Letters 63 of the History of Lady Barton I shall proceed in my task of copying, like a clerk in an office, without attending to anything but the draft before me. And indeed, my Louisa, I find it sufficiently interesting to engross all my attention. If it can exclude those pleasing sentiments which my present happiness ought and does inspire, may I not reasonably hope that it will be able to suspend, at least during the time of reading it, that heavy weight which seems to press upon my sister's heart? Yes, I am persuaded that it may, and under this belief I reassume the pen. The story of Maria continued. In less than a month I was able to walk with a little help, and most earnestly wished to quit Mr. W's house, as I had reason to hope from the justification of my character, which Matilda assured me she had undertaken, that there would be an end of all connection between us the moment I should receive a letter from Captain L, and that an interview on such an occasion must be painful to us both. I therefore pressed my mother to try to borrow the money she wanted at Bristol, and return to Bath. She complied with my request, and judged it necessary to take up a larger sum on her annuity, than she at first intended, as either my marriage with Mr. W, or my waiting Captain L's return to England, must be attended with expense. In short, on such terms as the poor borrow and the rich lend, she obtained two hundred pounds, which I then thought an immense sum, but did not consider that we owed more than half of it already, including my debt to Mr. W. I am thus circumstantial with you, my dear Edward, that you may be perfectly able to judge of the motives which impelled me to my ruin. Oh, wood to heaven that I alone had been to suffer the so much dreaded ills of poverty. I would have braved them all, but a beloved and tender parent, whose fondness towards me had involved her in distress. It was not to be borne. My mother wrote a very polite letter to Mr. W, thanking him for all his civilities, and acquainting him with our return to Bath, where he joined us in a few days. He brought some very handsome jewels, and other presents from London for me, which I absolutely refused, and even felt my delicacy offended at his offering them, as it seemed to hint at a certainty of my becoming his wife. As the time approached when we might expect an answer from Captain L, I counted the hours and rejoiced in their flight. The anxiety of suspense was visible in my looks and words. I started at every sound, and minutely inquired the business of every person who wrapped at the door. At length, the fatal moment arrived that was to change a state of fond hope into the utmost despair. Matilda came to our house one morning, and requested to see my mother alone.  She answered coldly, no, and reached a letter to me. The contents whereof were as follows. To Matilda. Dear Madam, honored as I am by the favor of your letter, and happy in hearing of your health, will you not think me ungrateful if I repine at your wasting so much of your time and paper, in relating particulars of a person who now only lives in my memory from the bare recollection of having sometimes seen her with you? But as all preferences are fluttering, I should be unpolite not to thank Miss S. for an offer which I must however decline. I heartily wish her happiness with Sir James D., Mr. W., or whom soever else she shall think proper to honor with her fair hand, accepting, Madam, your most obedient servant, T. L. My faculties were all suspended for several minutes after reading this insulting letter. No sigh to rise, no tear had power to flow. I felt like one that had been stunned by a severe stroke. At length recovering myself, I flung the hated paper from me, and taking my mother's hand, said, with an effort of calmness, How poor, Madam, is the sacrifice that I can now make to duty. I rejected hand and heart. But dispose of them as you please, and do it quickly while my reason holds. My mother was more alarmed at my behavior than she would have been had I fallen into a passion, either of grief or rage. She wept abundantly for my distress, and expressed every sentiment of parental fondness. Her kindness would have transformed me to a Nairobi at any other time, but the sorrow that had then taken possession of my heart was of too powerful a nature to be softened by her tears, or dissipated by my own. It was grief unutterable. My mother kindly indulged me for several days by allowing me to keep my chamber on pretense of a sore throat. This prevented my seeing, Mr. W., and gave me time to reflect upon my own situation. I considered myself as an offering that was to be sacrificed, and determined to support the role that fate had allotted me with becoming fortitude. Mr. W. expressed the utmost impatience for our marriage, and in about six weeks after the receipt of Captain L.'s letter, I was led to the altar, and became the wretched wife of Mr. W. In vain did I endeavour to assume an air of cheerfulness with a breaking heart. Unused to deceit or artifice, the veil which I put on could not conceal the gloomy tints which sorrow had engraven upon my mind. I was hourly reproached by my husband with ill temper and ingratitude, and my mother was accused of having drawn him into a match so much against his interest, and so little conducive to his happiness. For her dear sake, I exerted my utmost powers to please, but they seldom met with success, and I, with unspeakable grief, now saw that she was rendered infinitely more wretched by my marriage than she could have been in any other situation. Mr. W.'s estate was in Devonshire. He had an old family seat there where I most earnestly wished to spend my days in solitude and peace. But as he often told me that he did not think we should make a pleasant tete-a-tete together there, he disposed of his house at Bristol and hired one at Bath, from which he frequently made excursions to London or elsewhere for a month or six weeks at a time. During his absence I seldom stirred abroad, unless to church, to pay some visit of ceremony or to pass an hour or perhaps an evening with Matilda. From the moment I was married I had never mentioned the name of Captain L to my mother, Matilda, or any other person. This was a sacrifice I thought due to my husband. I would have done more had it been in my power and banished him forever from my thoughts. One evening while Mr. W. was away I was prevailed upon by Matilda and my mother to go to the rooms on a ball-night. I found my spirit strongly affected with a scene that reminded me of happier days and became so much absorbed in my own reflections that I scarce heard the sound of the music or observed the motion of the dancers, though Matilda was among them. I was sitting on one of the benches opposite the door of the room and had continued a considerable time in my reverie when my eyes were accidentally caught by the figure of a person who was speaking to a lady that sat just before me. My mind hesitated but my heart admitted not a doubt that it was Captain L. Had I ever screamed out in my life I should have done so then. So unexpected a view had the same effect on me that is generally produced by thunder and lightning. It dimmed my sight and gave me such a sickness in my stomach that I could not long support. A sudden chillness succeeded this emotion and my head reclined insensibly on the shoulder of the lady who sat next to me. What passed while I remained in that state I know not but when my senses returned I found myself at home, my mother weeping by me and Mr. W. storming about the room like a madman. Not at my illness, but at the cause he imputed it to. For he declared before the surgeon who had just then bled me that he had detected me in an intrigue and that on his sudden and unexpected appearance in the rooms at the moment I was conferring with my gallant the various passions of love, hatred and fear had overpowered my spirits and occasioned my fainting. What an infatuated distemperous jealousy. It realizes chimeras and draws conclusions without premises. I was holding no conference with Captain L. He was only speaking to a person who sat before me, nor did I see my husband till I opened my eyes in my own chamber. However I suffered him to pour forth his whole stock of causeless abuse without the least interruption. Till at length, not meeting with resistance, his rage was exhausted and the surgeon and he retired together. I was put into bed and determined as soon as I was left alone to tear the bandage off my arm and suffer myself to bleed to death. But before I could put my resolution in practice, a thousand reasons pressed forward to restrain my trembling hand. What had I done to merit death? Would not the desperate deed confirm this lander of my tyrant's tongue? And could I leave my mother at once oppressed with her own grief and my infamy? Perhaps the love of life pleaded, though silently, even stronger than these motives, and withheld me from my first attempt towards guilt. Yet, oh, forgive me Edward, that I now lament I did not perpetrate the fatal deed. I might have hoped for pardon of my first crime, but can accumulated sins find mercy? Yet if contrition may avail a wretch, I still will dare to hope. Here, my Louisa, I must again break off my melancholy narrative, as I have been so much broken in upon all day by company that I find it impossible to conclude it by this post. But as the males to Ireland are sometimes delayed by contrary winds for several days, nay, weeks as I am told, you may possibly receive the whole story at once. I will not therefore create a further interruption by talking on any other subject, but conclude as usual, most affectionately yours, F. Cleveland. End of Letter sixty-three. Letter sixty-six, part one, of the history of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by DeVora Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter sixty-six, part one, Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton. Once more, my sister, I return to the sad task of relating Maria's woes. I have not ventured to make any comment on her story, nor do I mean to attempt it. My Louisa can reason far better than I and deduce effects from their causes. The agitation of my spirits had reduced my mind to a state of the lowest weakness. I wept the whole night through, and when my mother came to my bedside in the morning, I was scarce able to answer her tender inquiries after my health. She told me that Mr. W. was perfectly well acquainted with my former attachment to Captain L, though he had never given the most distant hint of it before. She suspected Matilda for having supplied him with this information. That by some chance he had heard of his being at Bath, and came post from London directly. But when he arrived at his house and heard that I was at the rooms, he flew into the most violent passion and said everything against me that rage and mistake could dictate. My poor mother thought to qualify his fury by assuring him that this was the first night I had gone into the room since his absence. Perhaps this might have confirmed his suspicion, as it looked the more like an asignation. He hurried on his clothes, flew immediately to the assembly, and happened to, unluckily it seems, just to enter the door as Captain L had walked up to the place where I sat. He construed everything against me, both appearances and surmises, trifles light as air, etc. In fine I was condemned, without further examination, he declared his full determination not to live with me any longer, and commanded me to set out immediately for his house in Devonshire, where he would take care that I should not expose myself or dishonor him any more for the future. Surely never was reprieve more welcome to a sentenced wretch than the latter part of this discourse to me. I had languished for solitude before my husband's error had rendered me infamous, and earnestly wished to fly from society before I had reason to apprehend that I should be abandoned by the world. But in my present situation, both of mind and circumstance, the idea of retirement, nay, absolute seclusion from the whole universe, except my mother, was doubly dear to my sad heart. I started up with all the alacrity of health and cheerfulness, and cried, I am ready to obey Mr. W. Let us speak on this moment. Do not delay my dearest mother, but let us fly forever from this hated place, this scene of all my misery.  