University of Virginia Library

LETTER XIX.
ANNE TO ELENOR.

HAVE transmitted to you, my dear madam,
copies of our afflicted friend's letters, and I can
easily imagine what your feelings were during the
perusal of them; her last gave me more pain
than I can find words to express. I was divided
by my anxiety for my brother, whose weakness
daily increased, and for my friend, who I perceived
was bowed to the earth, by the unfeeling
conduct of those who ought to have protected her.
I wrote her; bade her, if she thought it best, to
leave her husband for a while, until more smiling
prospects should make him invite her home again,
and come to me. I received no answer; my anxiety
increased; I almost resolved to go to London,
and inquire after her, but I knew poor Henry's
situation was so precarious that we had been
more than a month, daily expecting his dissolution;
this deterred me from taking the journey,
though I need not have been absent more than
two days. I wrote again, no answer; and uneasy
as I was, I had no remedy but patience; indeed,
for the last three weeks, my feelings have been
so tortured by the sufferings and death of my beloved
brother, that I almost forgot even my valued
Sarah. This day week, his remains were
deposited at Scarborough, as it was his wish, that
his body should not be removed.

The next morning I set off for London, and immediately
on my arrival, went according to her
directions, to Greek Street, Soho. I found her,
but how? In a very confined lodging, actually
employed in ironing her husband's shirts; she
looked very pale, but starting at my entrance,
the crimson tide rushed over her face, and
throwing herself into my arms, she seemed to
experience a kind of suffocating hysterical affection;
it was neither laughing nor crying, but a
mixture of both, which evidenced the depression
of her spirits and weakness of her frame. “Why,”
said she, as soon as she could speak, “why do
you come here?” To see you, my dear Sarah,”
said I, “why have you not answered my letters?”
“I had nothing either new or pleasant to write,”
she replied, “and I thought you must be weary
of a correspondent, whose whole topic was complaint.”
“You have been ill, Sarah,” said I, taking
her hand. “And you have been afflicted,” said
she, tenderly pressing my hand in both of hers.
The tone of her voice, and the recollection of
my loss, operated powerfully on my sensibility;
we wept in unison.

A pause of a few moments ensued, when she
arose from her seat, put her work into the next
room, stirred the fire, swept up the hearth, and
going down stairs, returned with the tea kettle;
which, having placed over the fire, she prepared
the tea things, toasted her muffins, and performed
every little necessary office, with the uncomplaining
meekness of a saint, and with the case

of one who had been accustomed to such employments.
As I looked at her with a mixture of
admiration and pity, I could not but think, I had
never seen her rise so superior, appear so interesting,
as in these domestic avocations. I have
seen her move in a drawing room with infinite
grace; I have seen her trip in the light mazes of
a dance, with fascinating vivacity and ease: I
have witnessed the elegance and propriety of her
manners—when seated at the head of her table,
she has performed the honors of it to a numerous
and splendid company; but never did she appear
so engaging to me, as when having finished her
preparations, she said, “Come, Anne, the tea and
muffins are just as good now as they used to be,
only the servant is not quite so handy.”

While we partook of the pleasant repast, she
informed me that she had been in search of employment,
and at last heard of something which
she believed she should close with. It was to go
with an elderly lady to Ireland, to act in the
double capacity of companion to her and governess
to her grand-daughter, a spoilt girl of about ten
years old. “And will Darnley consent to your
going so far without a proper protector?” said I.
“He made but faint opposition to the plan,” she
replied, “and indeed, I am resolved to go, let the
opposition be what it may, my mind is too proud
to bear a state of dependence on any one; and
with all my faults, and I am very sensible I have
many, I cannot bear reproach; it irritates, it
drives me beyond myself; gentle remonstrance,

mild reproof, will bend me to any purpose, turn
me from any plan, however I might have expected
gratification in the execution; but to be treated
either like a child, an idiot, or a slave, is what I
cannot, will not submit to.” I asked if she had
informed herself of the character of the person
she was going with. “Why, yes,” she replied,
“I have made some inquiries, and have learnt
that she is a woman of respectable character;
that she has a daughter very well married in Dublin,
and that she has in general resided with her;
but about two years since she came over on some
law business, and brought her grand-child with
her; that being now settled to her satisfaction, she
is returning to Ireland, and wants some person
who will assist her in the difficult task of governing
her (to her) ungovernable grand-daughter.
As to the old lady herself, she seems a shrewd,
sensible woman; her manners are not highly polished,
but she possesses some conversable powers,
and seems to have a thorough knowledge of
the world.”

I found any attempt of mine to alter her plan
would be ineffectual, for she was resolved no
longer to remain with a man, who had given her
such evident proofs of indifference and selfishness.
But I tremble for her. She knows not the world
into which she is about to plunge; open, sincere,
and without disguise herself, she suspects not deceit
in others. This is a disposition most liable
to imposition of any in the world, and where joined
to great sensibility, is the source of undescribable
anguish to the possessor.

I have made some particular inquiries concerning
this Mrs. Bellamy, with whom Sarah is about
to embark for an another kingdom; I cannot reconcile
the idea to myself, that a tract of ocean
will divide us; that in distress or sickness I cannot
fly to her; that contrary winds may detain
her letters, even should she write on all occasions;
but even this she will not promise. “I will inform
you of my health,” said she, “but I shall
not plague you with all the little cross incidents
which may occur, while I am acting in my double
capacity of humble toad eater to grandmamma,
and madam governante to little darling.

You flattered me in your last, with the hope of
my seeing you in London; it will, I assure you,
be a very high gratification; but as you mention
January for the time of your proposed visit, I
fear Sarah will long ere that have been the inhabitant
of our sister island for some weeks, as
she thinks of departing the latter end of October.