Sarah :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE autumn of the summer mentioned to you
in my last, business of a very particular nature,
took Mr. Romain to Paris. His wife having
just recovered from her confinement, was not
able to undertake the journey with him; though
her perfect state of convalescence was evinced
very shortly after his departure. George Darnley
had visited there frequently, while the husband
was at home; his visits were, after he was
gone, as frequent as ever; this would not have
been noticed by the neighbors had it rested there;
but he took her often out to ride in a chaise, perhaps
as often as twice a week; sometimes they
would go out in the morning and remain out all
day; sometimes he waited on her to the play,
to the opera, and once to a masquerade, from

whence they did not return until day light in the
morning.

In October, Mrs. Darnley and her family returned
to London, but George found various
pretences for sleeping in the country, and at
length they were so lost to all sense of propriety,
that he passed every night at her house, alleging
by way of excuse, that as the nights grew long,
she was afraid to sleep alone in a house so far
from town, to which place, her health and that
of her infant, (who was indeed extremely indisposed)
would not permit her to return.

Thus the autumn, and almost the whole winter
wore away: in February, Mr. Romain came
unexpectedly home. It was evening when he
arrived, and expressed some astonishment at
seeing George Darnley there, quite in a family
way, for as it was late, he had his slippers on.
But whatever he might think, he said but little.
A few days after his arrival, he called on my
aunt, and putting a packet of papers into her
hands, requested her to keep them until he called
for them, saying, they were of great consequence,
and he would not have her part with
them to any person whatever.

My aunt had very little commerce with Mrs.
Romain, but now and then, she would come of a
morning, and sit an hour or two when the
weather prevented her from making longer excursions,
or perhaps, when she wished to avoid
any company whom she had reason to think
would call at that time. In one of these chance

visits, she informed my aunt, that Mr. Romain
had thoughts of removing to St. Omer's; that
he had a sister settled there, and wanted his
family to be near her. “I do not want to go,”
continued she, “his sister is a stiff, formal old
maid, who has lived all her life in a convent,
though she is not a nun; he only wants to be
there, that she may be a spy upon my conduct;
and when he makes a journey, he may clap me
into the stupid nunnery; for he says no woman
ought to remain in society, receiving and paying
visits, and going to public places, when her husband
is absent.”

My aunt could make no reply to such a remark,
she had thought herself that Mrs. Romain
would have shewn most prudence by remaining
more at home, and not admitting young Darnley
to be so constantly with her: she had thought
her conduct very reprehensible, but she was not
upon such intimate terms as could authorize a
remonstrance, which, however, delicately given,
or friendly designed, might have been deemed
impertinence.

Mr. Romain had been home but a short time,
when the death of their youngest child seemed
to recal the mother to some degree of reflection,
for several weeks she led a retired life, and
all company was excluded the house. But the
heart that has once become the slave of a depraved
affection, soon grows insensible to those
which do honor to humanity. A retirement with
a husband who almost idelized his children, and
who most severely felt the death of this little girl,

by no means suited the levity of her disposition.
She had made some acquaintances with women of
doubtful reputation; her husband remonstrated,
but she was incorrigible, and persisted even in
appearing with them in public. This hastened his
preparations for a removal, though in the mean
time, he harbored the most tormenting suspicions;
these suspicions were at length fully confirmed.

It was late one evening, my aunt was just
preparing to retire for the night, when Mrs. Romain's
upper servant came running into the
house, and with a terrified aspect, begged her
to go to her mistress, whom she believed was
dying—“There has been dreadful work at our
house, ma'am,” said the young woman, “but
master begs you will come in.” My aunt threw
on a shawl hastily, and followed the maid. She
found Mr. Romain pale, and dreadfully agitated,
leaning over a sofa, on which lay his imprudent
wife, deprived of sense and motion. “Come,
madam,” said he, in a voice almost choaked with
contending passions, “come, and do something
for this unhappy woman, whom fear, shame, and
anxiety for an unworthy villain, whom I have
horsewhipped out of my house, have thrown into
this situation.” They applied volatiles to her
nose, temples, and wrists, loosened her clothes,
and in about half an hour, she began to have
some recollection: the moment she saw her husband,
who had been, spite of his injuries, anxiously
assiduous about her, while in a state of
insensibility; she raised her hands, clasped them

in an agony, covered her face, and burst into
tears. “Do not leave her, madam, I entreat
you,” said the distracted husband, “I cannot
speak to her now, but will endeavor to regain
some composure, and return to her in an hour
or two.” He left them, and shut himself up in
his study. Mrs. Romain was led to her bed
chamber; she spoke not a word, but her tears
flowed so violently, that it appeared like hysterical
affection. They prevailed upon her to take
some wine and water, into which they put a few
drops of a composing nature, which my aunt had
sent for from her own house; this, in a measure,
stilled the agitation of her frame, and towards
morning, she dropped into a broken slumber.
At day light, Mr. Romain sent a request to speak
to my aunt; she went to his study, giving the
servant a strict charge not to quit her mistress.

“You see, madam,” said he, as my aunt entered,
“a man almost driven to distraction, by
the infidelity of a woman he adores; when I
brought you those papers some few weeks since,
I had great reason to suppose my wife had forfeited
her good name, and made a sacrifice of
my honor on the altar of illicit passion. I had
picked up a paper folded in the form of a letter,
but without superscription or signature, I thought
the writing to be that of Jessey's; but the hand
was so disguised, I could not be certain. This
infamous scrawl expressed a thorough dislike to
one person, whom I suspected was myself, and
a most passionate regard for another, whom I
imagined to be that insidious villain, Darnley.

It expressed a strong desire to be released from
the fetters which bound the writer to one, and
set her at liberty to devote herself to the other;
an offer to quit her legal protector, and go to
any part of the world with her paramour; concluding
with saying, she could take with her papers,
which would secure her independence.
This, I imagine, referred to the writings of an
estate, which, previous to our marriage, I had
settled on Jessey. I shewed her this diabolical
paper; but she denied all knowledge of it, with
such asseverations, and resented my suspicions
with such an appearance of conscious innocence.
that I almost doubted the evidence of my own
senses, which had noticed familiarities between
her and Darnley, which were very unbecoming a
virtuous, married woman. Determined to put the
writings mentioned beyond her reach, I placed
them with you. The death of our poor little
girl, whose decease I now rejoice in, as she was
snatched from the obloquy which ever attends
the daughter of a vicious mother; I say, madam,
the death of her child made some alteration in
her conduct, which was very pleasant to me;
and I began to hope she would see the folly and
guilt of her past behavior.”—

Elenor, I know you are interested in this narrative,
but I must drop my pen for the present.
It is a beautiful evening, and my charming little
friend Sarah waits at the door in a coach, to
take me to Kensington gardens. Adieu!

ANNE.