I shall behold you or your miseries no more. But they will pray forever on my heart, for I have caused them all. Your filial duty more than your own ambition was the sole motive which has rendered you a victim to this unequal match. I respected the opinions of the world more than the philosophy of nature, and the sin of the parent is now severely visited on the unoffending child. We wept in each other's bosom. The thought of being separated from this virtuous, this tender parent quite overpowered me, and I sunk almost senseless upon my pillow. I knew that she had not now even the means of subsistence when torn from me, and I had not the least reason to expect that Mr. W. would have generosity or humanity sufficient to relieve her distress, or assuage her grief. During the few days I remained at Bath after this event, I never stirred out of my bedchamber, nor saw any creature except my dear mother and a maid servant who had been hired upon this occasion to watch rather than attend me, and was appointed, as one may well suppose, to be a spy upon all my actions during my exilement in Devonshire. The only favorable circumstance that I remember in this unhappy situation was that Mr. W., for I will no longer style him husband, no more distressed me with his loathsome presence or his foul reproaches while I continued under his roof. Matilda never once came near me all this while, but this was not the first instance that gave me reason to suspect her of insincerity and double dealing. I feared she had been the sole cause of the breach between Captain L. and me, and this idea not only inspired me with my former passion for him, but added a tenderness and compassion to my sentiments that rendered me infinitely more wretched than I was before. The brutality of Mr. W. still further strengthened my affections towards him, and the state of divorce to which his violence had now reduced me, dissolved that solemn and honorable tie which would otherwise have restrained the wanderings of my heart and ever preserved my duty faithful to him. It would be impossible to describe the pangs I felt when the hour arrived in which I was to be torn from a fond mother's converse. She was all the world to me. At least she was all that I then thought truly loved me in the world. We parted, and at her most earnest entreaty I promised to write to Mr. W. as soon as my mind should be sufficiently composed and to enter into a proper vindication of my hitherto irreproachable conduct.  The house was old, large, and gloomy, extremely out of repair. The furniture as antique as the building, which was situated on a bleak and barren shore opposite the Irish coast. For the first 10 or 12 days that I passed in this dismal mansion, I was delighted with the stillness and solitude that surrounded me. The family was composed of only three maids and an old gardener. And I have sometimes passed a dozen hours without hearing any sound except the roaring of the sea, the croaking of the ravens, or howling of a mastic. But when the agitation of my mind began a little to subside, I grew sensible to the horrors of my situation, and would have preferred a dungeon with any human creature I could converse with, to the liberty of stalking through an uninhabited range of chambers in silence and solitude. Monasteries afford society, and jails are not destitute of companions, which are a solace even in misery. But here I was both wretched and alone. I used often to consider myself as a delinquent and doomed alive, secluded from the universe, and only conscious of existence from continued regret. I sought for amusement and books, and found none that were capable of affording me any. The few volumes that I met with were meant to inspire devotion. But as they were written on fanatical principles, they were either so ridiculously absurd as to create disgust, or so extremely rigid as to induce despair. In conformity to my promise, I had written to Mr. W., but received no answer. And what was infinitely more grievous to me, I had not the happiness of hearing once from my mother, or anyone else, though eight months had lagged with leaden steps along since the first day of my confinement. When the weather permitted, I sometimes walked by the seaside, and have frequently poured forth my sorrows to the deaf, unpitying waves. Often, my Edward, have I side out your name, and sent forth ardent prayers for your return to comfort and support our hapless mother. Yet I will own that the loved sound of L still oftener past my lips. Was this a crime? My affections were thrown back upon my hands, and this me thought gave me a right to transfer them. In this situation, I had remained in my exile for a tedious interval. When one fine evening, having indulged my reveries by the seaside longer than usual, the twilight coming on warned me of returning home, when I saw two men at a small distance walking slowly behind me. A sight so unusual, joined to an apprehension that they might have overheard my soliloquy, put my spirits into a flutter. Though from their pace and manner, they did not seem as if they intended to pursue me. I was seized with a universal tremor. My limbs could scarce support me, and I could march but slowly on. Before I was able to recover myself and mend my speed, one of the persons came up to me, while the other retired as if for fear of alarming me. I did not venture even to look at him, and began to mend my pace. But flight was useless, when his well-known voice uttered these words. Oh, fear, no injury from me, my dear deceived, unhappy, and still adored Maria. Surprise, terror, hope, fear, love, anger, grief, and joy. In short, every passion of the human heart, hatred alone, accepted, rushed through my mind, and totally deprived me of the power of utterance. While he, need I write his name, taking advantage of my silence, proceeded thus. I have long sought this opportunity of speaking to you, but my tenderness, my delicacy, and respect for the only woman I ever did, or can love, have prevented my attempting at hitherto, in any way that might reflect upon the character of Mr. W's wife, and by that means countenance and justify the calamity with which he has dispersed your reputation. The lucky moment I have so long watched for in private has at length arrived.  I know it, sir, I replied. You need not now inform me of your own perfidy. To you alone I owe the miseries I suffer, and Mr. W himself is innocent when compared with you. Then let me go this moment, for however my duty to him may have been dissolved by his unkindness, that which I owe myself forbids my ever-holding converse with you more. I attempted to break from him, but he held me fast, and vowed most solemnly that he would never quit me unless I promised to meet him the next evening on the beach, and allow himself to exculpate himself of the infidelity I charged him with, and which he then denied with the strongest assaverations, adding that Matilda had betrayed us both, and was the vilest being upon earth. Then promised, if I would but hear him once, he would never importune me more. Almost distracted with contending passions, and terrified lest his imprudence might involve me in farther difficulties, I promised to comply with his request, provided he would leave me on the instant, as I heard the sound of voices, which I knew to be the servants coming in quest of me, as they must necessarily be alarmed at my unusual stay. He pressed my hand to his lips, and withdrew directly. With trembling steps I pursued my way homewards, and met my maid with the gardener coming in search of me. The agitation of my mind was too visible in my countenance to pass unnoticed, and they naturally inquired if I had met with any fright or accident. I told them that the night had fallen upon me sooner than I had expected it, that I had been then alarmed at the loneliness of my situation, and the haste I was obliged to make homewards had hurried my spirits a little. I desired a glass of water, and pretended to retire to rest. As soon as I was left alone, I began to reflect upon the extraordinaryness of my adventure with Captain L upon the strand, and on my own weakness, in having consented again to meet a person who had despised and rejected me, with the utmost insolence and inhumanity. It was, however, still easier to account for my conduct on this occasion than for his. Passion, self-love, and curiosity all conspired to render me desirous of finding a clue to that labyrinth in which I was involved. But wherefore should he seek to distress me farther? Or why pursue a wretch, who already entirely secluded from the world, had neither inclination or power to disturb his happiness, or oppose his views in any scheme of life? The hints he had dropped about Matilda puzzled me still farther. Was she not the companion of my youth, the friend of my heart, the confidant of all my joys and sorrows? Some instances of her levity and unkindness I did indeed recollect. But could she betray me? Impossible! Nature could not produce so vile a monster. Or Grant there could be such a fiend clothed in female form. Yet still, why unprovoked should she exert her malice against me, who never had offended her, without a view to her own interest or advantage, and how could she be profited by my destruction? The more I considered what Captain L had said on this last subject, the less credit it gained with me, and I persuaded myself that he had only named Matilda as a lure to my curiosity. The night passed away insensibly, without my being able either to form any rational conjecture with regard to the motives of his behavior, or any resolution relative to my own. A thousand times I determined not to keep my appointment with him, and as often changed my resolves. It would be endless to repeat the numberless arguments for and against this meeting that my love and reason suggested, and set an opposition to each other. At length my evil genius prevailed, and determined me for once to hear what Captain L could say. About six o'clock in the morning I lay down on my bed in order to make my maid believe that I had slept in it as usual. I had lain but a short time when I found my harassed mind inclined to rest, and I fell into a slumber, out of which I was soon awakened by a dream, which affected my mind as much as a vision would have done my senses. I thought that my father stood before me, under the same sickly and emaciated appearance with which that true divine conferred his last blessing on me. I threw myself on my knees, and endeavored to embrace his, but with his face averse he flitted fast away. I rose and pursued him to the brink of a precipice when he turned quick upon me, caught me up in his arms and plunged with me directly into the gulf. I awakened with a loud scream, thought I was still falling, and was for some time in doubt whether it was the reverie of a disturbed brain, or an apparition that had occurred to me, and only determined it to have been the former by finding myself in the same place I had laid down to rest. I rose up and walked about the room till I had exhausted my strength, endeavoring to shake off the kind of horror which had taken possession of my mind and body from this shocking dream. But it clung still about me, like a wintry cloud, and chilled my nerves to numbness. At length towards evening I began to recover myself again. I am not superstitious. Besides, what crime had I ever committed that might conjure up specters from the grave? My life had been innocent, though unhappy, and my mind continued pure, though injured and provoked. The reflections which this incident stirred up in my thoughts, more particularly at this time with regard to my dear father's goodness and virtue, served principally to compose my spirits to peace. He was indeed a perfect Christian, both in faith and works. His character and conversation were of a peace. His example was precept. He urged no borrowed morals, but preached the very practice of his life. His doctrines were strict, yet indulgent, charitable, though severe.  These pious thoughts brought me up to an enthusiasm of devotion. I fell on my knees to thank heaven for having been derived from two such pure sources as my father and mother, and prayed most fervently that I might never be guilty of any thought or deed which should render me unworthy of such faultless originals. As the hour approached when I was to meet Captain L, the terrors of my mind increased. Yet I found myself so strongly impelled, from the motives already mentioned, joined to a curiosity to know where the blame lay between Matilda and him, that I could not resist the temptation of hazarding the interview. I went softly down the back stairs, which led from a closet within my apartment, and found my way out, unseen by any of the family. The agitation of my spirits was so violent that I scarce knew what I did. I sometimes ran towards the shore, as if I had been pursued by wild beasts, then stopped and stood motionless, as if my faculties had ceased. At length I perceived Captain L at some distance. He flew to me and caught me in his arms. I burst into a passion of tears and was incapable of utterance. As soon as I could recover my speech, I assumed all the dignity of resentment, and told him that he was no longer to consider me as the weak, tender Maria S. But as an injured and offended judge, who came to hear the poor defense which he could make, for having so ungenerously wronged and so cruelly injured her. Again he pressed me to his bosom and exclaimed, Oh, could I but repair the wrongs you have suffered, as easily as I can prove I never was the author of them. My loved Maria should be mine and happy, and it shall still be so. Victims of artifice and fraud shall we continue to be wretched because Matilda and your husband have concurred to render us so? That fatal name of husband, I replied, has fixed an everlasting bar between happiness and me. But were there no such person in the world, you cannot think of me so meanly to suppose that I would condescend to accept of one who had so rejected and despised me. No blandishments, no arts, can ever soothe my tortured mind into forgetfulness of your contempt. He then begged that I would hear him justify himself, and began by informing me that about a year before my arrival at Bath, he had gone there, as most young people do, in quest of amusement. That he happened to lodge in the same house with Matilda and her husband, who both sought and cultivated his acquaintance. And as he had no particular attachment to any other persons there, he devoted