104] quite ſufficient to tell you that I have ruined myſelf; and that there is not, upon the face of the earth, a fellow I ſo thoroughly deſpiſe as Coke Clifton; no not even Mac Fane himſelf! Below the loweſt am I fallen; for I am his dupe, nay his companion, and what is worſe his debtor! It is time I were out of the world—So miſerable a being does not crawl upon its ſurface.

It is the very heyday of miſchief, and I muſt abroad among it. The exact manner of the cataſtrophe I cannot fore⯑ſee, but it muſt be tragical. I have ſomething brooding in my mind, the outlines of a concluſion, which rather pleaſes me. I have ſworn to avenge myſelf of Anna, diſinherit my ſiſter, and never to pay Mac Fane. Theſe oaths [105] muſt be kept. Anna muſt fall! If ſhe will but deign to live afterward, ſhe ſhall be my heir. And for myſelf, I know how to find a ready quietus!

My mind ſince this laſt affair is better reconciled to its deſtiny, and even leſs diſturbed than before: for previous to this, there ſeemed to be ſome bare poſſi⯑bility of a generous releaſe, on my part, and a more generous forgetfulneſs of injuries on theirs. But now, all is over! I have but to puniſh my opponents a little, and myſelf much, and having puniſhed expire.

P. S. I have not paid the ſcoundrel his thouſand pounds. He propoſed a [106] bond for the whole, on which he ſaid he could raiſe money. This I was deter⯑mined not to give, and told him he muſt wait a few days, till I had conſult⯑ed my lawyer and looked into my af⯑fairs, and I would then give him a de⯑terminate anſwer. He was beginning to aſſume the contemptible airs of a bully; but I was in no temper to bear the leaſt inſult. The real rage of my look ſilenced the mechanical ferocity of his. I bade him remember I could hit a china plate, and that I ſhould think proper to take my own mode of pay⯑ment. He then changed his tone, and began to commend his ſoul to Satan, in a thouſand different forms, if he had ever won a hundred pounds at [107] a ſitting in his whole life before. I ſneered in his face, ſhewed him the door, and bade him good night; and he walked quietly away.

LETTER CXXIV.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO MRS. WENBOURNE.

AS I have taken upon myſelf the painful duty of informing you of all that paſſes, relative to this unhappy af⯑fair, it becomes me to be punctual. It is afflicting to own that our agitation and diſtreſs, inſtead of abating, are in⯑creaſed.

[109] Finding it impoſſible to gain a ſight of my brother, I determined to at⯑tempt to queſtion his valet. Mr. Webb received my inſtructions accordingly, watched him to ſome diſtance from the houſe, and delivered a meſſage from me, that if he would come to me I would preſent him with ten guineas.

He made no heſitation, but followed Mr. Webb immediately.

Either he is very artful or very igno⯑rant of this affair. One circumſtance excepted, he appears to know nothing.

I promiſed him any reward, any ſum he ſhould himſelf name, if he could but give us ſuch information as might lead to the recovery of our loſt friends: but he proteſted very ſolemnly he had none to give; except that he owns having [110] been employed, by his maſter, to invei⯑gle the lad away, who wrote the anony⯑mous letter, and whom Mr. Clifton, by practiſing on the lad's credulity and gra⯑titude, ſent to France.

The valet indeed acknowledges his maſter is exceedingly diſturbed in mind; that he does not ſleep, nor even go to bed, except ſometimes toſſing himſelf on it with his clothes on, and almoſt in⯑ſtantly riſing again; and that he has ſent for his attorney, to make his will.

I will not endeavour to paint my ſen⯑ſations at hearing this account. I will only add that another incident has hap⯑pened, which gives them additional acuteneſs.

I believe, madam, you have heard both my brother and my Anna ſpeak of [111] and deſcribe a young French nobleman, who paid his addreſſes to her, and who was the occaſion of the raſh leap into the lake, by which Mr. Clifton endan⯑gered his life? This gentleman, Count de Beaunoir, is arrived in London; and has this morning paid a viſit to Sir Arthur St. Ives.

He enquired firſt and eagerly after my friend; with whom, like all who know her, he is in raptures. Sir Ar⯑thur, forgetting his character, and the apparently rodomontade but to him very ſerious manner in which he had declared himſelf her champion, told him the whole ſtory, as far as it is known to us; not omitting to mention Mr. Clifton as the perſon on whom all our ſuſpicions [112] fell, and relating to him the full grounds of thoſe ſuſpicions.

The aſtoniſhment of the Count occa⯑ſioned him to liſten with uncommon at⯑tention to what he heard; and he cloſed the narrative of Sir Arthur by affirming it was all true. He was convinced be⯑yond contradiction of its truth, for he had himſelf brought over the lad, whom Mr. Clifton had ſent, with pretended diſ⯑patches, to a friend of his in Paris.

The lad it appears, ſuſpecting all was not right, and finding no probability of returning, but on the contrary that he was watched, and even refuſed a paſſ⯑port, had applied to the Count through the medium of his ſervants, with whom he had formerly been acquainted, to [113] protect and afford him the means of re⯑turning to England.

