University of Virginia Library

LETTER XIII.
ANNE TO ELENOR.

IT is some time since I wrote to you. My
time has been variously occupied, and that not
in the most agreeable manner. Mrs. Darnley
has suffered much during the period in which
my pen has lain dormant, and I have given myself
up to her comfort. Darnley has lost his
mother; she was an amiable woman, and in her
soicety Sarah often found solace for her afflicted
heart. I look upon this bereavement as peculiarly
unfortunate for her, as the respectability of
his mother's character, her steady, though unassuming
love of virtue, made George anxious to
preserve some respect to decency; but that

slight restraint removed, he will no longer regard
appearances. He is going, I fear, the high road
to ruin. The sums he lavishes on Jessey are
astonishing, while a tradesman is allowed to call
repeatedly for his money to no purpose. Sarah's
thoughtlessness and folly (for I must give it that
harsh term) increases; the more agonized her
heart, (and agonized it is I am certain in a very
high degree,) the more dissipated her conduct;
and to see her in company, you would suppose
her the happiest of the happy. When alone,
she either sits pensive and unemployed, except
in reading some work of fancy, or applies to
her music, playing and singing the most plaintive
airs, while tears roll down her cheeks, and
she seems lost to all but exquisite sensibility.
Yet from such a state of depression, she will
start suddenly up, dress, and fly to some scene
of pleasure; often losing very considerable sums
at cards, and seldom or ever returning until very
late at night—sometimes she is favored with her
husband's company, but oftener she is left to
herself. I am almost continually with her; for
I do not think a young and prepossessing woman
can be placed in a more perilous situation,
than to be neglected by her husband, and
yet constantly mixing in that kind of society
which abounds with libertines and flatterers, who
think such a woman ever an object of illicit pursuit.
Not that I doubt Sarah's principles, I
know she loves virtue for its own sake; but she
is imprudent, and might inadvertently fall into
situations, which may ruin her reputation, and
perhaps her peace of mind for ever. I am going
this evening to her house, to remain a week
with her, and shall not finish my letter until
I retire for the night.

The veil is at length rent, Sarah can no longer
even pretend blindness to the insult her husband
has offered her. How she will conduct on this
trying occasion, I cannot think, nor can I dare
to advise; I can only commiserate her situation,
and weep, not with, (for she has not shed a
tear,) but for her. My mind is so agitated, and
has been so, since the discovery was made,
that I could not write last night, and even now,
I hardly know how to frame my account, for
the scene of last evening seems in my memory
but as the traces of a horrid vision. But I will
endeavor to proceed with some degree of regularity.

I have already told you, I was to go to Mrs.
Darnley's last evening, with a design to spend a
week. I had appointed to meet her in a large
party, at a friend's house in Berkley-street, and
was to proceed home with her after the party
broke up. She was not there when I arrived,
but came soon after accompanied by Mrs. Romain.
“Where is Darnley?” said I, when she
was seated beside me. “He had the head ache,”
she replied, “and will not come out to-night.”
“Then why, my dear Sarah,” said I, “did you
come out?” “Why, Anne,” she replied, rather
petulantly, “you know my company affords him

no pleasure; his conversation is only fit for the
gaming table, the race ground, or a worse place.
I cannot, will not listen to discourse so offensive
to my ears, so degrading to my feelings; and he
will listen to no other.”

I knew well enough this was the case, and
therefore could say no more. She seemed a moment
after to recollect herself, and said, “I do
not mean to stay late.” However she sat down
to a commerce table, and forgot her good intentions
until near one o clock; I then seeing the
pool was out, and that she was preparing to join
another party, reminded her of the hour. Mrs.
Romain had been engaged in a whist party in
another room; we now inquired for her, and
found she had been sent for above two hours before,
a message coming that her child was ill.
I must own my heart sunk at this discovery, and
I thought a flash of awakened suspicion kindled
upon the check of Sarah. It was full half an
hour before the coach could get up to the door,
and even when it did, and we were seated in
it, whatever were the thoughts of either, we
seemed mutually resolved to restrain them
within the bounds of silence. When we arrived
at home, just as the carriage drove up to the
door, it was opened by one of the maids who
was letting a visitor out; this prevented the
usual rap at the door. “Where is Mrs Romain?”
said Sarah, impatiently. “In the drawing
room,” said the maid. “How is your master?”