himself entirely to them, was of all their parties and never absent from them. He confessed that he liked Matilda better than any woman than at Bath, and that he began to flatter himself he was not disagreeable to her. From the levity of her manners, he had reason to believe she was not over-strict in her morals, and on her husband's being obliged to go to London for a few days, she convinced him that he had not been mistaken. Their guilty commerce lasted but a short time. It began without passion, and of course terminated in indifference, at least on his side. He quitted Bath without any design of ever returning, though Matilda and her husband had taken a house, and determined to fix their residence there. Some months after he was attacked with a violent bilious complaint, and ordered to Bath by his physicians, and was just recovering from this disorder, when my mother and I happened to bend our course thither. What passed between us on our first acquaintance, I have already told you, except Matilda's machinations to break off our intercourse, and recall him to his former attachment. When she found her arts were unsuccessful, she changed her battery, and pretended to conceive a particular friendship for me, and became our mutual confidant. But at the same time from her superior regard for Captain L, used often to remonstrate to him how much his family would be offended at his marrying a girl without rank or fortune. But all these arts and insinuations he vowed had not the least manner of effect upon his mind or heart. His passion was too firmly founded on admiration and esteem to be so easily shaken, and he declared that at the sad moment of our parting, his whole affections and sole purpose in life were pointed towards our mutual happiness and honor together. He confessed, however, that during the unlucky interval of absence, the hints and representations of Matilda had wrought by degrees the malicious effect intended by them. For she had framed a novel against me, with so much address and ingenuity, so guarded at all points, that each part of it seemed to vouch the truth of the rest. Even the indiscretion of my having been led into play by her own artifice, she most wickedly represented to him as a vice of mine, and reported the circumstances of my debt to Mr. W, which she also exaggerated, with such reflections as placed me in the shocking light of a girl who was resolved to make the most of her youth and beauty without any further regard to morals or character. In fine, he acknowledged that the plausible manner in which she gave him these advices from time to time, with the tender and compassionate expressions she affected now and then to let drop upon the unhappiness of my conduct, had at length so entirely injured me in his esteem, that it occasioned his writing me the letter before mentioned, when he was going to sail for America.  His justification but increased my misery. I had never imagined there was so much vileness in human nature, as the base Matilda appeared now to be capable of, and was shocked to think that I was of the same species with such a monster and wickedness. I wept. We both of us wept, while he thus went on with his story. When I quitted Europe, continued he, the poison of Matilda's correspondence ceased its operations. My passion and reflection had liberty to exert themselves, and I began to doubt the authenticity of the extraordinary accounts I had received about you. Your bloom and beauty presented themselves to my fond imagination in the warmest colors. Your candor, innocence, and ingenuousness of manners occurred then strongly to my mind. Could such a character become so quickly abandoned, said I to my heart, it must be unnatural. And what is contrary to nature must be improbable at least, if not impossible. Thus did I often plead your cause, my ever-loved Maria, against the foul charges of your enemy, whom I unhappily, however, did not look upon then in that light, but merely as an unfortunate woman, who, having been guilty of vice herself, was, as too generally is the case, apt to construe every action of others into the worst sense, that the appearance or circumstances of it can bear. Upon this fair discussion of the point, I wrote once more to Matilda, expressing my doubts, not of her sincerity, but about her misapprehensions only of your conduct. Said that general charges, suspicions, and hearsays were but insufficient evidences where so choice a jewel as character was at stake, and called upon her for some facts of more public notoriety, to support her slanders. As all correspondence had been broken off between you and me, said he, she ventured now to speak out more boldly, and without the least equivocation in her terms assured me that you lived publicly with Mr. W, and privately intrigued with Sir James D. That the extravagance of your dress, pleasures, and other expenses was supported between them. That you had kept them both attached to you, by raising a spirit of rivalship between them, and used also to render each of the gallants jealous in their turns, by alarming them with me. With the letter she wrote, as she said by your desire from Bristol, she sent me another, in which she told me that you had at length brought Mr. W to consent to marry you, on account of your being with child, and that the letter was framed with a view either of duping me into a marriage, which she believed you would prefer, or of paying Mr. W the compliment of sacrificing me to him, if I should return a favourable answer. There is no describing the height of resentment to which I was affected upon this occasion, and I should have replied to the proposal in the most outrageous terms imaginable, if my love and fondness for you, which still remained, though my esteem was flown, had not restrained my hand, and dictated those cool but not violent lines, I sent her an answer. He told me that when he returned to England upon his father's illness, he felt himself impelled by a strong desire of seeking some proper opportunity of reproaching me for my infidelity, and of covering me with the utmost confusion by expressing the detestation and contempt that even a man and a soldier was capable of conceiving at the breach of honour or virtue in a woman that he loved. He mentioned this purpose, he said, in a letter to Matilda, and she most strenuously opposed it. She told him that such a sentiment was no good sign of a recovery from his infatuated passion, for she feared much that all the malice of his heart was love. That this would be but affording me the triumph of thinking him still my slave, and might put it in my power to involve him perhaps in a duel with Mr. W, whom she represented as extremely jealous, from very conscious reasons, if, as it was more than probable, I should be willing to exchange my wedding garment for a widow's weed. However, all these arguments not being sufficient to deter him from coming to Bath, he wrote her word that he would be there on such a day, and has had reason to suppose since that she must have advised Mr. W of this particular, by his coming so critically from London on the same day, and meeting him in the rooms that fatal night which I have before mentioned to you. I need not now, my dear brother, recapitulate what passed in consequence of this vile woman's malice. You have hitherto seen me the innocent victim of her cruelty. Too happy should I now deem myself had I still remained so. My fainting in the rooms, at the sight of Captain L, awakened his former tenderness for me, and the inhumanity with which Mr. W treated me on that occasion, for the surgeon had made the story public, seemed to demand his pity for a wretch doomed to be punished for an involuntary and guiltless act. He would have gone in person the next morning to Mr. W, in order to have justified my character, as far as it related to the scandal then cast upon it with regard to him, but was restrained from the attempt by Matilda's saying that this would only make the matter worse in all probability, that the interfering between man and wife was a dangerous measure in any person whatsoever, but that the lover, the very cause of the contention, must certainly be the most improper mediator in their reconcilement that could possibly be imagined. She therefore advised him to wait with patience, till passion on the husband's part might become calm enough to listen to reason, and that resentment peculiarly natural to a wife, suspected in the wrong place, this was her expression, should have somewhat subsided, and then promised him to undertake the interposition herself at the proper crisis, probably to better effect than it could be engaged in even by her during the present violence of the parties. He stayed at Bath while I remained there, and suffered an anxiety which increased more and more every day, as by mixing with the company at the rooms, but more particularly with the residents of the place among whom my late adventure was publicly talked of, he heard everyone take my part, and vindicate my innocence from their former knowledge and general good opinion of my character and conduct, ever since I had first become an inhabitant of that city. In fine, he heard to agreed upon, on all sides, that Mr. W could have no other foundation for his jealousy of me, except that sort of suspicion which is naturally apt to arise from too great a disparity in years, especially in the breast of a man who had had but little acquaintance with any women, except those of a profligate character. These fair reports in my favor, he said, began soon to convince him of Matilda's treachery, and he reproached her with it warmly one day, when with the greatest sang-fois imaginable, she answered him in these very words. There is no such thing as elimocinary wisdom in this life, but philosophers and pedagogues say what they will. Experience must be purchased at our own proper cost, and not at the expense of others. From this warning you will be taught sufficient sense to know for the future, that to make a woman the confidant of her rival is appointing a wolf to be the shepherd of a lamb. I forget whether this maxim be taken notice of in Ovid's art of love, if not his precepts are imperfect.  What would I have given at that instant, cried he out, to have exchanged her sex into a dozen armed men, and then concluded this sentence with this expression, but I could not exert such resentment against her as she deserved, because she was in my power. He did everything he could to find out the place of my banishment, but could not discover it. He did not know of my being moved from Bath till after I had been sent away, or he would have employed some trusty person or other to have watched me to the place of my destination. The surmises were various upon this occasion. Some said I was to be carried over to France and forced into a convent. Some that I was to be locked up in Mr. W's house in London, and others that I was to be betrayed into a private madhouse and confined there for life. During the uncertainty of all these several reports, Captain L. received an account of his father's illness, and immediately repaired to London to attend on him. His filial duty claimed his first regard, and the exercise of that virtue served to restrain his impatience, and balance his anxiety on my account for several months, while Sir Richard L. lingered before his death. Captain L. now becomes Sir Thomas L. with a large patrimony, being at length released from any further restraint upon his time in actions, began to turn his whole thoughts towards the unhappiness of my situation, and considered himself bound, not as a knight errant merely, but as a man of honour, to rescue me from that distress which he had been the innocent cause of, through the treachery of one person, and the too hasty sentence and unwarrantable severity of another. He returned immediately to Bath in order to get what information he could about me, and hearing that my dear mother had retired to a village in Flintshire, took the resolution of going to wait upon her there. As soon as he had informed her who he was, she began to reproach him in the manner it was natural for her to have done, from the circumstances of his conduct towards me, in the light it had hitherto appeared to her. But when he had disclosed the scene of villainy and deceit to which he had likewise fallen a victim, her affections softened, and she could not help looking upon him then as a third sufferer in our complicated misfortune. He contrived artfully to draw from her the secret of my abode, but without suffering the least hint to escape him of any purpose to seek me there. Then taking her hand and kneeling before her, vowed an attachment to me during life, said he would ever pay her the respect and duty of a son-in-law, attending till death or some more speedy vengeance might remove Mr. W. out of the way of his happiness, but offered her an affluent support out of his fortune, becoming the honorable connection which he had then declared between them. My dear unhappy mother returned him the most grateful thanks for the kindness and generosity of his offer, but her spirit and delicacy made her decline the acceptance of it. She confessed herself alarmed even at his visit, and urged him to depart instantly, without suffering himself to be known, lest this circumstance, though accidental and innocent in itself, might possibly in the train of our misfortunes happen to be made an additional article of suspicion against us all. She