The lad was ſent for, his ſtory heard, and he was then queſtioned concerning Anna St. Ives; and he had heard enough of the affair from Mr. Abime⯑lech Henley, and from the ſervants, to know that the propoſed match, between Mr. Clifton and Anna, was broken off; and that ſhe refuſed to admit his viſits. When Count de Beaunoir laſt ſaw Sir Arthur, at Paris, he had aſſured him very ſeriouſly that, ſhould ever Anna St. Ives find herſelf diſengaged and he knew it, he would inſtantly make her a tender of his hand and fortune: and he had no ſooner heard the lad's ſtory than he determined immediately to make his in⯑tended journey to England.

[114] My heart ſhudders while I relate it, but I dread leſt it ſhould be a fatal jour⯑ney, for him or my brother, or both! For he declared to Sir Arthur, without heſitation, he would wait on Mr. Clifton directly, and oblige him either to pro⯑duce Anna St. Ives, or meet him in the field.

Wretched folly! Deſtructive error! When will men ceaſe to think that vice and virtue ought to meet on equal terms; and that injury can be atoned by blood?

The Count had left his addreſs with Sir Arthur, and the moment I heard what had paſſed I flew to his lodgings. He was not at home, and I waited above an hour. At laſt he came, and I at⯑tempted to ſhew him both the folly and [115] wickedneſs of the conduct he was pur⯑ſuing.

He liſtened to me with the utmoſt politeneſs, paid me a thouſand compli⯑ments, acknowledged the truth of every thing I ſaid, but very evidently de⯑termined to act in a manner directly op⯑poſite. I very aſſiduouſly laboured to make him promiſe, upon his honour, he would not ſeek redreſs by duelling; but in vain. He anſwered by evaſion; with all poſſible deſire to have obliged me, but with a foregone concluſion that it could not be.

Pardon me, madam, for writing a narrative ſo melancholy: but ſincerity is neceſſary; intelligence might have come to you in a diſtorted form, and might have produced much worſe effects. For [116] my own part, I have no other mode of conduct but that of writing and of ſpeaking the ſimple truth; being con⯑vinced there is no ſhade of diſguiſe, artifice, or falſehood, that is not immo⯑ral in principle, and pernicious in prac⯑tice.

I have been very buſy. I have ſent for the lad whom the count brought over with him, and have made enquiries. The anſwers he gave me all tend to con⯑firm our former ſuſpicions. He has re⯑lated the ſtory, at length, of the man⯑ner in which he was inveigled away, and prevailed on to go to France.

I next queſtioned him concerning his aunt; and he knows nothing of her, has never heard from her, and is aſtoniſhed at what can have become of her. He [117] means, however, to go this evening to a relation's houſe, where he thinks he is certain he ſhall hear of her; and has then promiſed to come and let me know—But to what purpoſe? We ſhall find ſhe has been ſent out of the way by Mr. Clifton: and what further informa⯑tion will that afford? None, except to confirm what needs no confirming; except to ſhew the blindneſs, craft, and turpitude of his mind!

LETTER CXXV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

SO, Fairfax, you have ſuffered the lad to eſcape you; cautioned and entreated as you were! You know, I ſuppoſe, by what means; and with whom he is at preſent?—Well, well!—It is no matter—I have quarrels enough on hand, and [119] enemies enough!—I would fain die in peace with ſomebody!—I forgive you—I ſuppoſe you did your beſt.

It is exceedingly poſſible that this may be the laſt letter you will ever receive from me. Remember me now and then. Should Henley and Anna St. Ives ſur⯑vive me, let them know I was not ſo en⯑tirely blind to their worth as they might perhaps ſuppoſe. Shew them my letters if you will: I care not who ſees them now! Let the truth be told! I ſhall be deaf enough to cenſure.

I have juſt had a viſit from the crazy count; a threatening one. A challenge has paſſed, and we are to meet to-mor⯑row.

So it is agreed; but I doubt whether I ſhall keep the appointment. If there [120] be one ſpark of reſentment in the ſoul of Henley, it is poſſible I may fail. I mean to give him the firſt chance. It is his by right; and why ſhould not I do right even to him, once in my life? This farrago of folly, this pride of birth, and riches, and I know not what elſe lumber, is very contemptible!

Fairfax, the preſent ſtate of my thoughts forces more than one truth upon me. But what have I to do with truth, in a world from which I learned ſo much error that it was impoſſible for me to exiſt in it? Theſe wiſe people ſhould leave us fools to wrangle, be wretched, and cut each other's throats as we liſt, with⯑out intermeddling: 'tis dangerous. But Truth is a zealot; Wiſdom will be cry⯑ing [121] in the ſtreets; and Folly meeting her ſeldom fails to deal her blow.

My mind is made up: my affairs are ſettled, my lawyer has written out my will, and it is ſigned. You will find yourſelf mentioned in it, Fairfax. I have nominated my ſiſter my executor, and Anna St. Ives my heir. I have been reading Louiſa's letter again: it is full of pathos. She has more under⯑ſtanding than I have been willing to al⯑low, and I have relented. She is not forgotten in my will: I would not have her think of me with everlaſting hatred.

I know not how it is, Fairfax, but I feel more compunction, at preſent, than I ever remember to have felt before. I am grown into ſelf▪contempt; and the haughty notions, which were the ſupport [122] of my high and ſometimes arrogant con⯑duct, are faded. I could think only of Coke Clifton, and I now know Coke Clifton to be a very wretched dolt!

