University of Virginia Library

Extract of a letter from Anne to Elenor.

“I have, since I have been with my dear
Sarah,this autumn,found her particularly gloomy
and depressed. The cause is evident, and needs
no explanation. Darnley's circumstances are
again embarrassed, and it is with the utmost

difficulty she can obtain from him money for
housekeeping; and whenever necessity obliges
her to make a demand, he flies into such passions,
that terrified, she will submit to every
difficulty, by running bills with those who will
give her longest credit, and who must necessarily
repay their courtesy by advancing the price,
and thus by the demands being larger than he
had expected, he seems to think he has reason
on his side, when he scolds and complains at
what he chooses to term extravagance. And
here I must digress to remark,that in my opinion,
the state of total dependence in which women
in general are, must tend to weaken that affection,
that confidence, which should subsist
between married persons. I cannot imagine
but the domestic happiness would be greatly increased,
were wives released from that solieitude
and anxiety which everywoman of sensibility must
feel, who is obliged to apply to her husband for
every shilling she expends; a man who does not
provide, that is, make the purchases necessary
for his family, but simply commissions his wife
to do it, is very ill able to judge how much money
is requisite for the daily expenditure; and will
content himself with merely calculating the great
and most obvious articles, totally overlooking
the thousand little minutia which, though they
make no show, cost nearly as much in the course
of a year, as things apparently of greater consequence.
But to return to Sarah.

She appeared to reap much satisfaction from

my visit; for she is a good part of the time alone.
As her father and Darnley go frequently to
Warwick and stay several days together, I asked
her if he had long accustomed himself to be thus
estranged from home. She answered with a
sigh, Yes, that she did not possess the art of
making his home agreeable to him, and to confess
a truth, were it not for his reputation's
sake, which suffered from the company he associated
with, she was happier when he was away,
than when he was at home. “We were not
made,” said she, “to constitute each other's happiness;
our minds, our habits, our pursuits are
totally dissimilar, and though we are chained to
the oar, for the life of one of us, we have never
as yet made the discovery of any circumstance
that might lighten the weight of the fetter, or
prevent its galling us even to the quick.”

This conversation passed one evening as we
were walking out; we had gone farther from
home than we had intended, and a shower beginning
to fall pretty briskly, we looked around
for some place of shelter, where we might stop
until the rain ceased, or send home for a carriage.
A neat looking cottage presented itself, almost
hid in a tuft of willow trees; we hastened in, but
the interior of the habitation did not agree with
the appearance of comfort the outside had denoted.
Every thing was mean and dirty; six or
eight dirty ragged children were playing in the
room, which seemed to answer for parlor, dinner
room, and kitchen, all in one; a miserable looking

woman was nursing one child about eight
months old, and another, apparently of the same
age, was crying in an old, offensively filthy cradle.
“You have a large family,” said Mrs. Darnley;
then asking leave to remain a few moments,
she seated herself on one of the miserable stools
which helped to furnish the apartment. “Aye,
Heaven help me,” said the woman, “more than
is good, I don't know what is to become of us all
next winter.” “Where is your husband, good
woman?” said I, `has he no trade, or can he
get no employ?” “He work, Lord bless me!
I should think the bread would choak him that
he earnt; no! no! John can spend money fast
enough, but he don't like the trouble of working
for it.” “Are those children twins?” asked
Sarah. “No,” she replied, petulantly, “one is
a cross bastard, that is no child of mine.” “A
nurse child?” “Yes, it was put here to nurse
thirteen months ago, but I never saw the color
of the woman's money since she brought it, and
now she is gone nobody knows where. To be sure,
I should have sent it to the parish long ago,but Mr.
Steward there, that lives at the cottage near
the great house, came when I lived two miles off
at the hut on the green, and gave me three
guineas, and told me I might come and live in
this house for nothing; so I came, and folks do
say, if every one took care of their own, he ought
to maintain the brat.” She was going on, but I
perceived that Sarah changed color; first crimson
red, then ashly pale, then red again; therefore
interrupted the woman's loquacity; but Sarah
had heard enough to awaken curiosity. “Whom
do you mean?” said she, “by Mr. Steward?”
“Why, Mr What's-his-name there,Sir Richard's
steward; he brought a fine madam they say,
from Warwick, and she and an old woman lived
three or four months in this here house, and
here this boy was born, and here she stayed until
she was tired of him, or he of her, and so she
went off; I wish she had taken her brat with her.”