plain the distress and difficulty of our situations. They embraced, and he retired immediately out of the town. On his route to Devonshire, Bath lay in his way, where he happened to meet with Captain R., who had been an officer in the same corps with him in America. There had always subsisted a particular intimacy between them, and as friendship is apt to inspire a confidence, and that his heart was full, he imparted the whole secret of our loves and disappointments to him. He also informed him at the same time of his resolve to go and conceal himself somewhere near the place of my retirement, till he might meet with a favorable opportunity, without hazard to my reputation, of seeing me even for a minute, in order to vindicate himself from the unjust opinion I must necessarily have conceived of his infidelity and baseness, declaring also that he thought at duty incumbent on him to watch over my destiny, and at the expense of his fortune and the sacrifice of his life to defend me from any injury or violence that might ever be attempted against me. Captain R. approved his motives and commended his purpose, and said that as it was a service of danger, he had a right to claim the privilege of a friend and a comrade in sharing it with him. Sir Thomas readily accepted of his company, and they set out the next morning for Heartland, which is within a mile of the castle where I resided. They were attended only by two servants and a couple of pointers, on pretense of going into that country merely as unconnected, idle, traveling sportsman. Sir Thomas did not acquaint his friend with my name, nor where I was concealed, and used every morning and evening to wander alone round the place of my confinement, in hopes of seeing me, as I should walk abroad, and of speaking to me unobserved, which after about a fortnight's attendance he happened to meet with. In this sweet but dangerous converse did we pass the minute, for to us it appeared no more of our assignation. And now judge me, Edward, with your wanted candor, nor blame this foolish heart, if every tender, every fond sensation it had ever felt returned with double force. Remember that I had never loved another, and that I still loved him even when I thought him false. What must my transports be to find him true? When in my turn I told him the inhuman arts that had been practiced to betray me, and a stranger mutual confidence, his passions rose almost to madness, and he a thousand times exclaimed that I was still his wife, that our hearts were joined by heaven, and that no power on earth should ever part us more. Too eagerly I listened to his ravings, and suffered the enchantment of his voice to lawlessly my prudence and my reason. I felt as if there were but us alone of all our species existing in this world, and all other connection, obligation or regard appeared to me then but metaphysical speculation. Our sad attention to each other's woes had so entirely engrossed our thoughts that night stole on us almost unperceived. Tears had quite dimmed my sight, and my weak trembling limbs needed assistance to support my weight. I could not then refuse his kind sustaining arm to help me on toward the mansion of my sorrows, the dungeon of my misery. While we were on our way, a sudden storm arose, and the clouds burst forth in horrid thunder and lightning.  I entreated him to leave me, but he held me fast by the arm till we came to the house, which he entered along with me. Here drop the curtain Edward, and let this first false step of my whole life stand as a mark for the innocent and unwary to shun. Let them restrain the first encroachments of a favored lover, nor vainly fancy when once they yield the reins, that they can after check the ardent coarser's speed. End of Letter 66 Part 1. Letter 66 Part 2 of The History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 66 Part 2. Till that unhappy night, guilt was a stranger to my suffering heart, and therefore I had never known remorse or fear. It was impossible to soothe my tortured soul to peace. The fond delusion of his prior right, both to my person and my heart, my former arguments of dissolved tie and transferred affections, appeared all but self-deceit in my present circumstances. The wretched sophistry vanished like a phantom from me, and in its room the priest, the altar, all the awful scene where I had bound myself by solemn vows to be another's wife, now rushed upon me, and in the anguish of my heart I bitterly exclaimed against him as the prime source of all my misery, and bade him fly forever from my sight. Sir Thomas said everything that honor could dictate or love inspire to temper my emotions of grief and rage, threw himself at my feet, entreated me forgiveness, called me his wife, his betrothed before heaven, vowed eternal faith and constancy to me, and offered to fly with me to any part of the globe. At length, seeing that nothing could calm my distraction, he started up, laid his hand to his sword, and declared that he would instantly put an end to that existence which my resentment had now rendered miserable to him. His violence suspended for a time my agitations by adding terror to my other feelings. I caught hold of his arm, and now became a suppliant in my turn, begging that he would not further injure me by such a horrid outrage, and promising to compose my mind by penitence and prayer as soon as I was left alone. But upon this condition only, that he should never attempt to see me again, till it was possible for us to meet, for life, without a crime. We parted, mutually wretched, in agony and despair. The horror with which I was seized, the moment he had quitted me, is not to be conceived without guilt. I lost that firmness now which had hitherto borne up my spirits under all my sufferings. Purity, the only resource in affliction, was now fled forever from my breast. I felt the full weight of all my ills, and what appeared before oppression on my innocence seemed now but justice on my crime. I rejoiced I had no sister. I thought of you, my brother, of my dear mother, too, and with a shower of tears took leave of these fond names forever. I stood in life alone, severed from all connection. The sustaining hope of being again restored to honour and society, like the fair fruit that sprang in pandemonium, now turned to bitter ashes. What had I further to do with the world? Alas, I had already forfeited all protection. My last night's dream, say rather vision, stared me full in the face, and upbraided me with the recollection of a maxim I had often heard my parent St. Deliver, that we should ever consider those persons we had a respect for as present when absent, and as living when dead. I kneeled down and strove to pray, but could not. I felt myself in a state of reprobation, and was almost fallen into despair. I had no stay, no support, no resource in store. In all the other ills of life, heaven suffers us not to be afflicted beyond our strength, but wretchedness with guilt exceeds the scheme of providence. I then endeavored to rise, but was not able to stand. My exhausted spirits failed me, and I sunk down again upon the floor, where I continued some time in a state of stupidity, till my maids opening the door of the antechamber warned me to disguise my disturbance. I concealed my distraction as well as I could, by keeping my face turned from her as much as possible, and for the first time felt what an irksome thing it is to have anything to hide. The storm continued all the night, with extreme violence, but the thunder and lightning did not alarm me as they had done on the evening before. I had now a louder monitor in my breast than the one, and with what open arms and welcome greetings should I then have embraced the other. How long, Sir Thomas stated, Hardland, I cannot tell, for I never ventured abroad from that time, even to take a walk in the gardens, and he behaved with so much honour as to obey my last injunction to him, by not seeking any further opportunity as far as I could learn, of seeing me again, or even of attempting to write a line to me, lest it might, as it certainly would, have been intercepted. So that I began soon to reconcile myself to my present situation, by making that solitude and confinement of voluntary penance, which I had hitherto looked upon as the severest inflection, considering it but as a convent within the sequestered walls of which I should then most assuredly have concealed myself from the world, had I been at liberty to have chosen my situation. I conformed myself entirely to a true monastic state for a time, by spending my days and fasts in contrition and in prayer, hoping that my sorrows would ere long have ended with my life, but I was alas too soon convinced that fate had not yet emptied all its quiver against me, for I had the inexpressible shock to find that I was likely to bring an innocent being into the world at once to prove and share my infamy. I shall not attempt to describe the agonies of my mind upon this discovery. I must live to have endeavored still to solicit that death which my despair had tempted me to wish so ardently for before, while it related only to myself, would have been a double guilt in my present circumstances. I must therefore submit to become more miserable in order to render myself less criminal. In such a miserable and forlorn situation, what measure was left me to pursue? There was indeed but one, and let the fatal necessity of it plead my excuse. I had refused to fly with Sir Thomas when he begged it on his knees. I could not yield deliberate consent to vice or think of delivering myself over to a life of profligacy, but I must now temperize with guilt. I must now extricate myself from my present difficulty, shame, and danger at any expense, though with a determined purpose to cover my head immediately after, in some severe convent, there to endure the harshest penances and hide me from the world forever. In the confusion and distraction I was in at that time, I could not frame any certain scheme for my relief. Besides, that point depended on the concurrence of another. I therefore wrote a letter to Sir Thomas, and treating the favour of him to come to me directly, upon a business of consequence to us both, and in which something more than my own life was the object of my anxiety. I did not know where Sir Thomas then was, but ventured to direct it to him according to my former address from Bath, to his father's house in Bloomsbury Square. But when I had sealed this billet, a new difficulty occurred to me, how I could possibly get it conveyed to him. All connection between me and the world had been cut off from the moment of my commitment. My duena had at first refused to let a letter from me, even to my mother, be carried to the post, and told me frankly then that any directed to me were ordered to be returned from thence unopened to Mr. W. The danger pressed, and some attempt must be hazarded. I recollected that there was a labourer who generally worked in the garden, and appeared to be a person of rational intelligence. I therefore went out to him, and gave the letter into his hands with a bribe of five guineas, which Fee I promised double for him on his return with an answer, and hinted to him all proper cautions with regard to the secrecy of his commission. I instructed the messenger to make some pretense or other of private business for absenting himself from his service, and desired him not to attempt to deliver the answer of my letter to me till he should meet me alone in the garden. I had a full view of it from the windows of my apartment, and watched with the utmost impatience for his appearance again from the moment that I thought it possible for him to have returned. How much did I envy during this anxious interval, the infinitely preferable state of the meanest peasant I heard whistling carelessly across the domain, who enjoyed peace and competence without a consciousness of guilt or the fear of detection. At length I had the satisfaction to see my courier arrive, and waiting till I perceived the coast clear I stole out to him, and had the pleasure to receive a letter from Sir Thomas, filled with the tenderest professions of love and the fullest assurances of honour. He promised to be with me that very evening, just at nightfall, and desired I would meet him at the end of the grove near the house. I was punctual to time and place, and found him also exact to his appointment. He was full of transport at the sight of me, but I was not in a fit disposition of mind to attend to his ecstasies. I begged he would compose himself, while I looked about through every avenue, to see that no prying eye was near to observe our motions. Then led him with fearful hands and trembling steps into the house, and we retired upstairs together to my apartment. As I had not used myself to eat suppers, ever since my confinement in this place, I always dismissed my attendant as soon as she had left candles lighted on my table, choosing to sit up alone most part of the nights, employed in reading, musing, and working, so that I was under no sort of apprehension of being at any time interrupted in my privacy. As soon as we had got into the room Sir Thomas attempted to catch me in his arms, but I started from his embrace. I told him that we were neither of us in time, place, or circumstances, to admit of unwarrantable liberties, that I had desired this meeting to implore the assistance of his friendship and honor only, not to receive his love, the