Be not deceived by my preſent tone: make no falſe predictions in favour either of myſelf or Anna St. Ives. De⯑ſpair and fate are not more fixed than is my plan. My horſe will preſently be at the door. I ſhall mount him the moment I have ended this letter, and ſhall pro⯑ceed directly to Anna. There, after all is ended, the enchantment too ſhall end, and the miſventurous lady and her im⯑priſoned knight ſhall both be ſet free.

Should Henley, urged by deſpair to ſeek revenge, accept my defiance and meet me in the field, the conflict muſt be fierce, and ſuch as might inſpire terror.

[123] To ſay the truth, were it not to prove myſelf his equal, perhaps his maſter and vanquiſher, I would not lift my hand againſt his life. It would be ſome relief to my ſoul to fall by his arm. He is a noble fellow, and I have done him wrong. Would he or Anna but charitably ſtrike, I would die bleſſing them, eaſed by the expiatory blow. Perhaps they are the only two beings for whom I ever could have had the ſame admiration; and, if what they tell me be true, admiration continued always ripens into love. They ſhewed affection toward me, and would, I believe, have loved me. But we did not underſtand each other, and the miſ⯑take has been mutually fatal—Would I had never injured them!—But it is vain!—The die is caſt!—We are all fated!— [124] Having accompliſhed my revenge, and accompliſh it I will, they cannot live and not be miſerable! They muſt curſe my hated memory, and blaſpheme againſt my honour!—It cannot be otherwiſe—Let our grave therefore be glorious! They are brave ſpirits, and will mock my power even to the laſt. I love their high courage. Perhaps they ſhall find I have a kindred ſoul!—Oh would they die forgiving me—!

I know not well whither my thoughts are wandering—They perhaps may re⯑fuſe to die—They may ſay it is their duty to live, even though doomed to be wretched—I know them—What they think they will act—Well, well!—Let deſtiny diſpoſe of events—To me all chances are welcome, all are alike.

[125] As to this count, ſhould Henley re⯑fuſe vengeance, I owe him no mercy. 'Twas he who prompted me to the fran⯑tic act that firſt made me the debtor of the man I have moſt injured. I almoſt contemn a foe ſo inſignificant—Not that he is deficient in bravery, or ſkill—But what is he?—What are his wrongs?—'Tis lunacy, not anger rankling at his heart!—Or if it were?—The hungry wolf-dog is no fit combatant for the fa⯑miſhed lion!

P. S. Fairfax, a new terror has come over me. I told you of the letters of my ſiſter and Anna, and deſcribed ſome⯑thing of the effect they produced upon [126] me. You may remember I read them previous to my laſt damned interview with the villain Mac Fane. I recollect having laid the letter of Anna upon the table, and that it continued lying there for ſome time after his entrance. I had my eye upon it, and meant not to put it in my pocket leſt it ſhould be left there, but lock it up as ſoon as I moved—I for⯑got it—The letter is loſt—I have ſearch⯑ed every where, have enquired, have curſed; have threatened unheard-of puniſhment to my ſcoundrel, if he have purloined it; but to no effect. He pro⯑teſts he knows nothing of it; and he looks as if he ſpoke truth—It contained a ſecret relative to Henley—! Should Mac Fane have taken it up furtively, as I ſuppoſe ſuch thieves are always on the [127] watch—? Why, if he ſhould—? Hell hounds!—Blood-thirſty vultures!—If ſo—! I will be gone this inſtant!—It is the very era of horror!

LETTER CXXVI.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

OH my friend! I am eſcaped! Have broken my priſon and am ſitting now—I cannot tell you where, but in a place of ſafety. I have been thus ſucceſsful by the aid of Laura.

It is now four days ſince I ſaw your brother. Lulled to ſecurity by the peace⯑able [201] manner in which I had ſubmitted to confinement, and imagining Laura to be ſtill in the intereſt of Mr. Clifton, though this ſilly girl is now a very ſincere penitent, the old woman began to indulge her in ſtill greater liberties. I warned Laura very ſeriouſly againſt any precipitate at⯑tempts, for I ſaw it was probable this in⯑cautiouſneſs would increaſe, provided it were encouraged.

No good opportunity offered till this morning, when Laura was ſuffered to take the key of my priſon chamber, and let herſelf in and out.

The moment ſhe told me of it I en⯑quired what other obſtacles there were. Laura ſaid we might get into the yard, but no further, for there was a high wall which no woman could climb. I aſked [202] her if ſhe thought a man could climb it? She anſwered, yes, ſhe had ſeen men do ſuch things, but ſhe could not think how.

The abſence of Mr. Clifton for ſo long a time, without releaſing me from my impriſonment, made me in hourly expec⯑tation of his return. I therefore did not ſtay to heſitate, but deſired Laura to ſteal down ſtairs before me, and open the door, for that I was determined to at⯑tempt the wall.

Laura was terrified at the fear of being left behind, for ſhe ſaid ſhe never could climb it. ‘Alas! What was to be⯑come of her?’—I told her ſhe ſhould have thought of conſequences long ago; but that ſhe might be certain I would not deſert her: on the contrary, I would [203] go to the firſt houſe I could find and ſend her relief, if I ſhould happen to climb a wall which ſhe could not. Though, I likewiſe added, it was weak⯑neſs and folly to ſuppoſe that men were better able to climb walls than women, or that ſhe could not follow, if I could lead.

The aſſurance of relief in part qui⯑eted her fears: ſhe opened the firſt door, ſtole down to the ſecond, I fol⯑lowed, ſhe unlocked it, and we both got into the yard.

