Sarah or The exemplary wife |
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| 30. | LETTER XXX.
ANNE TO ELENOR. |
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 | Sarah |  |
LETTER XXX.
ANNE TO ELENOR.
Sarah's Journal from the time she left Mrs.
Bellamy's, to the period of her meeting her
brother.
[This Journal is without date, from the begining
to the end, but as the incidents refer to some
already related, the reader can easily, by comparing
them, ascertain the period when they
took place.]
SOLITARY and alone in the world, how
dreary pass my hours, how desolate is the prospect
by which I am surrounded. Society! when
shall I again taste thy sweets? I am to all thy joys
and comforts as much lost as the shipwrecked
mariner, who having sailed from his native land
in some gallant bark, surrounded by many brave
companions, has seen them snatched from him
by the merciless ocean, and finds himself on an
island, fertile indeed, but inhabited only by the
shaggy natives of the woods, who approach him
but to destroy; who wait only for a favorable
moment, to spring on and devour him. But
where the human face divine is never seen;
where the sweets of converse is not; where the
soul, appalled by the near vicinity of savage
neighbors, shrinks into apathy and torpor, and
becomes by degrees a gloomy, cheerless waste!
I have wandered by the glimmering twilight
in the fields which skirt this vast city. I listened
to the distant hum of rattling coaches, bells
and mingled sounds of human voices; I leaned
pensively on an old gate which opened from the
field to the great road. A couple passed me;
the woman bore a bundle of faggots on her
head, the man bore a heavier load upon his
shoulders, they led a little half naked boy between
them. “You are tired, Bett,” said he in a
voice which, though rough, spoke kind solicitude.
“No, Thomas,” she replied, “not very
tired; but poor little Jack is, I believe. But
come, Jack, trip along while daddy carries home
the gentleman's trunk; you and I will go make
a fire and get his supper.” They were now so
far I could hear no more: but the words they
had uttered, rested on my mind, and servile as
their situation in life appeared to be, and menial
as was evidently their occupation, yet the solacing
accents of kindness in which they addressed
each other, the tender care each appeared to
feel for the other's ease and comfort, made my
forlorn and desolate situation appear by contrast
so dreadful, that had not an impetuous gush of
tears relieved me, I must have fallen into a fit.
The night air was cold—I had tarried until
darkness had rendered every object of one sombre
hue. My garments are damp: my limbs
chilled I look round my apartment—no friendly
flame blazes on the hearth—no face looks a smile
farthing, sheds a pale ray of light, and shews
my hard, uncurtained bed. Hard! Oh, let me
not complain of that, while many a worthier being
sleeps on straw.
By this time Betty and Thomas are at their
supper. The fire burns cheerly, their little urchin
of a boy has fallen asleep on his father's
knee, his head reclining on his shoulder. Fancy!
whither, whither wouldst thou lead me?
Thomas and Betty love; are all the world to
each other; their hearts united, their minds
suited, nor have habit, thought or wish beyond
what a comfortable fire, and coarse but plentiful
meal, and flock pallet can supply.
I am not without society, why do I say I am?
The friend I most esteem is in existence; here
is pen, ink, and paper, I can write, can pour forth
my agonized soul, though oceans roll between
us, though we were separated as far as the polar
circles from each other. No, I am not alone,
I have a Guardian ever near, and ever powerful.
Oh! thou whose word called worlds unnumbered
into being—whose breath could make them vanish,
like the mist before the rising sun, nor leave
a trace of what they were behind; no creature
is so mean but thou regardest it; no being is so
depressed, but thou canst raise it. Father!
have I a father? yes, one who rides upon the
tempest, is borne on the wings of thousands and
ten thousands of cherubims—but for my earthly
more.
I am more composed, I have been to the
mercy seat of my Almighty Father, and he has
vouchsafed to hear and comfort me. Anne, when
you shall behold this, perhaps the writer may
sleep in that dark and narrow tenement to which
she is daily hastening. When you read it, remember
this maxim, and deliver it to the broken-hearted
mourner for comfort. In affliction
there is no helper like God. When pressed to
the earth by undeserved slander, there is no
judge like the Searcher of all hearts. He will
console;—He will forgive;—He will justify.
My dear friendly Anne, I have several times
attempted to inform you of what has befallen me
since I quitted that bad woman, Mrs. Bellamy;
but my mind has been so distracted, my heart
so lacerated, and my spirits so depressed, that
when I have taken up my pen to write, it has
wandered off into some wild apostrophe or unconnected
remark. And even now, when I set
down determined to relate things as they happened,
I ask myself, why should I?—Of what
use will it be to grieve you by a relation of sufferings
you cannot alleviate? I am resolved then
I will write; but until I am either dead or some favorable
change takes place in my affairs, you will
not peruse the writing. I write, because it is
my pleasantest occupation; I forbear to forward
pleasure to any one by whom I am held in the
least estimation.
I told you my mind wanders—it does so—and
I was obliged just now to lie down my pen—My
thoughts and wishes ever tend to dear England
—Oh! why, why did I so precipitately leave it?