least overture of which, as I had declared to him before, I was firmly resolved to oppose, till such a time, if ever that happy era should arrive, as might entitle him to ask, and me to grant, the unreserved completion of his wishes. With true humanity and generous acquiescence, he immediately desisted from all further importunity. As he guessed the situation I was in from the hint in my letter, and therefore concluded what the purport of my summons tended to, he had the tenderness and politeness not to wait for any further explanation of the matter, but immediately proposed to me that we should directly abscond together to some distant part of the kingdom, from whence we might sail over to the continent, and there secrete ourselves for life in some retired spot, safe from pursuit or inquiry, adding that he should not look upon this retreat to be in exile to himself, as he might well be said to carry his country along with him, while he was in possession of all he loved or valued in it. I had no other resource left me now, and the choice is soon made where there remains but one option. I rendered the most grateful acknowledgments to him for the generosity of his offer, which I readily accepted of, told him that I from that moment resigned my fate into his hands, and that he should thence forward be the sole arbiter of my destiny, accountable to himself alone for all my future wheel or woe. He kneeled, took my hand, kissed, and bathed it with his tears. You do not, I hope, my dear brother, imagine me so devoid of sensibility as not to suppose that I then felt that his grace which my misconduct must entail upon an honoured parent, nor were you absent, Edward, from my thoughts. But let me say this in my excuse, that I then flattered myself my flight, or rather the motives for it might remain forever secret, and that living in a foreign land under a feigned name, my person might possibly never be discovered. And in that case, those dear connections could be as little involved in my reproach as they were concerned in my guilt. Here ends all the reflections I shall ever make. The following part of my unhappy story while I relate it harrows up my soul, congeals my faculties, and impels me to wild distraction or to reprobate despair. When we had thus settled the article of our flight together, we agreed further upon the manner and circumstances of it. Sir Thomas was to retire immediately to his inn before my garrison should be shut up for the night, and send off an express to Exeter for a post-chase with relays of horses to be ready the next evening at the further end of the grove, where I promised to meet him at the close of the day, from thence to launch into a world unknown, without a matron, without a guardian, for I had lost my innocence. Just as I was rising up to convey him out of the house, I heard some hasty steps passing through the antechamber. The door of my room was suddenly burst open, and I saw Mr. W enter with a pistol in each hand. Sir Thomas laid hold of his sword, but before he could draw it, received a bullet in his breast. He fell, and, do I survive to tell it, I heard his last groan, and saw him expire at my feet. I heard, nor saw no more, but falling senseless on his lifeless bosom was for a while released from Agony's too great for sufferance. But my miseries were not so soon to have an end. I was dragged back again to life by the still cruel hands of Mr. W, who assisted my maid to raise me from the floor and lay me on the bed. The first use I made of my returning sense was to rise upon my knees, and with uplifted hands implore his mercy to terminate my misfortunes and my life together. He looked as if he would do so, but turning from me cried, No, thou shalt be reserved for more exemplary vengeance, and walked immediately out of the room, taking the maid along with him, but leaving the discharged pistol by me on the bed. With my reason, my horror returned, let compassion but reflect on my situation. Barbarity itself must soften into humanity at the thought. Loaded with infamy, encompassed with misery, and tuned as it were, alive with the dead, and gazing horribly, without the relief even of tears, on the sad victim of my ill-starred destiny. At length, frantic with grief, with terror, and despair, unknowing what I did and without any purpose to end, I rushed down the back stairs, and issued through the private door from that accursed mansion. Fear gave wings to my speed, yet at the same time retarded my flight, for though I ran as fast as it was possible, I frequently stopped for several minutes to listen to every sound I heard, and sometimes clamored over high ditches, and laid myself flat on the ground to prevent my being seen in case I was pursued, though the night was so dark that I could almost feel an object before I saw it. My haste was urged by instinct merely, determined to no point, but like a frightened animal I fled from danger without direction in my course. My mind was all the while in the state of a dream. I knew of no asylum, I could frame no purpose. At length, exhausted by fatigue, and oppressed with sorrow, I sat myself down in the corner of a field, surrounded by a little corpus, just high enough to conceal me from the view of passengers. Here nature, till now restrained, still active for its own relief, began to release the utterances of grief, and at the very moment that I felt my heart going to burst asunder, my tears broke forth, and I found myself at liberty to express my sufferings and moanings and exclamations. This gave me ease at first, and I therefore indulged it for a while, till I began to apprehend towards day that the loudness of my complaints might possibly reach the ear of some traveller or villager, and betray the situation of my concealment and the particular circumstances of my story. But yet I could not silence my cries and lamentations. I became desperate of all human sucker, and thought that even the hands of cruelty might relieve me from the effects of my own distraction by putting an end to my life, without any additional guilt of mine. At length my voice was heard, and answered by one who came rustling through the corpus, and in a soft, slender tone cried out, Where are you? Who are you and what ails you? The sound at first alarmed me, till I was struck with the appearance of a beautiful boy of about seven years old, at a little distance, who, as soon as he spied me, came running up and told me that his mama had been awakened in bed with my cries, had rung her bell, and ordered her servant to go seek the person in grief. But that he got out of the house before him, was glad he had found me first, and begged I would go home along with him directly, out of that nasty cold place, to make his mama's mind easy. The prettiness of the child's person, with the good-natured impatience and anxiety it expressed about my situation, charmed me in that instant of distress and woe, till he came up close to me, when I felt a sudden shock at the sight of him. He seemed to be a son of Mr. W's. He had every feature of his face. I started and trembled, however, I soon recovered myself, concluding that such an idea must be owing merely to the strong impression which his countenance had made on my mind at our last interview, and which a terrified imagination might possibly have transferred a likeness of to any object, viewed in the uncertain light of a just opening dawn. I therefore embraced the lovely child, and walked away with him, leaning on the servant's arm, who was then come up to a neat cottage, which was but a few yards from the spot I had been found in. I was received at the door of the house, by a lady of gentler appearance than one could naturally expect to have met with under so mean a roof, who with a voice of sweetness welcomed me to what hospitality her circumstances could afford, and taking me by the hand led me into her best apartment. I sat down on the first chair I could reach, and begged for a glass of water to prevent my fainting, which I apprehended from my feelings might probably soon happen. The room we were in was soon lighted up with fire and candles, the blaze of which offended my tender sight, already dimmed by the darkness of the foregoing night and weakened by my tears, which prevented me from being able to view objects distinctly enough at first. But when the agitation of my spirits had been somewhat abated, and that my eyes had recovered their strength a little, I perceived the lady to be a person of about four and twenty years of age, and extremely handsome, but seeming much impaired in her appearance by grief or sickness. Here I began to shudder again, for the resemblance between her and Mr. W struck me more forcibly than it had done before in the child. There could be no equivocation in this instance. Her features marked the likeness stronger, and the clear light I had then an opportunity of viewing her by put the similitude beyond a doubt. This mystery alarmed me. I feared I had fallen into dangerous hands, but it would have been doubly improper to have asked for a solution of this riddle, on account either of the seeming to pry into her secret or the hazard of betraying my own. I therefore concealed my surprise, though I could not avoid showing my uneasiness, which she perceiving, but without suspecting the cause, and imputing solely to my misfortunes and fatigue, which she seemed to think were sufferings I had not been much accustomed to, entreated me to repose myself on the bed that was in the chamber as long as I pleased, without fear of interruption, till I should be inclined to accept of any other kind of comfort or refreshment that might be within the compass of her poor means to afford me. The voice of kindness to an oppressed heart at once soothes, and gives vent to its sufferings. I answered only with my tears. She rose, and taking her child by the hand, said that she was too well acquainted with sorrow to attempt to restrain its course, or think it capable of any other relief than time and prayer, adding that I need be under no manner of apprehension that any curiosity of hers should prompt her to inquire into my story, as the measure of her own misfortunes was too full already to admit the addition of another's grief without the power of alleviating it. She retired immediately without waiting for a reply. Being now sheltered from all outward ills and violences, the distraction of my mind began to feel itself under the less control. Despair and frenzy now triumphed over my reason and religion. I looked about for some instrument of distraction to put an end to my miserable existence, and snatching at a sword that hung unsheathed over the chimney, I had just set the hilt of it to the ground, when my guardian hostess, attentive to my motions, running into the room to see what had occasioned my disturbance, had just time enough to strike the point aside, so that I fell unhurt upon the floor. Oh, stop the hand of rashness! she exclaimed, nor dare to limit mercy. He who severely tries, as amply can reward the patient sufferer, let thy proud heart bow to his high decrees, and learn to bear thy burden with submission. While thus she spoke, I gazed upon her with a silent awe, and thought her more than human. She raised me from the ground with looks of tenderness, and thus proceeded. That sorrow has beset, and has subdued you, I can well perceive. Alas, what is your strength or mine opposed to its rude grasp? But wherefore, then, should we rely upon ourselves, when offered aid bends from high heaven for our acceptance, and bids our weak humanity be strong in its almighty power? I sunk again upon my knees before her, and cried out, I have no hope in heaven or earth. Thou messenger of grace, thy proffered aid is vain. I am an outcast from society, nor would even your charity extend itself to such a wretch as me where you to know my crimes. I will not hear them then, she answered quick, but sure there is no guilt except despair that may not hope for pardon. Remove that gloomy vice from your sad heart, and penitence shall heal the wounds of your offense, and bid your bleeding bosom be at peace. By slow degrees, this more than woman, this heaven-instructed comforter, calmed my distracted soul, and reasoned down my frenzy. I passed my word to her not to attempt my life, and I have kept it. Have waited till the lingering, though sure bane of human health, unceasing sorrow, shall release my promise, and lay me gently in the silent grave. As soon as my mind had become somewhat more composed, I began to reflect upon the circumstances of my late misfortune. I thought with horror on the impiety of neglecting a duty toward the manes, of the unhappy sacrifice of my wayward destiny. I felt like an accomplice in the guilt if I should not endeavour to rescue the remains of that dear and unfortunate object from the still-continued barbarity of his murderer, and attempt to procure it the rights of Christian, at least of human, subculture. The idea that first occurred to me upon this occasion was to fly off directly to the inn at Heartland to Captain R, for Sir Thomas had told me that his friend and confidant had accompanied him now as before, and to have acquainted him with the fatal catastrophe of my story. But how to appear before a stranger, or indeed any person whatsoever, under the sensation of conscious guilt and public infamy? Besides, might I not happen to be detected there, and possibly have involved a third person in my complicated misfortune? However, I