The wall as ſhe ſaid was high and not eaſily climbed; but I had little time for reflection: the old woman ſaw us through the window, and was coming.

To this wall there was a gate, equally high, but with a handle to ſhut, ledges [204] running acroſs, and two or three cracked places that afforded hold for the hand. You and I, Louiſa, have often diſcourſed on the excellence of active courage, and the much greater efforts of which both ſexes are capable than either of them imagine. I climbed the gate with great ſpeed and little difficulty.

The old woman was already in the yard, and Laura ſtood wondering to ſee me on the top of the wall, fearing I ſhould now break my neck in getting down again, and ſtill in greater terror at the approach of the old woman. I made ſome attempt to perſuade the latter to give Laura her liberty; but our turnkey is very deaf, and inſtead of liſtening to me ſhe ran for ſome offenſive weapon to beat me off the wall: ſo, once more aſ⯑ſuring [205] Laura I would ſend her immediate aid, and keeping hold of the gate poſt with my hand, I let myſelf down and with very little hurt.

I proceeded along a narrow lane; I knew not in what direction, but hurried forward in great haſte; not only from the poſſibility of being purſued, but be⯑cauſe it began to blow and rain very hea⯑vily. In leſs than ten minutes I came to a houſe: I rang, a man came to the gate, and I readily gained admiſſion.

I was ſhewn into the room where I am now writing, and another perſon was ſent to me, who perhaps is the maſter of the houſe, though from his appearance I ſhould rather ſuppoſe the contrary. I aſked firſt if it were poſſible to get a coach; and he enquired where I came [206] from? I told him, from a houſe at a conſiderable diſtance, in the ſame lane, where I had been forcibly ſhut up, and where my maid ſtill was, whom I wiſhed to have releaſed; adding I would well reward any two men, by whom it might eaſily be effected, if they would go and help her over the wall.

He liſtened very attentively, ſtood ſome time to conſider, and then replied there was no coach to be procured within a mile of the place, but that a man ſhould go for one; and that I might make myſelf eaſy concerning the young woman (Laura) for ſhe ſhould ſoon join me. The look and manner of the man did not pleaſe me, but the caſe was urgent, the ſtorm increaſing, and I in want of ſhelter and protection.

[207] I then recollected it would perhaps be ſafeſt to write immediately to Groſvenor-Street, to prevent ſurpriſe as well as to guard againſt accidents, and I aſked if he could furniſh me with a ſheet of paper and pen and ink. He anſwered he feared not, but called a boy, and ſaid to him—‘Did not I ſee you with ſome writing paper the other day?’ The boy anſwered yes; and he bade him go and fetch it, and bring me the pen and ink.

He then left me, and the boy preſently returned, with a ſheet of paper, an old ink-bottle, and a very indifferent pen. The boy looked at me earneſtly, and then examined the pen, ſaying it was a very bad one, but he would fetch me a better.

[208] The man who was juſt gone had told me that nobody could be ſpared, to go as far as I required, in leſs than an hour at the ſooneſt; I therefore have time to write at length.

I think there can be little doubt but that my Louiſa is long before this in Groſvenor-Street. I would not wiſh Sir Arthur to be informed too ſuddenly, I will therefore direct to her at a venture; but for fear of accidents will add to the direction—‘If Miſs Clifton be not there, to be opened and read by Mrs. Clarke.’—In the preſent alarmed ſtate of the family this will enſure its being opened, even if both my good friends ſhould be abſent.

LETTER CXXVII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

ALL is over, Fairfax!—I am juſt brought from the ſcene of blood!—You ſee this is not my hand-writing—My hand muſt never write more—But I would employ the little ſtrength I have, in relating ‘the laſt ſcene of this event⯑ful hiſtory.’ My ſiſter is my ama⯑nuenſis. [213] Theſe ſurgical meddlers iſſued their edict that I ſhould not ſpeak; but they found I could be as obſtinate as themſelves: I would not ſuffer a probe to be drawn at me till I had written, for when they begin I expect it will ſoon be over.

I remember I ended my laſt at the very minute I was about to mount my horſe. It was a wintery day. The rain fell in ſheets, and the wind roared in my face. My piſtols were charged and locked in my pocket.

I rode full ſpeed, but I ſet off too late! When I approached the madhouſe, I heard the moſt piercing ſhrieks and cries of murder!—They mingled with the ſtorm, in wild and appalling horror!—I rang violently at the bell!.....A ready and [214] an eager hand ſoon flew to open the gate—It was Anna St. Ives!—A boy ſhewed her the way—It was her cries and his, mingled with the blaſphemies of the wretches above, which I had heard!

Her firſt word again was murder!—"Fly! Save him, ſave him!"—

I ruſhed forward—The noiſe above ſtairs was dreadful—I blundered and miſſed the ſtairs, but the terrified boy had run after me to ſhew me. I heard two piſtols fire as I aſcended—The hor⯑ror that ſtruck my heart was inconceiv⯑able!—A fellow armed with a bludgeon was ſtanding to guard the door. My piſtols were unlocked and ready: I pre⯑ſented and bade him give way—He in⯑ſtantly obeyed—I made the lock fly and entered!—The firſt object that ſtruck [215] my ſight was Frank, beſmeared with blood, a diſcharged piſtol in his hand, defending himſelf againſt a fellow aim⯑ing blows at him with a bludgeon, Mac Fane hewing at him with a cutlaſs, and the keeper, who had juſt been ſhot, ex⯑piring at his feet!