In a closet belonging to the room where I sleep,
and indeed, where I pass almost all my solitary
hours, I found an odd volume of Smollett's
works; it was the first volume of Roderic Random;
I sat down in the hope that it might occupy
my mind, and draw me for a few moments
from myself. I opened it at the part which gave
an account of young Roderic and Strap, his
companion, setting forward on their journey to
London. When I came to the pleasure they
felt on being admitted into a waggon, which was
going that road, I felt so forcibly that not even
that humble mode of travelling was open to me,
that I was, perhaps, separated from every being
who was in the smallest degree interested in
my fate, that I dropped the book, and burst into
an agony of tears. Yes, my Anne, I am so
sensible of my unprotected, forlorn situation,
that I wished with all my soul, that I had never
been provoked, by any treatment whatever, to
quit my husband; his name was at least a protection
from insult; to him I had a right to look
for support, and scanty and grudgingly as that
support might be given, it still was no obligation
him is mine, I have purchased the right to
share it at the price of all earthly happiness. I
have never forfeited it, and if ever I am again
united to him, I will never again be separated
but by death; I can but be wretched, that I was
so while with him, is true; but I am equally so
now, and have added to my other miseries the
knowledge that my good name is tarnished, my
reputation aspersed by the blackest calumny,
and I am supposed to affect a virtue and delicacy
which I no longer in reality possess.
The marquis of H— discovered my retreat
very shortly after I had escaped from that house
of infamy where he first saw me. I found from
his conversation, that he thought me not entitled
to the respect which unsullied virtue never fails
to extort, even from the most depraved. I hope
I need not assure you, that I resisted every
allurement, though pressed on me in the most
fascinating forms,—independence—attendants—
equipage: but the equivalent to be relinquished,
was self approbation—a treasure too invaluable
to be bartered for such worthless trifles. Independence—yes!
Power Eternal, give me independence,
but let it be independence of mind—
let me persevere in doing right; let my actions
be ever such as may secure thy favor, and the
applause of my own conscience; and then,
though the unfeeling world may oppress, may
break my tortured heart, I shall have that comfort
left which will never forsake me, but will
gloomy vale of death.
I do not like my landlady, she is impertinently
inquisitive and curious. I do not go by my name,
I took another in the hope it would elude any
inquiry which my persecutor might think proper
to make after me, and though it answered not
the designed purpose, I still continued my assumed
one. The woman came abruptly into my
room one morning, while I was looking over my
little wardrobe, she examined every thing on
which she could lay hold, made some impertinent
remarks on the fineness of the linen, and
the richness of that lace, with which you, my
dear Anne, presented me on your return
from France, soon after my marriage, and which
was the only article of the kind, which I retained
on Darnley's bankruptcy. She at length laid
her hand on a pocket handkerchief, which was
marked with my name at full length. I have
an utter aversion to duplicity of every kind, and
when she asked me whose name that was? I
replied, It was mine. She immediately replied
hastily, “Oh! then you are a married woman,”
and in a few moments inundated mo with so
many questions, answering some of them herself,
according to her own vague conclusions,
and interlarding all with so many old adages and
wise sayings about prudence and virtue, withal
intimating that she guessed I was a frail one,
when I came there in such a hurry, and that
when a woman has once ventured ancle deep,
go back, I stood petrified at her effrontery:
mistaking my silent astonishment for attention,
she thus proceeded: “I suppose you thought
now that we should have known nothing about
you, but you had not been here three days, before
I heard the whole story—how you have
been living with madam Bellamy, and every
body knows what she is—but for my part, I wonder
you treated lord what d'ye call'em there so
rudely—I dare say he would be very generous
to you, and there is such a thing as overstanding
one's market.” I had risen from my chair,
while she was speaking, and holding the handkerchief
which I had taken from her in my
hand, was so absorbed in vexatious thoughts,
that I tore it in small strips, and threw it,
strip at a time into the fire, without being
sensible of what I was about. “Well, you
may burn your handkerchief,” said she, “if you
please, but that argufies nothing. I remember
the name—Darnley, that was it, so Mrs. or
Miss, or Madam, or my lady Darnley—”
“Quit my room, woman,” said I, almost choaked
with indignation, and not giving her time to
finish her taunting speech. “Quit the room I
desire, I am busy, I do not want company of
any kind. Think what you please, draw what
conclusions you please, I only beg not to be tormented
by hearing them.” She made use of a
few more exasperating words, and then went
muttering down stairs.
I am in hopes to get into employment here;
I have made application to be received into some
family as a companion to an elderly lady, or to
superintend the instruction of children, and yesterday
a person came to speak to me on the
subject. It was a middle aged man, who said he
had been employed by a lady in the country, to
inquire for a well educated woman, with the
habits and manners of a gentlewoman, who
would bear confinement, and be content to see
but little company: For such a one she wanted
as a companion, to read to her, sometimes to
act as an amanuensis, as she is a person fond of
literary pursuits. I did not feel inclined to enter
into any engagement with this man, but told
him such a situation would exactly suit me, but
I must hear from the lady herself; he told me
he would write, and that in a day or two I might
expect an answer; and in truth, my dear Anne,
it is high time, for I have changed my last crown;
what I am to do if I am much longer without the
means of earning bread, Heaven only knows.
I wrote to Mrs. Bellamy for the money she owed
me; she had the effrontery to tell the messenger,
that she knew nothing about me. I know
the selfish disposition of my inquisitive landlady
too well, to indulge the hope that I shall be
allowed shelter under her roof many days, after
she makes the discovery that I have no money
to pay my lodging.
The negotiator, whose name is Manton, was
with me again about an hour since; he tells me
on a short visit, but the letter is sent after her;
in the mean time, he seemed so sure of my
obtaining the place, that he offered to advance
me any money I might want. But this I have
refused; I will suffer any necessity, rather than
accept an obligation I may never have the power
to return—especially from a man.