contrived to qualify these scruples by the subtle refuge of writing a note to him, containing only these few words. Your friend is alas no more. He lies murdered at Castle W. I do not mean by this notice to call even for justice against his assassin, but only hope that your humanity and friendship may be able to defend his hapless course from any further indignity or outrage. To this billet I did not subscribe any name, but got my kind hostess to send it off immediately to the inn by one of the villagers, who was instructed not to say from whence he came, nor to await an answer. This most excellent woman, so far from desiring to dive into the secret of my distress, made it a point, rather, that I should not reveal it whenever she heard me begin to mourn. But in order, as she said, to convince me that mine was not a partial lot, and that she had herself severely tasted of the bitter cup, she would relate some of those very uncommon misfortunes which had attended her through life, and which might perhaps, in some measure, reconcile me to my own. But first she insisted that I should endeavour to recruit my strength and spirits with food and rest, as the preserving the proper temperament of the body was certainly one requisite toward restoring the health of the mind. I accepted her hospitality, and breakfasted on tea, but could not eat. She did not press me. She was reasonable in all things, and treaty in my situation would have but added to my fatigue, and increased my disgust. She thought that sleep might, for a time, better supply the place of food. She therefore obliged me to undress myself and go into bed, where after having closed the windows, as it was now full day, and removed every implement of mischief out of the room, she left me to repose myself, if possible. I did what I could for that purpose. I owed that duty to the infant yet unborn, and was solicitous to preserve that part of myself at least that was innocent. But my sorrows kept me long awake, till nature, taking advantage of my weakness, at length delivered my body over to sleep, though without composing my mind. For my disturbed imagination pursued me still throughout my slumber, presenting visions of slaughter, gibbits and executions to my tortured fancy all the while, which instead of yielding me any manner of refreshment, by frequent starts awoke me, adding the pains of labour to my other ills, which brought on a miscarriage towards the evening. My humane hostess attended on me with the kindness and tenderness of a sister, supplied me with cordials, kept everything quiet about me, and would sit up all night by my bedside, notwithstanding every opposition I could make to it. The next morning she prevailed on me to take some sustenance, after which I claimed her promise of letting me into the history of her life, which, however, I did not do to satisfy an idle curiosity, but thought that the circumstances of her recital might perhaps amuse my mind from too fixed an attention to my own sorrows, and that the gentle murmurs of her voice, with the monotony of narrative, might possibly have conduced to slumber. But, judge of my amazement, when she began by telling me that she was the daughter, the only child of Mr. W., I was near betraying myself. I could not conceal my surprise, but cried out, It is impossible! You cannot be his offspring! She calmly answered, You know him, then. And without inquiring further, thus proceeded. But as the unhappy Maria is come now to a pause in her misfortunes, let us, my dear sister, take this opportunity of resting little ourselves after the fatigue and horror of her story, before we enter upon another. I confess that when I came to this part of it, I rejoiced to think she was dead. My humanity felt less from the reflections that her suffering were at an end. As we are affected more by the distress we see, than by what we only hear of, so is our compassion always stronger for the living sorrow than the dead one. Yet one must still weep for Hecuba. The wind has become fair for this narrative, but my anxiety has been increased at not hearing from you before it changed. Adieu, F. Cleveland. Part 3 Miss Cleveland to Lady Barton The following episode of The Fair Cottager, though short, will be some relief to us both, before we proceed to the catastrophe of the main action and conclude the history of the unfortunate Maria, whose peculiar fate suffered not her indignities to terminate with her life, but afterwards delivered over her course into the clutches of the brute Coalville to be carried in the procession of a mock funeral at Amiens. The Story of Mrs. N. My mother was the only child of Captain H., a younger brother of a distinguished family. Her ill fortune brought her acquainted very young with Mr. W., while he was a student at Oxford, and underage. They saw, liked, and wedded, without the consent of parents on either side. Captain H. was afterwards made acquainted with the marriage, but died before my other grandfather, from whom it was thought prudent to keep it still a secret, as my dear mother inherited but a very inconsiderable portion. This was made a pretense for keeping their union concealed during the life of his father, and my mother, who tenderly loved her husband, consented to let their connection still wear the veil of mystery, rather than injure his interest or offend his father. The doubtfulness of her situation by degrees detached her own friends entirely from her, and for some years before the death of his father, she lived in perfect solitude, hardly ever seeing any person but her husband, and me, her only child, who were the sole objects of her care and affection. I was about seven years old when my grandfather W. died, and I am persuaded that if my mother felt any joy upon that occasion, it was for my sake only, as she wished to have my legitimacy acknowledged, and my education properly attended to. A long habit of retirement had weaned her from the world, and though of an age to relish all its pleasures, being then but four and twenty, she thought of returning into it rather with disgust than delight. Upon various pretenses my father declined owning his marriage for about two years, and the gentleness of my mother's temper prevented her from importuning him on this or any subject. But when so long an interval had elapsed since his father's death, and that she perceived a visible alteration in his behavior towards her, she with the utmost mildness expressed her wishes to live with him publicly as his wife. He strove for near a year more to evade her request, but when her apprehensions began to be alarmed by his conduct, and that she ventured so far as to press him on the subject, he slew into a rage, and utterly denied his having ever been married to her. Tears and prayers were all the weapons with which she attempted to assert her rights. They had alas no power on his obdurate heart. Grief preyed upon her tender frame, and when I had just entered my tenth year she fell into a consumption. She was sensible of her approaching fate, and though she had remitted her own claim to my father's rank or fortune, she determined not to leave me in the power of a man who had abandoned her to unmerited infamy, but immediately to set about proving her marriage, and by that means entitling me to both his name and a proper provision from his fortune. She soon found out that Dr. N., the clergyman who had married her, lived in the parish of Blank, in this shire, and that my grandfather, old Mr. W., had presented to him that living which was incumbent on some part of my father's estate. She took me with her, and set out immediately for his house, which expedition she could easily make without her husband's knowledge, as they had seldom lived under the same roof together for some time past. It is impossible to express this worthy man's surprise at the sight of my mother and me, as my father had informed him that she was dead above three years before, left no child, and earnestly requested him never to mention his having been married to her, as it could answer no end to her then, would certainly disablige some of his relations, through whose assistance, he said, he had conceived reasonable hopes of strengthening his interest in the shire, and of improving his fortune. As soon as my mother had acquainted him with her story, the good old man promised her to pay a visit the next day to my father, who had been his pupil at the university, and endeavored to influence him by gentle means to do her the justice he owed her, rather than reduce her to the irksome necessity of exposing him and herself by an appeal to some higher and more legal tribunal, assuring her at the same time that if his mediation should not be attended with that success which he wished, and had reason to expect from it, he would no longer hesitate a moment about proving the marriage through all the forms of law. My dear unhappy mother wept and thanked him, and the doctor, according to his promise, proceeded the next day to Castle W, which is about ten miles from this village, being the mansion seat where my father then resided. It happened that he was from home at the time the doctor went to his house, and in the fullness of his zeal, he wrote him an admonitory letter upon this interesting subject, and returned, much disappointed and not having seen him. In a few days after this event, my father came to Dr. Ends, and endeavored to make my mother's mind easy upon the equivocal appearances of his conduct towards her, imputing it to all the prudential reasons he had before mentioned to the doctor, in which he said that the future welfare of herself and family were equally interested, adding that their living together in England could not be long concealed, but that he was ready to retire with her to any part of Flanders, upon pretence of his going to travel for a few years, till the schemes he had in agitation might be brought to bear, when they might return home again and enjoy the remainder of their lives in happiness and honour together. My dear mother, as was natural to an unsuspecting and ingenuous mind, was fondly amused with this artifice, and wept with transport at his mock professions. The doctor too blessed his pupil with tears of joy, and my father returned back to Castle W the next day, in order to prepare everything necessary towards our departure for the continent, without any further delay. But this delusion did not long continue. For the morning after he had left us, Mr. N., a young ensign and nephew to Dr. N., happened to come from Exeter, where he was then stationed, to pay a visit to his uncle, and among other articles of news, told him that his landlord and patron, as he styled my father, was soon to be married to a young lady of family and fortune in the city he came from, and that he supposed the doctor would be then called upon to perform the ceremony. The young man had never heard anything of our story, and only mentioned this particular among some other indifferent circumstances of the time. His uncle did not open his mind to him upon the subject, but retired immediately to my mother's apartment, who happened luckily not to be by when this matter was related, and after endeavouring to prepare her as much as possible for the shock, acquainted her with the intelligence he had just received.  The humane Dr. N. said everything he could think of to assuage her distraction, and repeated the promise he had made her before, of concurring with her in an immediate vindication of her rights, seeing there was now no time to lose, and that it was sufficiently apparent Mr. W. meant to take advantage of her too long acquiescence under the concealment of her marriage, and by this new and more public engagement, to bar her claim forever. He confessed that notwithstanding his plausible professions to them both at parting, his mind could not help still harboring some doubts with regard to the sincerity of them. For, however, said he, my Christianity may incline me to a perfect faith in the efficacy of divine grace, when is naturally up to suspect your extemporary converts, especially where the Reformation seems, as in this case, to have been brought about by the necessity of some present urgency. He concluded, then, that my father's scheme, and carrying my mother and me out of the kingdom, must be to separate us from the advice or assistance of whatever friends we might have here, and that being bereft of the protection of English laws, he meant to shut us up in a convent together for life, upon some forged pretense or other, which would leave him at liberty to return in triumph home again, and complete his base purpose with his new mistress at Exeter. That very day, Dr. N. gave my mother a regular certificate of her marriage, signed by himself, as the clergyman who had performed the ceremony, referring to the page of the parish registry where that transaction was entered. At the bottom of which, he put a memorandum of the names of the two witnesses who were present, one of which is still alive, if that were an article of any manner of consequence to me now. The next day my father came to the house, with a carriage to convey us off privately through the country to Weymouth, where he told us he had prepared a ship to sail over directly to the continent. My mother made no reply, but wept, and quitted the room, to leave Dr. N. at liberty to explain the reason of her silence and sorrow. Their conversation was warm, but short. The doctor made remonstrances to him upon his behavior, both from religion, morals, and the law, which my father resented with the highest intemperance, declaring that he had happily one way still left to screen himself from persecution and prosecution both, and then rushed out of the house, which expression was, soon after, more fully explained, by hearing that he had gone off to France, where there no legal process could pursue him. These transactions were kept a perfect secret from me for several years. My fond mother thought it too soon for me to become acquainted with affliction, and our worthy protector had also conceived a certain delicate idea about me with regard to vice. His opinion was certainly just, that the longer young people are kept ignorant of it, the safer for their morals. Purity of thought, and innocence of action, should be suffered to gain strength by habit, before they know that there is such a thing as wickedness in human nature. The shock and abhorrence will be the greater on the first instance, and the danger of example less. Dr. N. kept us with him, and supported us out of his own fortune, while my poor mother lived, or rather languished, which she did for about two years, and then expired of a broken heart. The doctor was so generous as to make her last moments easy, by promising to take care of me, till he could force my father, by law, to make a provision for me as his legitimate child, saying that he thought of his duty to pay the debt of gratitude he owed to my grandfather to the only part of his family now that deserved it.  