I fired at Mac Fane—My ſhot took place, though not ſo effectually but that he turned round, made a ſtab at me, and pierced the abdomen almoſt to the ſpine. But he had met his fate; and the return he made was moſt welcome!—He fell, and the remaining antagoniſts of Frank immediately fled.

Frank is living, but dreadfully hacked by the villain Mac Fane. They tell me his life is ſafe, and that his wounds are deep, but not dangerous. Perhaps they [216] mean to deceive me. If ſo their folly is extreme, and their pity to me ill placed. I well know I deſerve no pity.

With reſpect to myſelf, my little knowledge of ſurgery teaches me that a wound ſo violent, made with a cutlaſs in ſuch a part, muſt be mortal. But mortality to me is a bleſſing. To live would indeed be miſery. Torments never yet were imagined equal to thoſe I have for ſome time endured: but, though I have lived raving, I do not mean to die canting. Take this laſt adieu therefore, dear Fairfax, and do not becauſe you once eſteemed me endea⯑vour to palliate my errors. Let my let⯑ters to you do juſtice to thoſe I have injured. To have ſaved his life who once ſaved mine, is a ray of conſolation [217] to that proud ſwelling heart, which has ſometimes delighted to confer, but has always turned averſe from the receiving of obligations. I would have been more circumſtantial in my narrative, were it not for the teaſing kindneſs of my ſiſter.

Once more, and everlaſtingly, adieu!

As to a friend of my brother, ſir, I have taken the liberty to delay ſending the letter, till his wound has been exa⯑mined. The ſurgeons are divided in their judgment. Two of them affirm the wound is mortal; the third is poſitive that a cure is poſſible; eſpecially con⯑ſidering [218] the youth and high courage of the patient, on which he particularly in⯑ſiſts. I dare not indulge myſelf too much in hope: I merely ſtate opinion. Neither dare I ſpeak of my own ſen⯑ſations. Of the worth of a mind like that of Mr. Clifton, you, ſir, his friend and correſpondent, cannot be ig⯑norant. The paſt is irrevocable; but hope always ſmiles on the future. Should he recover—! Reſignation becomes us, and time will quickly relieve us from doubt.

LETTER CXXVIII.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO MRS. WENBOURNE

I RETURN you my ſincere thanks, dear madam, for your kind congratulations; and think myſelf honoured by the great joy you expreſs, at my ſafety and the deliver⯑ance of Mr. Henley. I will not attempt to deſcribe my own feelings; they are in⯑expreſſible; [220] but will endeavour to obey your commands, and give you the beſt account I am able of all that has befallen us.

For this purpoſe, I incloſe the narra⯑tive written by Mr. Henley during his confinement; and three letters addreſſed to my friend, Louiſa, but never ſent; with a copy of a letter dictated by Mr. Clifton to his friend, Mr. Fairfax. To theſe be pleaſed to add the following particulars of what paſſed after Mr. Henley's narrative breaks off, and the ſudden interruption of my third letter by terror.

Mr. Henley heard but had not time to write their laſt conſultation. It was the eagerneſs of the keeper which over⯑came the reluctance of Mac Fane to [221] the murder, till he ſhould have procured the bond of Mr. Clifton. The keeper was violent: he had bargained with his two men to aſſiſt in the murder, for fifty pounds each; and he told Mac Fane, if he would not conſent, they would pro⯑ceed without him, and he ſhould have no ſhare of the eight thouſand pounds.

This argument had its effect: Mac Fane had ſome doubts relative to the money won of Mr. Clifton; and four thouſand pounds was a temptation not to be reſiſted.

Mr. Henley omitted mentioning a circumſtance that occurred of ſome mo⯑ment, becauſe he did not know the meaning of it. Probably they had planned it out of his hearing. The day before the attack, the keeper returned [222] him his watch and purſe, with the ſame ſum, but not, as Mr. Henley thinks, the ſame pieces, it contained when de⯑livered. The purpoſe of this, it appears, was to make him believe the keeper a man of his word.

On the morning of the intended mur⯑der, previous to the aſſault, the keeper came up to Mr. Henley; but not into the room. He talked to him with the uſual ſecurity of his chains, and pro⯑poſed that Mr. Henley ſhould deliver up the bank-bills, which the keeper now told him he knew to be in his poſſeſſion; with a promiſe that they ſhould be re⯑turned, as the watch and purſe had been.

An artifice ſo ſhallow was not likely to impoſe on Mr. Henley. He had de⯑termined how to act, relative to the bank [223] bills, and anſwered it was true they were in his poſſeſſion; but that he would not deliver them to the keeping of any other. Immediately after this repulſe, the keep⯑er, Mac Fane, and the two attendants aſcended.

The keeper (I ſpeak after Mr. Henley) was much the moſt confident, and ſeem⯑ed chiefly fearful that Mr. Henley ſhould ſlip by them. He therefore ſtationed one of his men at the outſide of the door, which he ordered him to lock and guard. Himſelf, Mac Fane, and the other entered the room; the keeper and the man each with a bludgeon, and Mac Fane with a pair of piſtols and his cutlaſs hanging by his ſide.