Mrs. Darnley could not support herself; and
though it continued to rain, she arose, walked
toward the window to hide her emotions, and
proposed going. I did not attempt to prevail on
her to stay, for I was sensible her being drenched
through with rain would not to her be more
dangerous or painful, than to endure the conversation
of this woman. She hurried home
without speaking, and went immediately to her
own apartment, only saying as she passed up
stairs, “Anne, change your clothes immediately,
and have a glass of wine.” “Will you do the
same, my dear Sarah?” said I. She replied,
“Yes, certainly,” and I saw her no more until
supper time.

Darnley was in the room when I went down;
he was lolling on a sofa, and whistling in a
thoughtless, unconcerned manner. He had just
inquired for his wife; when, hearing her foot
on the stairs, he started upon his feet, and going
to the door to meet her, said peevishly, “Where
the devil have you been all this evening? it is

half an hour since you were called to supper,
and it is quite cold.” “I came as quick as I
could,” said she, coldly, and taking her seat,
helped me to a bit of chicken. “You have been
walking,” said he, addressing himself to me.
“Yes, Mrs. Darnley and myself have been finely
wet.” “That was unlucky.” “It may be unlucky,”
said Sarah, gravely, “as far as it concerns
ourselves, but I trust it will prove most lucky
to a helpless, unprotected being, who, but for this
shower, I should never perhaps have known was
in existence.” “Come, none of your charity
sermons,” said he. “I am not wishing to excite
compassion, but awaken justice, Mr. Darnley.
I must beg a candid, unequivocal answer to a
question I am about to ask.”

“Well, ask your question, and then I will
choose whether I will answer it or not.” “Do
you know any thing concerning a child put to
nurse with the woman who lives at the white
cottage?” “What is that to you?” said he hastily;
but his face crimsoned as he spoke, and
his lips quivered. “Do not put yourself in a
passion, George,” said she calmly, “I do not
mean to have any disagreement about it; the
child is neglected, and will either pevish in its
infancy, or grow up to be a burthen to itself and
a nuisance to society, unless those whose duty
it is to provide for its maintenance and education,
snatch it from so deplorable a fate. I ask
no questions, I will not trouble you to make an
excuse; if the child owes its being to you, give

orders that it be brought home, and I will see it
is properly taken care of; but let me entreat
you not to add to the offence already committed
against religion and morality, the unpardonable
one of leaving your offspring to perish.”
D—nt—n,” said he, throwing down his knife and
fork, “of all the plagues a man can have, a moralizing,
sentimental, canting, hypocritical wife,
is the worst. What the devil business had you
to be prying into matters that did not concern
you? Such troublesome, curious, jealous women
are the torment of men's lives.” “Will you
send the child home?” said she, endeavoring at
composure. “You may take the child, and its
mother, and the nurse, and all her dirty brats,
and all go to — together, so as I hear nothing
more of you.”

“Grant me patience, Heaven!” said she, rising
hastily from table, and rushing out of the room.
When, will you believe it? He rang the bell
very deliberately, and with the most perfect
appearance of composure bade the servant clear
the table; then turning to me, said, “As Sarah
is so indisposed, I will not disturb her to-night;
perhaps you will like to take my place;” then
bidding the servant order a bed in one of the
spare rooms to be got ready for him, he bade me
good night. How my dear Sarah spent the
night, may be easily imagined. However, in the
morning she gave orders for the child to be
brought home; appointed a room as much out

of the way as possible for a nursery, and hired
a woman to take care of it.