The doctor immediately applied to him on my behalf, but so far from being softened by his intercession, he loaded him with abuse, and threatened him with ruin if he did not instantly consent to my being sent to a convent abroad, and solemnly swear never to mention his marriage with my mother, nor again interfere in his domestic affairs upon any occasion or pretense. What became of his exitor a more, I know not, having never heard a word about it since. Faithful to his promise, the doctor refused to give him the satisfaction he required, nor would he consent to my going into a convent upon any terms. Conscious of the purity of his life and actions, he disregarded my father's threats, and continued to treat me with the same kindness as if I had been his daughter. My father, who was Lord of the Manor, stirred up most of the doctor's parishioners to non-payment of tithes, and supported them in every kind of insolence and injustice against him. This excellent divine, who was really a believer and follower of the doctrine which he taught, suffered those who had taken his cloak to take his coat also, and having no activity in him but for others, in a very short time was deprived of the means of support, either for himself or family. But why should I dwell longer on those miseries of which I was the unhappy, though innocent, cause? This best of men breathed his last sigh in a prison, about three years after my mother's death, and must latterly have wanted even the common necessaries of life, but for the duty and affection of his nephew, who was now become a captain, and more than shared his little income with him and me, who from the time that my dear guardian was thrown into confinement had been placed by him to board in lodge with the wife of his parish clerk. During all the sufferings of this true divine, he was never prompted to revile the cruel author of them, nor to repine at the wretched state to which he was reduced. And even to his last moments, comforted and exhorted both me and his fellow prisoners to bear their crosses with resignation, with cheerfulness, and with forgiveness to their persecutors and oppressors. While the doctor was able to keep house, Captain N. used often to visit there and stay sometimes whole months together with us. And after his uncle's misfortune which separated us, he came frequently to see me at my new lodgings. He was a very worthy, agreeable young man. We had insensibly conceived a liking for each other, and just before his uncle's death, he asked his consent to offer his hand and heart to me. The good man confessed himself much pleased at this overture, and upon mentioning it to me said, that when I should no longer have a protector in him, I must either be thrown upon the world to get my bread in a state of servitude which he thought both dangerous and improper for me, or obliged to sue to my father for a support which he feared he would refuse, unless he were to confine me in a convent, which he most earnestly entreated me not to consent to, but to persevere in suffering for the faith wherein I had been bred. And with regard to his nephew, he paid me the compliment to think I was capable of rendering him happy, and that eventually I might turn out a good fortune to him, either by my father's death or reformation. I received the proposal, I confess, with pleasure, and readily pronounced that consent with my lips which my heart had given before. My more than father, my guardian, my protector, now saw his desire accomplished in our union. With his dying hands he joined ours, and then slept in peace. For three whole years I was the happiest of humankind. My husband was all that my fondest wishes could have framed. That child you saw was his delight and mine. No frown air clouded either of our brows, or slightest contradiction passed our lips. I was, I was too blessed, till heaven reclaimed its best, its dearest gift, and took him early to reward his virtues. Though bred with such a shining pattern as Dr. N. before me, and long nurtured as I had been in the school of adversity, yet this trial was too much for my weak mind, which sunk oppressed into lethargic woe. The voice of reason is not heard by grief. Religion only reaches the sad heart. Cheered by the boundless hope of passing an eternity of bliss with him I now lamented, I raised my drooping eyelids from the grave, and turned my views to heaven, implored its grace to bend my stubborn soul to its high will, and sooth my warring passions to submission. My prayer was heard. No murmurs, no complainings from that pious moment of reflection have issued from my lips. In humble confidence, without impatience, I wait for my dismission from this veil of sorrow. Yet let me own that were there not a weight thrown in that scale that ties me down to earth, my resignation would have had more merit. My dear, my much-loved boy abates my ardor for the land of bliss, and makes me fear that while his fate is doubtful, I should even shudder on the brink of my long wish-for voyage. In a heart rightly formed, there cannot be a void. Maternal fondness now fills the place of chaste, cannubial love, and in this soft exercise of my affections, no griefs distract, no transports rend my soul. This place I live in is a freehold that Captain H., my grandfather had purchased, soon after I was born, for the term of three lives, his own, my mother's, and mine.  It consists of this cottage, a small plowland, a clothes for pasture, and a little garden at an inconsiderable rent. Here I have lived all my life, except while I was sheltered under the protection of the good Dr. N., during which interval the farm was led to a tenant at Will, till I was married, when my dear husband and I came to reside here, as much as his military duty would permit. And here he left me when he was ordered with the regiment abroad last war, in the first campaign of which he was killed. The produce of this small domain, with my pension as a Captain's widow, is all I have to maintain my child and me, and require the closest attention and economy to render them sufficient.  But I will not doubt the goodness of Providence, and trust it will raise him up a support, when it shall think proper to withdraw mine. Now judge, unhappy stranger, she continued, if I have not a right to speak of patience, of resignation and religion as the surest balm of sorrow. Philosophy and faith concur in this, there is a hope beyond the grave, and not but vice, unattoned by penitence and piety, need ever urge to spare. I had hung with mute attention on her story. My tears had flowed with hers, and while she spoke, her griefs suspended mine. Admiration of her virtue now succeeded, and kept me silent still. But there, alas, our sympathy must end. She might rejoice in her afflictions past, whilst I must mourn forever. I passed six days with this uncannonized saint, this living patience, of whom Shakespeare's image was but a prototype. She knew me not all the while, and I could not reveal myself, nor had the particulars of my sad story yet reached her incurious ears to have given her the least cause of suspecting who I was. By various methods and slow degrees, I pursued my journey towards Flintshire. As I drew nearer to my mother's peaceful cottage, I anticipated the misery and horror she would feel when she should know my situation, and considered myself as a wretch who was going to communicate an incurable disease to the fond bosom that had nursed and cherished it. Prophetic were my thoughts. The first emotions she felt on seeing me were those of love and joy. She strained me to her honest breast, with true maternal tenderness, and exclaimed, Mr. W. has at last relented, and blessed me with a sight of my Maria, whilst I, or whelmed with her unmerited kindness, sunk speechless to the earth. Tears were the sole return that I could make to her caresses and inquiries. My mother was alarmed. Sorrow, she said, my child, we both have known, but sure that should not seal your lips to those who wish to share and soothe your griefs, or render you insensible to love like mine. I grasped her honoured hand, pressed it to my heart, and vainly strove to articulate a sound. For several hours I remained in this situation. At length my speech returned, and throwing myself on my knees before her, I could not be prevailed on to forsake that posture, till I had recounted to her the whole of that horrid tale, which you have just now read. I will not wound your heart, my brother, with attempting to describe the agony she suffered during the sad recital of my story. Yet this truly virtuous, this scarce airing woman pitied the crimes which she herself detested, and spoke of peace and pardon to my afflicted soul, even to the latest moment of her life, for she is dead. She strove to hide her anguish and to lessen mine. The night I got there, after I had been in bed and just falling into a slumber, from the fatigue of my journey and the waste of my spirits, I was alarmed by the noise of some persons who knocked loudly at the door of the house and demanded admittance. The people with whom we lodged reviews them entrance, unless they would first declare the purpose of their errand. This they refused, but sending for a sledge, soon battered down all opposition and rushed in. My mother and I had but just time to hurry on our clothes, when an ill-looking fellow with a candle in one hand and a pistol in the other came into our chamber, attended by two other ruffians. Upon their appearance we instantly offered to surrender all our effects, and promised neither to make resistance nor pursuit. They seemed highly to resent our manner of reception, and replied that they scorned to use any manner of violence that might not be justified by the law. The principal of the men, then told me that he was steward to Mr. W., and had been dispatched by him with a warrant to apprehend me for the murder of Sir Thomas L. Early the next morning after the fact, and my flight for the same. With directions to come and look for me in that place, as it was natural to suppose that I should have flown to my mother for refuge after my crime. He said that he had examined and inquired for me all along the road, and had concealed his business in that village for several days, lying in wait for my arrival. Horror and amazement seized both my unhappy mother and me. I pitied her more than myself. I was hardened to sufferings, I wished to die, though not with ignominy, and felt disappointed at finding the purpose of these housebreakers had ended with so little violence to my life. I apprehended no danger from the prosecution, but to think of an arraignment and a public trial was distraction. I reflected deeply on the divine and sustaining sentiments of the amiable Mrs. N., and her precepts and example had a salutary effect on my mind. The steward then returned to the Inn to send off to Chester for a chase to carry me to Exeter, the county town of Devonshire, to take my trial at the next assizes, which were immediately to be held there, but left his two guards in the house to prevent my escape. My afflicted mother, who had fallen upon the bed when she heard the shocking sentence pronounced, lay silent for a minute.  