Mr. Henley had purpoſely kept up a good fire, and had the bank bills in [224] his hand. He bade them keep off a moment, as if he wiſhed to parley; and they, deſirous of having the bills quietly, remained where they were. Mr. Hen⯑ley then took the bills one by one, re⯑peating the amount of each to convince them that the whole ſum was there, and then ſuddenly thruſt them into the fire. They all ruſhed forward to ſave them, and this was the lucky moment on which Mr. Henley ſeized the two arms of Mac Fane, who, on account of his weapons, was the principal object, and who, in⯑tending to fire at him, in the ſtruggle ſhot the keeper. The other piſtol Mr. Henley wreſted from him, during which conteſt it went off, but without doing miſchief.

[225] Mac Fane then drew his hanger, and made ſeveral cuts at Mr. Henley, who was attacked on the other ſide by the keeper's man.

In the heat of this conflict Mr. Clif⯑ton arrived; and what then followed, his letter will inform you.

It is neceſſary I ſhould now ſay a word of myſelf, and of the ſmall part which I had in this very dreadful affair. And here I muſt remind you of the boy, ſo often mentioned in Mr. Henley's nar⯑rative; for to him, perhaps, we all owe our ſafety. At leaſt, had it not been for him, Mr. Clifton could not certainly have gained admiſſion.

The poor fellow heard and ſaw enough to let him underſtand ſome ſtrange crime was in agitation. He has great acute⯑neſs [226] and ſenſibility: he looked at me when I firſt came, in a very ſignificant manner; and would have ſpoken had he dared.

The door of the room in which I was ſhut was both locked and bolted; but the man that was ſet to guard it was wanted, for a more blood-thirſty purpoſe.

I need not inform you how much my fears were alarmed, the moment I found myſelf in the cuſtody of the man by whom I had at firſt been ſeized. But how infinitely was my terror increaſed when I heard the voice of Frank, which I did very diſtinctly, and preſently after⯑ward of the horror about to be com⯑mitted! My ſhrieks were inceſſant! The poor boy heard them, and though ſhrieking with terror almoſt as violent as [227] my own, yet had the preſence of mind to come and ſet me free.

Mr. Clifton's ringing was heard at the ſame moment. The top bolt of the gate was high, and I opened it with dif⯑ficulty; but deſpair lent me force. It certainly could not have been opened time enough by the boy.

Of this and the following ſcene, and of the agonizing ſenſations that accom⯑panied them, I will attempt no further deſcription. I will now only relate by what means, and whoſe aid, we left this houſe of horror.

You know, madam, with what activity my dear Louiſa exerted herſelf, and em⯑ployed every expedient in her power. You are likewiſe acquainted with the zeal of Mrs. Clarke, her niece Peggy, [228] and the two men, her huſband and bro⯑ther. Their ardour increaſed rather than abated.

Mr. Webb, whoſe watchings and ef⯑forts were inceſſant, ſaw Mac Fane ſtep out of a hackney-coach into the ſhop where Mr. Clifton lodges. This I un⯑derſtand to have happened on the ninth evening of my confinement. It was na⯑tural that this circumſtance ſhould im⯑mediately excite ſuſpicion and alarm. The coach was diſmiſſed, Mac Fane re⯑mained, and Mr. Webb continued ho⯑vering about the door, waiting in expect⯑ation of ſeeing him come out, till two o'clock in the morning, but waiting in vain: after which, concluding that he had miſſed him, he quitted his poſt.

On the morrow, by very diligent en⯑quiry, [229] he found out Mac Fane's lodg⯑ings; but he had not been at home all night. The ſame ineffectual ſearch was continued during that and the next day; but, on the morning of deliverance, Mr. Webb met a perſon with whom he had formerly been acquainted, who told him of the houſe hired by the keeper, and mentioned the names of his two aſſiſtants, with rumours and ſurmiſes ſufficiently dark and unintelligible, but enough to make Mr. Webb ſuppoſe it was poſ⯑ſible the perſons he was in ſearch of were there confined.

The intelligence was immediately brought to Louiſa and Sir Arthur, and application as immediately made to the magiſtracy. Webb had obtained very accurate information of the ſite of [230] the houſe; and, what was more effectual, had prevailed on his informer to lend his aid.

The relief he brought, though too late to prevent miſchief, was not wholly uſeleſs; Mr. Clifton was the firſt object of our care; for Mr. Henley, though bruiſed, cut, and mangled, has received no ſerious injury. Laura was likewiſe ſent for and relieved from her priſon. Proper conveyances were ſoon provided, and we all removed as faſt as poſſible from this ſcene of horror.

You may be ſure, madam, we did not forget to bring the boy with us. Mr. Henley has an affection for him, which the poor fellow very ſincerely returns; and finds himſelf relieved from the moſt [231] miſerable of ſituations, and placed in the moſt happy.

That I may wholly acquit myſelf of the taſk I have undertaken, I muſt juſt mention the Count de Beaunoir. He is a gentleman of the moſt pleaſant tem⯑per. Urbanity is his diſtinctive mark, for in this quality moſt of his flights originate. He has thought himſelf my admirer, but in reality he is the general admirer of whatever he ſuppoſes excel⯑lent. When he was told of my being affianced to Mr. Henley, inſtead of ex⯑preſſing chagrin, he broke into raptures at our mutual happineſs, and how much it was merited. He does not ſeem to underſtand the ſelfiſhneſs of jealouſy.

Perhaps, madam, you have not heard the laſt accounts of the phyſical gentle⯑men, [232] relative to Mr. Clifton. The ſur⯑geon who firſt gave hope is now poſitive of a cure; and his opponents begin to own it is not impoſſible, but they will not yet allow that Mr. Clifton is out of danger.