My dear good Anne, you will hardly believe
what bad hearts there are in this world. I have
subjected myself to an insult, which has given my
sensibility so keen a wound, that were I to live
an hundred years, if memory retained a trace of
any past transaction, the remembrance of it will
ever give me an indescribable pang.
Pressed by necessity, and having no idea that
human nature could be so depraved, I went in
the close of the evening to the house of the
infamous Bellamy. As I was known to the servant
who opened the door, I found no difficulty
in gaining admittance, but when,on being informed
she was at home, I made an attempt to ascend
the stairs, the girl told me, she dared not let me
into her mistress's apartment, but if I would
wait, she would carry up any message. “Only
tell her I am here, and wish to speak to her,”
said I. “It will be to little purpose,” she replied,
“but I will go.” Determined to see her if possible,
I followed the girl up stairs.
The servant opened the door. I perceived there
were several persons in the room “Ma'am,”
said the girl, “Mrs. Darnley is below, and wishes
“Darnley, did you say? What does she want
here?” “I came,” said I, advancing into the
room, “to request the payment of the money.”
“Money, woman? what money? I believe if
there is any account to settle, it is vastly in my
favor; did I not pay your journey from London?
and did you not board in my family three months?”
“Was not that your engagement?” I asked.
“Don't talk to me of engagements, creature, you
have broken every engagement you ever entered
into. Did you not agree to remain with me, and
take the care of my grand-daughter, and yet you
took yourself off without assigning any reason,
without giving me even the smallest notice;
putting me to the expense and inconvenience of
hiring a French maid for the child. But I know
all your tricks; your going out when I was not
at home; your private assignations with the men.
Yes, and I know who you went away with too;
the marquis did not so suddenly leave Mrs.
O'Donnel's that evening, and be absent two or
three hours, for nothing, after he had engaged
himself to sup and spend the evening there with
lord Linden. Your husband shall know all your
fine pranks, I promise you. I have written to
him; poor man! I dare say he has thought
you a pattern of virtue, but I have undeceived
him.”
“And what have you dared to write?” said I,
with some degree of spirit. “Pretty innocent,”
said she, tauntingly, “you have done nothing, I
are all purity, but indeed I wonder I domean
myself by talking to you; go, pray walk off, and
let me hear no more of you.”
Anne, I do protest to you, conscious as I was
of not deserving this treatment, of never having
swerved from my duty as a wife, my innocence
would not support me under this torrent of abuse;
I felt my heart sicken within me, and I caught
by the back of a chair to avoid sinking, (for she
had insolently kept me standing, while she spoke
to me.) Poor little Caroline, who was in the
room, had been sidling towards me from the
moment of my entering; she now took hold of
my hand and said, “Sit down, Mrs. Darnley.”
“Sit down, indeed?” said the unfeeling Bellamy.
“I say, walk down; come away, Caroline, I won't
have you speak to the impudent—,” and
she called me a name, my beloved Anne, which
my pen refuses to trace upon my paper. Fluttered
as my spirits were, and—and—why should
I conceal it? I had not broken my fast that day
—awakened resentment, struggling sensibility,
joined to want of food, overcame me, and I fell.
My insensibility was not of long continuance;
the first thing I was sensible of, was, that Mrs.
O'Donnell was supporting my head against her
bosom, and Caroline's little hand was bathing my
temples with Hungary water. “Poor thing,” said
one of the visitors, in a voice so gentle and tender,
that though I knew she was a woman of
despicable character, I felt grateful; and if looks
I endeavored to rise. “Lean on me,”
said the same person, offering her arm. “Give
her a glass of wine,” said Mrs. O'Donnell.
Caroline flew to the side board. “Let the wine
alone,' said Mrs. Bellamy, “she has had enough
already, I can see that, she is drunk, it is not the
first time I have seen her in these kind of fits—
“come,” continued she, addressing me, “you had
better make the best of your way home; bed is
the fittest place for you; if you had been in your
senses you would never have presumed to come
here dunning me for money; there, Molly, take
the creature down stairs; give her a little small
beer, and as soon as she can walk without staggering,
let her go about her business; for my
part, I wonder how she got here.” I would
have spoken, I would have given some answer
to this opprobrious language, but the tears flowed
almost to suffocation, I raised my clasped hands
to heaven, and my sobs increased with such
violence, that I feared I should have an hysteria
fit. “Take her away, take her away,” vociferated
the old woman, “she has got quite in her
tragedy airs.” I found that to speak was impossible;
so, leaning on the arm of Molly, I
bowed my head in resignation to my fate, and
left the room. The servant had some feelings
of humanity; she took me into the back parlor,
and procured me from the kitchen a cup of tea
and a slice of bread and butter. I took them,
and felt refreshed. While I was drinking the tea,
grandma has been so cross to you; mamma sends
you this, and says if you will call on her to-morrow,
she will do something for you.” The donation
sent, was half a guinea. Anne, my soul
revolted, but necessity was strong, and reflecting
that more than four times that sum was owing
me, I took the money, and having in some
measure recovered myself, returned to my
lodging.