I threw myself down by her. We embraced and lay folded in each other's arms, till we resummoned the next morning to begin our journey. We traveled with all the expedition that our conductors were pleased to make, and suffered every indignity and insolence of office all the way, that mean persons are apt to inflict on those above them, whenever they happen to gain an authority over them. All this I felt not but as I sympathized with my unhappy mother. For as to myself, I welcomed every mortification and distress I met with, and even wished them still more severe. We were at length relieved from this oppression by arriving at Exeter, where we were carried directly to the sheriff's house, and delivered over into his custody. For my dear mother would not quit me, but said that the same prison or the same grave should receive us both. This humane person, behaved with the utmost tenderness and politeness toward us, offered us every refreshment and accommodation that his hospitality could afford, and told me that he would impose no other restraint on me than an earnest request that I would accept of the best department in his house, and prevail on my mother to share the same comforts and conveniences with me. He then bowed and retired. He returned soon after to introduce a gentleman to us, who he said had some affair of business to communicate to me, and then withdrew again. But how was I overwhelmed with confusion when the person announced his name to be Captain R? The confidant of my shame stood before me. My trial was begun already. I felt as if I was at the bar. This gentleman behaved with great good-breeding and compassion to me on that occasion. He scarcely looked at me, but going up directly to my mother, whom he saw in tears, assured her that she need not suffer the least uneasiness on account of her daughter, as he had already made her innocence appear so fully to the justice that she was not to be arraigned on the trial, and might now consider herself perfectly free from her arrest. He prevented us. He would not listen to our acknowledgments, but directing his discourse to me, though without turning his eyes towards me, thus proceeded. In order to make you acquainted with the present situation of this unhappy business, it is necessary for me, madam, to recount the regular process of it, from the moment I had been informed of the event by an anonymous billet to this time. I soon guessed the writer, and as quickly suspected the author of the tragedy. Upon these hints, I immediately applied to a magistrate in the neighborhood, and after having given in my depositions, according to the notice I had received, I became armed with proper force and authority, and rode directly to Castle W. I was not denied admission, and upon opening my commission, Mr. W. charged you, madam, directly with the fact. Said you had absconded immediately after the murder, and that he had just then issued a warrant and dispatched a pursuit after you, in order to have you apprehended and delivered over into the hands of justice. Then, by way of supporting his assertion by circumstances, led me upstairs into the room where the corpse lay extended on the ground, showed me the discharged pistol lying on the bed, and pointed to the blood, with which the coverlet had been stained in many places. I wept over the body of my dear friend, said he. Then turning to Mr. W., showed him the note I had received, and asked him if he knew the hand. Yes, he replied quick, it is my wife's, and one line in it I think sufficiently certifies against her. I do not mean by this notice to call even for justice against his assassin. Whose danger I pray you do you imagine she should be so tender of? Would she not have named the assassin if that might have been done with safety to herself? Sir, I replied, you will now give me leave to reason upon the circumstances relative to this melancholy affair in turn. It cannot be difficult, considering the several parties, both separately and connected, to suppose the motive of Sir Thomas' errand hither. And whether it were most natural for the fond mistress or the jealous husband to have been the murderer is a question fitter to be argued in a court than discussed here. For which reason, concluded I, I shall pretend to act but ministerially upon this occasion, and therefore I do now in the name of justice arrest you and your whole household in order to take your trials jointly and severally for this murder. Mr. W. seemed startled at this discourse, but talked highly, and began to put himself into a posture of defense, upon which I presented a pistol to his breast, and pointing to the mangled corpse cried, There, sir, is your example, should you attempt to resist. He then surrendered himself a prisoner, the rest of his family did the same, and after I had got the body laid with decency on the bed, left the servants of the deceased to attend it, and given charge of the funeral to the clergymen of the parish, I escorted my captives to the jail in this city, where they have remained ever since. Upon their examination before magistrate in this town, continued he, the maid's servant who said she had attended on you, madam, turned evidence to save her life, and charged her master with the murder. She said that he had come to the house in the evening privately, and desired her to conceal his arrival from her mistress.  But that being disappointed in that circumstance, and alarmed at seeing Sir Thomas putting his hand to his sword, he discharged the pistol and killed him on the spot. Mr. W. did not make any manner of interruption, or reply to this woman's deposition while it was going on, saying only, after it was over, that he thought himself sufficiently justified in the action, both from law and conscience, and that justice without favor was all he should desire to indemnify him on the day of trial. Thus situated is this unhappy affair at present, and with regard to your arrest, madam, I have had that superseded already before you arrived in town, as the warrant was only founded on surmise, and I have given myself bail for your appearance on the trial, just to corroborate the servant maid's testimony.  But when he came to the last expression, I forgot all reserve, and starting up, no, sir, said I, it cannot, shall not be. I will never appear in evidence against Mr. W. You may drag me before the court, but no violin shall make me speak there. Justice I acknowledge to be a duty, but there are situations which may exempt one from the observance of it. Duties cannot contradict duties, and I have already too far erred against mine to him to think of adding a further injury. And if my death is to be the consequence of my silence, I am willing to pay that forfeit to redeem his. Captain R. seemed struck with my sentiments on so difficult an occasion, and told me that he would consult his lawyers that night, whether my evidence might be dispensed with, and would wait on me again the next morning. He then took his leave, and left my poor mother and me to pass an anxious, sleepless night, in mourning the distress of our present situation. The next day he came to us, and said that his counsel had told him that, as he was the prosecutor, he might excuse whatever witness he pleased, especially as the servant maid's testimony was full enough to the point already. We thanked him extremely for his humanity and politeness, and the instant he retired we hired a chase, and drove out of the town on our road back to Flintshire, flying as fast as possible from a scene of so much horror. The anxiety of mind, and fatigue of body which my dear mother had laboured under all this while, had brought on a fever that confined her in bed from the moment we reached her habitation in Flintshire. I wept, prayed and attended on her during her illness till her last moment. She blessed her children, even me she blessed, and prayed for peace and pardon to my polluted soul. She expired in my fainting arms, leaving me friendless in a world alone. But fate had not yet done with me. I was not yet unhappy enough. About two days after her death, I received a letter from Captain R., who had found out the place of my residence from Mr. W.'s steward, which brought me the following account from Exeter. The facts and arguments upon which Mr. W. grounded his defence were these. When Mrs. W. had given her letter for Sir Thomas to the messenger, he mentioned it to the gardener, and he communicated his intelligence to her maid, who had been appointed a spy over all her actions. She took it from the man, enclosed it to her master, and sent him off directly with it to London. As soon as he received it, he broke it open and took a copy, which he made his own man compare and witness, then sealed and sent off the original to Sir Thomas by a special messenger, who pretended he had come from Castle W., not caring to entrust the fellow who had brought it, lest he should have betrayed him, as he had before deceived Mrs. W. The answer he proceeded with in the same manner, and then dispatched the first carrier with it to Mrs. W. This state of the case Mr. W. had sent up to London, along with the attested copies of the letters, for the opinion of an eminent council, to know whether, upon such a certainty of the fact, and finding the adulterer in such an improper situation with his wife, the laws did not grant some indulgence to the transports and resentment of a provoked and injured husband. The lawyer's reply was that such considerations had indeed been sometimes permitted to be laid before a jury, in alleviation of the crime he had been guilty of. But that it was only in cases where no premeditation had appeared in the matter, and that his was a very different situation, as he had confessed his having been apprised of the assignation, assisted in forwarding the appointment, and had travelled above a hundred miles with a malice propense to take Sir Thomas L. at an unfair advantage. From all which circumstances he concluded that the laws would not consider him as a provoked husband, but a deliberate assassin? This answer deprived him of all hope and drove him to distraction. Could the articles mentioned in the state of his case have been prevented from coming before the court, he might perhaps have had some chance of escaping. But the messenger of the two letters was among the persons that had been taken up for the murder, had made a deposition in his own defence, and was to be produced on the trial. This particular confirmed his despair, and in a transport of madness, the unhappy man put an end to his life in the prison, the day before the assizes began.  From that sad hour, when no kind prop remained to stay my overburdened heart, I have sunk beneath its weight. My wasting form and slackened nerves gives hope of my release, and with this heavy task, which now draws near an end, I trust my woes shall cease. The first thing that occurred to my mind upon this tragical event was the benefit that my humane and hospitable friend of the cottage and her lovely child might possibly receive from it. And I had the satisfaction before I left the kingdom to hear that Mrs. N had sufficiently proved her mother's marriage by the certificate and witness, and taken possession of Castle W. as sole heiress to her father's estate and fortune, which were very considerable. I did not make myself known to her, as under our different circumstances no manner of connection could ever properly have subsisted between us. But as I was entitled to a jointure of four hundred pounds a year by marriage settlement, I put the deed, which had been left in my mother's possession, into the hands of an attorney at Chester to claim my rights, which were not denied. And on receipt of the first payment, I quitted England forever, and came over here to France, with the purpose of retiring immediately into a convent for life. I began my narrative of woe before I left England, and have completed it since I came over, and shall put it into the India house for you at Paris, if I may have life enough to carry me thither, as I designed to fix my residence in some of the distant provinces beyond it. But I have been confined here these two days, not being able to proceed further from the failure of my strength and the dejection of my spirits. Adieu, my dearest brother, may watchful angels hover round you and guard and guide your footsteps in the paths of virtue. I feel myself growing weaker every line I write, and think that here my journey and my cares will shortly end together. With my last sigh, I pray to be forgiven by heaven and you. And now, once more, adieu, I hope, forever. Maria. Yes, Fanny, your remark is just. The tears which flow for foreign griefs help somewhat to soften the poignancy of home-felt sorrows. I sympathize throughout every circumstance of the ill-fated Maria's distress, and was rejoiced at her lucky escape from the desperate guilt of suicide. It is intolerance, not intolerability, in patience, not suffering, that ever impels to such an act, for it requires no further argument than this, that God is just, to events that are strength of mind and body must be equally balanced, by nature, so that the one may be sufficiently able to bear whatever can be inflicted on the other until death, without precipitation, necessarily comes to the relief of the overburden sufferer, for pain or grief are able to do their own business without the assistance of a crime. From whence I argue that resolution may last as long as life, and that a virtuous soul may be sooner separated than subdued? I have endeavored to express myself upon this subject, with all the energy I could. I feel an interest in this reasoning at present, and shall repose my trust in it. Maria was certainly more wretched than I am by the addition of one circumstance, which alone was sufficient to have rendered her so, but surely we may hope, without offense, to the most rigid virtue that penance and sufferings, such as hers, may have atoned for her transgression, and that she is now happy. It is to be innocent, to be unhappy, whilst I must still subscribe myself, your unhappy but affectionate sister, El Barton. End of Letter 67, Recording by Linda Brie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C.