The Count de Beaunoir has paid Mr. Clifton the utmoſt attention; he viſits him twice a day, and, according to the accounts my friend gives me, infuſes a ſpirit of benevolence and affection into his viſits which are highly honourable to his heart. Indeed I and Mr. Henley have ſeveral times met him there: for you may well imagine, madam, we are not the leaſt attentive of Mr. Clifton's viſitors. It is at preſent the ſole ſtudy of Mr. Henley, which way beſt to ad⯑dreſs himſelf to a heart and underſtand⯑ing [233] ſo capable of generous ſenſations, and noble energies. There is an at⯑tachment to conſiſtency in the human mind, which will not admit of any ſud⯑den and abſolute change; it muſt be gradual: but thus much may with cer⯑tainty be ſaid, Mr. Clifton does not at preſent, and I hope will never again, treat with complacency thoſe vindictive but erroneous notions which had ſo nearly proved deſtructive to all. He makes no profeſſions; but ſo much the better; he thinks them the more ſtrongly. His mind preſerves its uſual tone; is ſometimes diſturbed even to exceſs, and bitterly angry, almoſt to phrenſy, at its own miſtakes; but has loſt none of thoſe quick and powerful qualities, by which it is ſo highly diſtinguiſhed.

[234] Sir Arthur, madam, has deſired me to communicate a circumſtance, which I ſhall readily do, without the falſe deli⯑cacy of ſuppoſing that I am not the pro⯑per perſon. It is agreed, between him and Mr. Abimelech Henley, that the marriage between me and Mr. Frank Henley ſhall take place in a month; to which I thought it my duty to aſſent. I am ſorry, madam, that Lord Fitz-Allen ſhould continue to imagine his honour will be ſullied by this marriage: but I am in like manner ſorry for a thouſand follies, which I daily ſee in the world, without having the immediate power of correcting one of them.

LETTER CXXIX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

IT is not to be endured! They drive me mad! I will not have life thus palmed upon me! There is neither kindneſs nor juſtice in it. I will hear no more of duty, and philanthropy, and general good! I am all fiend!—Hell⯑born!—The boon companion of the [236] fouleſt miſcreants the womb of ſin ever vomited on earth!—The arm in arm fa⯑miliar of them!—In the face of the world!—This it is to be honourable!—I—I am a man of honour, a deſpiſer of peaſants, an aſſertor of rank!—

Day after day, hour after hour, here I lie, rolling, ruminating on ideas which none but demons could ſuggeſt; haunted by viſions which devils only could con⯑jure up! And wiſh me to live? Where is the charity of that? Angels though they be, they have made me miſerable! I know I have injured them; I don't deny it. Say what they will, they can⯑not forgive me—Shall I aſk it?—No!—Hell ſhould not make me! I will have no more favours; I am loaded too much already.

[237] For it cannot be true!—Their hearts can feel no kindneſs for me!—Oh!—

I have loſt her!—For ever loſt her!—Yet even this deep damnation I could bear, I think I could, had I not made myſelf ſo very foul and deteſtable a vil⯑lain!—It is intolerable!—The rage of cannibals to mine is patience! I could feed on human hearts; my own the firſt and ſweeteſt morſel!

Well, well!—Her I have loſt; him I have injured!—Injured?—Arro⯑gance, outrage, contempt, blows, im⯑priſonment, and murder!—Theſe are the damning injuries I have done him!—I took greatneſs upon me; I mimicked tyranny, and pretended to inflict large vengeance for petty af⯑fronts! [238] —I truſted in wiles, and ima⯑gined mind might be caught in a net!

LETTER CXXX.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

HOW violent and reiterated are the conflicts, between truth and error, in every mind of ardour!—And, of all errors, the love of ſelf is the moſt rooted, the leaſt eaſy to detect, and ſu⯑premely difficult to eradicate. We [243] can pardon ourſelves any thing, except a want of ſelf-reſpect; but that is into⯑lerable.

I deſcribed, in my laſt Omitted., the diſſa⯑tisfied ſtate of mind of Mr. Clifton. But, while he imagined he ſhould die and ſoon loſe all memory of a ſcene be⯑come ſo irkſome to him, his diſſatisfac⯑tion was trifling, compared to what it is at preſent. Repugnant as the idea was to his habitual feelings, ſtill I have more than half convinced him that ſui⯑cide is an act as cowardly as it is cri⯑minal. Yet to live and face the world, loaded as he imagines with unpar⯑donable crimes and everlaſting igno⯑miny, is a thing to which he knows not [244] how to conſent. To combat this new miſtake, into which he has fallen, has for ſome time paſt been my chief em⯑ployment. No common efforts could aſſuage the turbulence of his tempeſ⯑tuous ſoul. Energy ſuperior even to his own was neceſſary, to ſubject and calm this perturbation. But, in the ſimplicity of truth, this energy was eaſy to be found: it is from ſelf-diſtruſt, confuſion or cowardice, if it ever fail.

I have juſt left him, and our conver⯑ſation will give you the beſt hiſtory of his mind, which is well worthy our ſtudy. I found him verging even toward delirium, and a fever coming on, which if not impeded might ſoon be fatal. He keeps his bed; but inſtead of lying at his eaſe, he remained raiſed on his el⯑bow, [245] having juſt finiſhed a letter to his friend. Louiſa had deſcribed the ſtate of his mind, and I reſolved to catch its tone, that I might the more certainly command his attention. Without pre⯑face, and as if continuing a chain of rea⯑ſoning, he addreſſed me; with his eye fixed, in all the ardour of enquiry.