Is it possible, that woman can have been so
base, as wilfully to calumniate a being who never
injured her? Can she have written to Darnley
such an infamous falsehood? And will he believe
her? I know not how she can have learnt how
to direct to him, unless she has noticed his address
on my letters at any time whilst I was with
her. You too, my dear Anne, will hear the
shocking tale, I have no doubt; but you will not
believe it—I know you will not. Oh! my poor
heart, how it aches. I will try to rest—nay,
forlorn and desolate as I am, I shall rest, for I
can lay my throbbing head on the pillow and say,
“I am persecuted, but I am innocent,” at least
of the humiliating, degrading crimes of which my
enemy accuses me; and for the errors to which
human nature is prone, I can say in perfect confidence,
“Father! Father of all! forgive me, as
from my inmost soul I forgive others.” Yes, I
am not so wretched as I might be, I can sleep in
peace.
Several letters have passed between me and
Mrs. Ryan, the lady with whom I am about to
engage as companion. She tells me, she does
not expect to be home these ten days yet, but I
may go to her house in the country, and wait for
her. This permission is very agreeable to me,
as I am here very much distressed. You are
certain that I have never been to Mrs. O'Donnell
for assistance, and the half guinea she sent
me is exhausted. My terror of again encountering
the vulgar abuse of that savage Bellamy is so
great, that I think I could suffer almost the extreme
of hunger, rather than solicit her again,
for what is indubitably my right. I shall be
obliged to leave part of my scanty wardrobe with
the woman with whom I have lodged; I have no
other means of satisfying her demands: she has
set her mind upon the lace you gave me, but that
she shall not have.
I have settled every thing with this harpy of a
landlady, and my stock of apparel is now reduced
very low; she has promised, if I send her the
money I owe, within a month, that I shall have
my clothes again. To-morrow, I set out for the
country; Mr. Manton will convey me in a post
chaise. I shall not feel right until I see the lady
of the mansion. I catch myself frequently painting
in imagination, her person, her manners,
her style of conversation, &c. I have drawn
twenty different pictures, and it is ten to one if
the original.
The mansion where I now am, is more like
the family seat of an opulent nobleman, than the
dwelling of a private gentlewoman. I inquired
of the house-keeper, (who is the only servant
except the housemaid and gardener, who is at
present at home,) if this house had been long the
family mansion? She replied, that it was the
seat of her lady's father; that she was an only
child, consequently an heiress. The park and
grounds are delightful, and kept in very excellent
order. I understand that there is a fine library,
but this was locked; however, I found a few
novels and poems in one of the bed chambers,and
flimsy as the materials which compose the generality
of novels are, they have afforded me some
hours amusement, and drawn me from myself;
a comfort grateful to the unhappy, by whatever
means procured.
After the turbulence, the mean and sordid
scenes, and depraved companions with whom it
has within these four last months been my lot to
mix, the quiet and conveniences I here enjoy,
seem a cordial to my depressed spirits. I can
collect my thoughts; I can read, or work, for I
found the house-keeper engaged in making up
some very fine linen, which she said was for a
gentleman in the neighborhood, and I have taken
some of it to help her; employment is always
necessary to my comfort, and never more so
occupied, the hands should never be a moment
idle. If the imagination is active, and ardent, it
naturally partakes in the occupation of the
fingers,and fancy will wander from our own selfish
concerns to the work, from the work to those for
whom we are executing it, painting as she goes,
persons, places, and events, in which, though we
are no wise connected, we find a kind of pleasing
amusement in depicting to ourselves.
I often wander for hours in the park and gardens,
and I say within myself, These are scenes
congenial to my soul; here is quiet, order,
neatness; the eye glances round and still gleans
in its wanderings, some charm, some soothing
sensation which it conveys to the heart, to soften,
cheer,and elevate it. Yet believe me, dear Anne,
I have never felt the most distant wish to possess
such a house, such a park, or gardens; no! I
am well assured, many are the vexations accompanying
wealth; many the inconveniences to
which the possessors must submit, as a tax for
the luxuries they are permitted to enjoy; a
decent competence best suits my disposition; a
neat dwelling removed from the noise, hurry,
and dissipation of the gay, thoughtless and commercial
world; my income sufficient to supply
all my comforts, and some few of the elegances
of life, with means to make those friends, whose
talents or merit might render them dear to my
heart, welcome to share my abode and table
whenever it might suit their inclination; and just
way of enhancing the sweets of retirement,
sometimes to mingle in its amusements. Such
a state would be the height of my ambition. I
have not mentioned the power of assisting the
poor, because they who with an hundred pounds
a year, cannot find the heart to give relief, would,
I am sure, find themselves equally reluctant,
though their annual income should be five thousand.
Nor is it by money alone, their wants are
to be alleviated; a woman benevolently inclined
may, from the overplus of her family provisions,
from the refuse of her wardrobe, make many a
poor child comfortable; but where the one is
permitted to be wasted by the improvident servants,
and the other is thrown carelessly away,
or is heedlessly destroyed, (when a few hours
work might convert them into respectable and
useful garments,) even a large fortune will not
allow of much liberality.