“Better, I believe, he has been in bed
these two hours.”

Sarah opened the drawing room door, the
candles were burning on the table, but the room
was empty. “I will go up and see how Darnley
is,” said she, taking a chamber candle from
the servant, “and will see you again for a few
minutes before I go to bed.”

She ran hastily up stairs, she is very light of
foot, besides which, the stairs are carpeted, so
that her ascent seemed no more than the gliding
of a shadow. I sat down by the fire; in less than
two minutes she returned, her face pale, and
positively gasping for breath. Her limbs scarcely
supported her to the sofa, where I was
sitting, on which she sunk almost insensible.
Alarmed, I rang for water; she swallowed a little,
and then speaking with difficulty, bade the
servant go to bed; she could undress herself,
she said, and as she knew where to find her
night clothes, there was no occasion for her to
go into the room. The poor girl, who suspected
what was the matter, began to speak, but Sarah
waved her from the room with an emphatic
“Go,” and a motion of the hand, which, in her,
carries with it positive command.

When the maid was gone, she turned to me,
and laying her hand on my arm, said, “Jessey is
a serpent—Darnley is a wretch.” What could
I say? I pressed her cold trembling hand, and
remained silent. “I will not expose the unprincipled
woman, nor humiliate myself by reproaching

the man who can thus convince me on what
a degrading passion his boasted attachment to
me was founded. I hardly know on what to determine,
but this I believe to be my duty, not to
permit Jessey to remain another day under my
roof. I will go into your room,” said she, rising
mournfully, “and undress; perhaps I may lie
down a few moments beside you.” This she
did, but neither of us slept, I believe, for one
moment.

About eight o'clock we heard Darnley's bell
ring violently; she immediately left my chamber
without speaking. It is almost incredible, yet a
certain fact, the treacherous husband had the
inhumanity to endeavor to veil his own conduct
by arraigning that of his innocent wife. “Where
the devil have you been all night, madam?” said
he, in a loud, imperious tone. “In Anne's
chamber.” “And what is the reason you did
not come to your own?” “Because,” she replied,
in a steady, firm voice, “my place was
pre-occupied.” “It is a lie,” said he, vociferously,
“but I see your aim; you are jealous,
you are envious; but by heaven, if you dare to
breathe a word”—“Mr Darnley,” said she,
“I never loved you well enough to be jealous of
you. I told you before our ill fated union took
place, that our hearts could never beat in unison.
I am now more than ever convinced of it.” “But
pray, madam,” said he, “what put it into your
head that your place was occupied; which of the
cursed meddling servants?” “Neither of them,”

said she, “my own eyes convinced me; I came
up the moment I returned, and the first thing I
saw was Jessey's shoes—” “By the bed side,”
said he, interrupting her, “and so that is all the
reason you have for thinking Jessey was in your
place; but, madam, Jessey has twice the tenderness
in her nature that you have. When she
came home, she found me very ill, advised me
to go to bed, made me some whey, brought it
up herself, and fearing her shoes might make a
noise, put them off her feet; sat down, and
bathed my temples in hot vinegar: but you,
madam, are a wife, you could go gallanting
about, while your husband was sick at home;
but I suppose you found more agreeable company
and employment abroad, than nursing your
husband.” “If I loved you, Darnley,” said she,
what a miserable being I should now be? But
thank heaven, that is an agony from which I am
spared.” She then left him, returned to me,
ordered breakfast in my room, and when she
heard him go out, went to her own, in hopes of
obtaining a few moments' repose. I have taken
the opportunity to write thus far, but as I now
hear her voice, I must conclude. You shall
hear from me again soon.