What is man?—What are his func⯑tions, qualities, and uſes?—Does he not ſleep trembling, live envying, and die curſing?—And is this worth aught?—Is it to be endured?—Why do I ſuffer life thus to be impoſed upon me?

It is not ſuffering: or, if it be, ſuch ſufferings are of our own creation—To the virtuous and the wiſe, life is joy and bliſs.

Perhaps ſo—Wiſdom there may be, [246] and truth and virtue. And, for the vir⯑tuous and the wiſe, the full ſtream of pleaſure may richly flow: but not for me! Pretend not that I may walk with the gods! I who have been the inmate of fiends! I, who propoſed glory to myſelf from the moſt contemptible of purſuits! I, who could dangle after co⯑quettes and prudes; feed on and inflate myſelf with the baubles of a beauty's toilette; and, in the book of vanity, inſcribe myſelf a great hero, a mighty conqueror, for having heaped ridicule on the ridiculous; or brought innocence to ſhame, miſery, and deſtruction! And this I did with a light and vain heart! Did it laughing, boaſting, exulting! Satanic dog! Peſt of hell! What! Stretch ſouls on the rack, and then girn [247] and mock at them for lying there! 'Tis the ſport of devils, and by devils in⯑vented!

Your preſent indignation is honour⯑able both to your heart and underſtand⯑ing.

Oh, flatter me not!—Vain, ſuperci⯑lious coxcomb!—I ſpread my wings, crowed in conceit, threatened, reſolved, laughed at oppoſition, and kicked the world before me!—Oh, it was who but I!—And what was it I propoſed?—Fair conqueſt?—Honourable oppoſition?—No!—It was treachery, covert malice, and cowardly conſpiracy!—A league with hell-dogs!—Horrible, blood-thirſty villains!—And baffled too; defeated, after all this infernal enginery! Nay, had I been ſo wholly devil as to have [248] joined in murder, what would have followed? Why they would next have murdered me; and for the juſtice of the ſecond murder would have hoped par⯑don, even for the hell-born guilt of the firſt!

Do not, while you deteſt and ſhun one crime, plunge into a greater. This agony is for having been unjuſt to others; you are now ſtill more unjuſt to yourſelf. You will not ſuppoſe your⯑ſelf capable of a ſingle virtue: yet, in your moſt miſtaken moments, you never could be ſo illiberal to your enemies.

Would you perſuade me I am not a moſt guilty, foul, and hateful mon⯑ſter?—Oh be more worthy of yourſelf, avoid me, deteſt me, curſe me!

I will anſwer when you are more calm.

[249] Calm?—Never, while this degraded being ſhall continue, ſhall ſuch a mo⯑ment come!—I calm? Sleeping or waking, I at peace? I pardon hypo⯑criſy, treachery, blows, bruiſes, priſons, chains, poiſon, rape and murder? Mi⯑niſters of wrath deſcend, point here your flaming ſwords, annihilate all memory of what manhood and honour were, and fit me for the ſociety of the damned!

Forbear!—(Never before did I addreſs him in ſuch a voice—The laſt dreadful word of his ſentence was drowned, by my ſtern and awful vio⯑lence; which reaſon dictated as the only means of recalling his maddening thoughts, from the deſpair and horror into which they were hurrying—I con⯑tinued)—Frantic man, forbear! Recall your wild ſpirits, and command them [250] to order. How long will you ſuffer this petty ſlavery? How long ſhall the giant rage, and expend his ſtrength, in tearing up ſtubble and rending ſtraws?—Stretch forth your hand, and graſp the oak—Labours worthy of your Hercu⯑lean mind await and invite you. Away to the temple of Error; ſhake its pillars, and make its foundations totter!—Be yourſelf—Shall the ſoaring eagle ſwoop at reptiles, the prey of bats and owls?

Do not mock me with impoſſible hopes—What! Have you not held the mirror up to me, and ſhewn me my own hatefulneſs?

Are you a man? Will you never ſhake off this bondage? Oh it is baſe! it is beneath you! Of what have you been guilty? Why of ignorance, miſ⯑takes [251] of the underſtanding, falſe views, which you wanted knowledge enough, truth enough, to correct. Have not many of the godlike men whom we admire moſt been guilty, in their youth, of equal or of greater errors?—Thus, alas, it happens that minds of the higheſt hope, and moſt divine ſtamp and coin⯑age, are cut off daily; ſwept away by that other grand miſtake of mankind—‘Exemplary puniſhment is neceſ⯑ſary’—So they ſay—But no—'Tis exemplary reformation! Can the world be better warned by a body in gibbets, than by the active virtues of a once miſ⯑guided but now enlightened under⯑ſtanding? The gibbet will remain an object of terror to the traveller, who dreads being robbed and murdered; [252] but an incitement to deſpair, in the mind of the murderer!—Baniſh then theſe black pictures from your mind, by which it continues darkened and miſled; and in their ſtead behold a ſoul-inſpiring proſpect, of all that is great and glorious, riſing to your view! Feel yourſelf a man! Nay you ſhall feel it, in your own deſpite! A man capable of high and noble actions!