You perceive, my Anne, by the style of my
letter, that my spirits are greatly composed
since I wrote last. To-morrow Mrs. Ryan is
expected home; I understand she brings company
with her; two chambers are prepared;
my apartment is a very neat chamber, with a
large light closet, containing all the dressing
apparatus; it joins the one that I understand is
Mrs. Ryan's; a small but very convenient writing
desk, containing paper, &c. with a well assorted
box of colors, crayons, drawing paper, and all
the implements for drawing, were placed in it;
of them, I have not presumed to use any
of them, though the house-keeper told me they
were designed for me. If I should be so happy
as to find this lady agreeable, and the situation
such as I can remain in until my salary shall
enable me to pay what debts I have contracted,
and return to England with respectabily, I shall
esteem myself fortunate. It is late in the evening—before
this time to-morrow night I shall
have seen this formidable woman. Yes, it is a
truth, that I have thought on her so much,
formed so many conjectures concerning her,
that the very anticipation of the meeting, sets
my heart a beating. The window at which I
am writing, looks upon a beautiful pond, over
which impending willows hang, darkening with
their thick foliage the translucent element on
the side on which they grow; the moon is
nearly at the full, her bright rays peeping
between the pendant umbrage, seems to sprinkle
here and there large orient pearls, and now the
freshening breeze wafting aside a ponderous
bough, her whole face flashed upon the liquid
mirror, a stream of burnished silver, scarce seen
before it was gone. So it has been with my
life; a shade hung over, even its earliest part;
as I advanced, a few rare gems were scattered
in my path, and now and then a sudden flash of
pleasure enlivened my bosom; but ah! how
scanty was the portion, hardly felt, hardly realized,
before it vanished. To-morrow—well,
easier.
Wretched! unhappy! oh my dear Anne, I
am surely the very game of fortune. What a
plot have I escaped! This marquis with all his
pretended generosity is a mean designing wretch.
But I am away, I am my own mistress—I have
a home under the roof of an honest though very
poor woman, and am in a way to purchase the
immediate necessaries of life—namely, food to
support it. But let me be a little methodical—
you may one day see this, and I would not have
my Anne think it was written by a maniac; you
may one day see it—yes, I hope you will soon
see it, and if my aching head, and debilitated
frame prognosticate aright, a very short period
will put an end to my sufferings; my heart is
broken—my very soul is bowed to the grave—
I have wept the fountains of my eyes dry, and
now they burn and shoot, while my heart that
lately swelled and struggled even to agony, seems
like an icicle in my bosom, as torpid and as cold.
The whole day in which I expected the
return of Mrs. Ryan, was past in a state of
anxiety which I have not power to describe.
Every unusual noise I heard, alarmed me, until
I had wrought myself into such a state of trepidation,
that the rustling of a leaf, or foot of the
house maid in the adjoining apartment, pursuing
her usual avocations, made me gasp for breath.
At length about an hour after sun set, the sound
horses' feet, and running up and down stairs,
convinced me the dreaded, yet wished for time
was arrived. In about half an hour a footman
came up with Mrs. Ryan's compliments and
would be glad if I would walk down. I followed
trembling; he opened the door of the parlor;
I entered, when the first object that met my
eyes, was the marquis of H—, and on the
sofa near him, Jessey Romain! Had I broken
unexpectedly into a nest of vipers, I could not
have been more appalled—I know not what I
said, but I believe I gave a loud and terrified exclamation;
my limbs refused their office; I caught
at the door; but my sight forsook me, and I fell.
The momentary suspension of my faculties
could hardly be called a swoon; the multitude
of painful ideas which pressed imperiously upon
my brain, on seeing the woman who had been
the bane of my domestic peace, associated with
the man who had presumed openly to make
overtures derogatory to my honor, struck me
with horror. I seemed petrified; I could neither
hear nor see distinctly, and to have articulated
a single syllable would have been impossible;
I remained above half an hour a mere
passive machine in the hands of the house-keeper
and a young woman who, I afterwards
found, was waiting maid to the infamous Romain,
alias Ryan. When I had recovered sufficiently
to speak, “Tell me,” said I, “in whose house I
with a leering smile, impossible to describe, and
shocking to behold. “I fear I can,” I replied;
“but why was I brought here?” “Nay,” she
answered, laughing outright, in a most insolent
manner, “as you came here voluntarily with my
lord's old confidential valet, I should suppose
you might guess that too, without making such
a fuss.” “La, ma'am,” said the young woman,
in an affecting lisping tone, “perhaps the lady
feels a little jealous or so, at seeing my lady,
who is very handsome for sarten, so familiar
with the marquis; but dearee me, miss, they
have been separated above six months; to be
sure, my lady did take a tower to the continent
with him some little time ago, but my lord and
she had a few words—” She was going on
with disgusting familiarity and volubility, when
I interrupted her, “You are mistaken as to the
cause of my agitation; I was surprised—I am
distressed—but you cannot comprehend why I
should be either the one or the other.” “Oh,
dearee me, I'm sure I don't want to inquire into
nobody's secrets, you knows your own business
best; as the saying is, there is nobody knows
where the shoe pinches, so well as they that
wears it.” “Well, Mrs. Flimsey,” said the
house-keeper, “will you go down and have some
tea? Miss Beetham seems quite recovered, and
if she wants any thing, she will ring, and Betty
the housemaid will answer her bell—shall I send
you up some tea, mem?” continued she, turning
not want any thing to-night,” I replied; “I will
go to bed, and endeavor to rest.” I said this to
be rid of their intrusive rudeness; but the moment
I found myself alone, I began to reflect
seriously on my perilous situation. I was neither
romantic enough, or so much of a child, as
to imagine I could in a civilized country be compelled
to submit to treatment which would render
me, in my own opinion, the most degraded
and wretched of all beings; but I was well
aware, should it be known that I had voluntarily
resided at the seat of a young nobleman, remarkable
for his gallantry, nearly a fortnight, my
reputation would be inevitably ruined, and should
I remain one night after I knew whose house it
was and that the master of it was at home, I
should, in a great degree, deserve the obloquy
which might be thrown upon me.
To leave the house this very night, was then
my first concern; but how? I was twelve miles
from Dublin, and had not a sixpence in the
world—yet go I must—it was night—I was a
stranger to the road. Yet, should I remain,
something might happen to prevent my making
good my retreat. I had been carried to my
apartment in such a state of weakness, that I
was certain, the marquis and his associate would
not have the smallest suspicion of my leaving the
house before morning; and the woman having
left me with the avowed intention of going to
bed immediately, would give that information,
therefore determined to leave the place immediately;
and for that purpose was preparing to
change my clothes, which, being white muslin,
were by no means suited to the making a pedestrain
journey, when I discovered that my closet,
in which was my trunk containing every habiliment
I possessed in the world, was locked, nor
could I find the key any where. I was afraid
to ring for the maid, lest something might occur
to prevent my putting my design into execution;
so quitting the apartment, locking the door, and
taking the key with me, and with only a shawl
thrown over my shoulders, I went softly down
the back stairs, unbarred a door which opened
into a retired part of the garden, I passed unobserved
through it into the park; and from
thence, without being interrogated, though several
of the servants passed me, I reached the
great road.
I had enough of the fears inherent in my sex
to feel extremely disagreeable at finding myself
on the public road, leading to and almost in the
vicinity of a populous city, at ten o'clock at
night. The sound of approaching boisterous
travellers terrified me exceedingly, and I turned
out of the road, crossing a style which led to a
little coppice, in which, by the light of the moon,
which was now risen to a considerable height, I
discovered a foot path, which I struck into and
pursued, until I came in view of a neat cottage.
To continue my journey at this late hour, or
repugnant to my feelings; I resolved, therefore,
to knock at the door, and request to repose
in the cottage for the night. I knocked several
times before I obtained any answer; at length a
window opened, and a female voice inquired,
“Who is there?” “I have lost my way,” said I,
“and intreat to be admitted into the house until
morning.” “But who are you?” “I am
an inoffensive woman, whom an unfortunate circumstance
has obliged to be out at this late
hour; but if you will let me in, and allow me to
repose, I have no doubt but I can amply compensate
you for your kindness.” “Well,” said
the voice, “I will ask mistress, and if she has a
mind to let you come in, I will open the door—
but be you sure you be a woman,” continued she,
stretching her head out of the window to look
at me, “because I thinks you looks monstriously
like a ghost.” Having assured the simple rustic
that I was a living being, she went from the
window, and in about five minutes came down
and admitted me within the door,at the same time
saying, “Mistress says she does not much like
letting strangers come in at night; but seeing as
how you be a woman, and alone, you may come
up and lay down by me.” I perceived this
simple wench as she was talking, to take hold
of my shawl, my gown, and at last she laid her
hand upon my arm—“Why, you be warm flesh,”
said she, “I did verily think you might be a
spirit after all; which way did you come? for
When I assured her that I did, she all astonished,
inquired if I saw any thing. I replied in
the negative. She then told a tragical story of
seduction, and murder of a child, the premature
and horrid death of the mother, and finished with
“Poor Katy O`Conner, she walks every night
in the coppice near the place where she buried
her baby; sometimes in one shape and sometimes
in another; but if any body offers to go near
her, she sets up a dreadful howl and vanishes in
a flash of fire. O! and by my conscience, I
would not go through that coppice after night
fall, for all the silver cups and spoons in my
lord's great house yonder.”
Upon the mention of `my lord's great house,'
I perceived, it would be necessary for me to recommence
my journey early in the morning, as
it was more than probable that this girl had seen
me there, if she went thither often, as I spent
much of my time in the park and grounds, and
was consequently in the way of being seen by the
rustics, who were daily passing through them, to
the mansion. I questioned her as to her knowledge
of the family, and learnt that this was a
poultry and dairy house, belonging to his lordship,
and was kept by her mistress who was a
widow, and had been a domestic in the family
many years. I learnt also, from this communicative
creature, that this estate had belonged to
the marquis's mother; that she was lately dead,
proceeded; I immediately concluded, that
this was the lady of whom the house-keeper had
spoken, when I imagined she was speaking of
Mrs. Ryan.
At the first appearance of day, therefore, I
arose; awoke my companion, who had been for
several hours in a profound state of insensibility,
and taking a sash which I had worn round my
waist the day before, I presented it to her, telling
her, I had no money; but I hoped that
would satisfy her for the trouble I had given her.
She took it with delighted eagerness; it was
bright lilac, and though the faint beams of day
hardly allowed her to be a judge of the color, she
saw enough to be wonderfully pleased. “Won't
you have some breakfast?” said she, holding up
the ribbon, with her arm raised above her head,
to admire its length. “I will take a draught of
milk,” I replied, “if you can give it me without
offending your mistress.” We descended the
stairs together; she brought me a bason of milk,
and a slice of bread: I took them with thankfulness,
and saying I should soon find my way
home, bade the credulous, good natured creature
adieu, and pursued my solitary way toward
the city.
I had wandered so far from the great road,
that the day was considerably advanced before I
regained sight of it; and the moment I reached
it, I again experienced the fear of being known,
and on some pretext or other, obliged to go back
sometimes in the road, sometimes in bye paths
which seemed to tend to the same point, avoiding
every passenger with the care and trepidation
of a condemned criminal; the wearisome
day passed on, and just at its close, I found myself
at the entrance of the city; having from
fear and ignorance travelled several miles more
than I otherwise should have had occasion to
do; my limbs were fatigued, my feet sore, my
spirits depressed, and my stomach faint; for the
bread and milk taken at the cottage in the morning,
was all the sustenance I had that day received.
Harrassed and desponding as my mind
was, I am not heroine enough to say I forgot my
bodily sufferings in the more poignant mental
misery. I wept, my dear Anne, for very hunger
and weariness, and every other feeling was
for the time absorbed in the reflection that I had
no where to repose my head, nor wherewithal
to satisfy my appetite.
At length I reached the house where I had
lodged, previous to my making this unfortunate
journey, and tapped at the door. The woman
herself came to it. “So—so you are returned,”
said she, with an impertinent sneer, “and pray
what has brought you back in this trim?” “Let
me come in,” said I, faintly, “I am fatigued almost
to death, I have walked twelve or fourteen
miles to day.” “And pray what is that to me?”
said she fiercely, “you did not pay so well when
you was here before, as to think I will put myself
my room occupied by any other?” “Your
room, quotha, pray which room is that? The
one you left your trumpery in has been let to a
gentlewoman this week past; one who can pay
her way as she goes; none of your has been unfortunate
ladies, but a right arnest lady with
plenty of guineas in her purse.” “Have you
sold my clothes?” I asked timidly. “Clothes!
what clothes? the few rags you left in your
trunk? No, since you chose to take all the best
of your things with you when you went away,
yon may now take the rest; I'm sure I shan't
keep them; so when you have got a lodging you
may send for them.” “But I can get no lodging;
I have no money; let me only come in for
to night,” exclaimed I franticly. “I tell you I
have no room for you,” said she, in a calm, deliberate
accent, “what would the woman have?
There's plenty of lodgings to be had for such as
you, but I never harbors nobody of suspicious
character, after I knows'em. You runn'd away
from your husband in England—and then you
runn'd away from your fine madam Bellamy—
and now I suppose you have runn'd away from
the old man that you went into the country
with, arter all your lying backwards and forwards
about going to wait on, or be companion
to a lady; pretty stories for them that choose
to believe them; but I knows you better than to
be flammed so; you is too proud to wait on any
body, and as to a companion, Lord help us, I
accompany with you. Well, what does the woman
stand for? I tells you, you can't come in”
She then shut the door, and left me standing on
the step, holding by a slight railing, which was
on one side. I slowly descended the steps, and
going a few paces from the inhospitable door,
sat down on some old timber which lay in the
street—I shed no tears—my heart did not beat
with violence. I leaned my head on my hands,
resting my elbows on my knees, and a torpid
coldness pervaded every sense. I heard human
voices, but they spoke not to me. I raised my
eyes; a small shop before me displayed some
rolls, two or three polonies and some cheese;
but they were not for me. I saw lights pass into
the chambers of the surrounding houses, indicating
that the inhabitants were retiring to rest.
Alas, thought I, there is no place of rest for me.
To describe my feelings at this moment, this
horrid moment, is impossible; I could neither
weep, think, nor pray. My hands relaxed their
support—my head sunk; I reclined myself on
the timber, and a sleep, like that of death, seemed
stealing over me. At that moment I felt a
warm hand touch mine. “Are you asleep?”
said a soft, female voice. I raised myself, but
could not articulate a word; my tongue clave
to the roof of my mouth. “My neighbor,” said
the same voice, assisting me to rise upon my
feet, “tells me you want a lodging, she is full, I
have a room that is empty—come home with
we shall not disagree about the price.” So
gently leading forward as she spoke, without
my being able to speak, or resist her offered
kindness, the good creature brought me to her
home, and gave me some wine-whey, helped to
undress and put me into bed, and telling me if
I wanted any thing in the night, to knock against
the wainscot, placed a light in the chimney,
and left me.
Excessive fatigue and complete dejection had
the same effect on my frame that a powerful
opiate would have had. I fell into a profound
sleep, nor did I awake until the sun, darting his
rays upon my face, chased the sweet oblivion of
my senses; I opened my eyes and looked around
me; was some time before I could comprehend
where I was, or how I came there. The room,
the bed, every article of furniture, though clean,
bespoke poverty. I closed my eyes again, and
endeavored to collect my thoughts; by degrees
the torturing circumstances of the preceding
day returned to my recollection; my heart
which on my first awaking had beat violently,
now subsided into something like tranquillity;
I felt a gentle emotion steal over it, it was gratitude
to the good creature who had humanely
snatched me from the horrors of passing the
night on those timbers on which I had sunk
supine and hopeless, and shielded me from the
dreadful insults or casualties, to which such a
my thoughts elevated themselves to the Divine
power, whose immediate agent she was. The
tears flowed plenteously, but they tranquillized
my spirits, and I wished to arise and thank my
protectress for her humanity. I left my bed,
and began to dress myself; but in a few moments
a faintish sickness came over me, and I sunk
again on the bed side. I now became sensible to
the calls of hunger; they were imperious, and
I endeavored to finish putting on my clothes that
I might solicit from my good hostess something
to satisfy its cravings.
I imagine she must have heard me stir, for
she came in, and kindly inquiring how I had
slept, assisted me to finish dressing myself; she
led me into the next room where a comfortable
breakfast was prepared, which I partook with
an eagerness, and thought it tasted more exquisitely
than any breakfast I had ever before
enjoyed. When I had finished my meal, reflection
and honesty told me it would be unjust to
continue with the woman, whose appearance
denoted her poverty, and partake of her store,
which in all probability, was scanty enough for
herself. Yet what to do, or how to preface a
discourse which I feared must end in my becoming
an outcast, I was at an equal loss. At length
she seemingly, without design, led to the subject
by remarking, that she believed I had lodged in
that neighborhood before; I replied in the
affirmative. “Neighbor Conolly,” said she,
suppose, will stay a good while; she has a sight
of folks come after her, and I suppose pays
handsomely for the use of the parlor; to be
sure, I have not got a room entirely to yourself
to offer, but if such a place as I can offer will
do—” “Ah, my kind hearted woman,” said I,
laying my hand on her arm, “I have no means of
paying you, even for my last night's lodging and
this morning's refreshment.” “Well, well, may
be not now,” said she hastily, “but you will
have; you can work at your needle, I suppose?”
“Yes, very well and very fast,” said I, “either
plain work, dresden, or embroidery.” “And
you are willing to work, I hope?” she asked
seriously. “Indeed I am; only procure me
employment, and you shall see I will not beidle,”
I replied with earnestness. “Then depend on
it, my good lady, we shall do very well; a woman
who is honest and both able and willing to work,
will never be suffered to want while there is one
good christian upon earth; but I say honest,
she must be honest in thought, in word,in deed.”
Spite of my uneasy situation, I could not help
smiling at the woman's earnestness. “I hope I
am honest in thought, word, and deed,” said I.
“I hope you are,” she replied, gravely, “but you
have been living with some bad folks, that old
ugly madam Bellamy, and her good for nothing
daughter, wan't fit company for an honest young
woman; neighbor Conolly too, said some hard
things of you last night, but I thought if you were
should die in the street, so I took you in; but
now I must tell you I am willing to have you
stay here, and I can get you work enough; but
I must have no men folks coming after you, no
walking out with old gentlemen, no advertising
for places. When we have had a hard day's work,
you and Iwill go and fetch a walk together, and a
Sunday's we'll go to church; I always goes to a little
chapel two or three miles out of town,because
the walk is good for one's health.” I readily
subscribed to all these conditions, more pleased
than offended with her blunt sincerity—but she
had not finished. “You must know,” said she,
“there is a gentleman comes here very often; heaven
bless him, he loves to come and see his poor
old Peg. I lived in his father's family when he
was a child; though he has been very unfortunate,
I love him as well as if he had been a rich lord or
duke; but you must not see him; no, nor even
know his name, for reasons that I know of—he
don't come here very often, but for fear of his
coming unexpectedly, you must live and work in
the little bed-room; he never goes in there,and
though the room is small and has a bed in it, it
is lightsome and clean, though I say it.”
“I have no objection to your proposal,” said I,
“I have only to remark, that I must write one
letter to England; that letter you shall yourself
put in the post-office, and if you will take the
trouble, inquire for the answer; and when
that answer arrives, you shall see the contents.
of my real situation, but at present, I am inadequate
to the task of speaking much.” And
really, my dear Anne, I felt very ill; my head
began to ache, and the fluttering at the heart to
return, accompanied with excessive faintness.
The good old woman, whose name was Peggy
McLean, saw my situation, and helped me into
the bed-room; smoothed the pillow, assisted me
in lying down, covered me, and with the simple
exclamation of “Poor thing,” pronounced in a
voice of compassion, left me, shutting the door
softly after her.
I soon fell asleep; but it was neither sound
nor refreshing. My fatiguing journey, the barbarous
language of Mrs. Conolly, the anguish I
endured when she shut the door upon me, were
in this feverish slumber again repeated. I started;
my flesh burned, my pulse throbbed; extreme
thirst urged me to rise, but the weight on
my eyelids, and the strong inclination I felt to
dose, prevented my attempting it. At noon,
Peggy, or as I shall call her, Mrs. M'Lean,
brought me a little broth; I could take but a few
spoonfuls. “You are sick, child,” said she, “I
must have a doctor for you.” “No,” said I, “it
is only fatigue, I walked a long way yesterday,
and was very warm; rest will restore me.”
But rest now fled from me: I remained on the
bed until towards evening, without forgetting
myself a moment; I then arose, and took a
little tea, but was unable to sit up. Retiring for
slept? The good creature evaded my question,
but on my repeating it, confessed she had no
other bed, and had slept the preceding night on
a rug upon the floor, in the next room. What
an act of Christian charity was this, my Anne,
that a woman should deprive herself of her own
bed to put into it a poor wretch whom she had
reason to suppose was lost to virtue, and who
had no recommendation but her distress!
From that night until the expiration of the
ten following days, I was confined by a fever,
occasioned by being exposed so long in a state of
inactivity to the night air, after having been
heated by walking; but at length I recovered
strength enough to work, and obtained sufficient
employment in tambouring and embroidering
muslin, to supply me with the necessaries of
life. I wrote to Darnley, but received no answer.
I began to experience something like
entire resignation to my fate; for I saw no way
of again revisiting my dear native land, but by
strict parsimony, endeavoring to save a sufficient
sum to bear my expenses thither; but it would
take a considerable time to save so much.
I was one evening at work with old Margaret,
when a loud knock at the door made us start;
she opened it, and I heard a sound of altercation;
I drew near the stairs to listen—a voice I thought
I knew, caught my ear; I descended half way
down, and was convinced I had not been deceived;
I rushed down the remaining steps and
insensibility, I found myself in the arms
of my brother.
| Sarah | |