_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
Where I am, what is to become of me, or whether I am ever to see my
Louisa more, are things of which I am utterly ignorant. I write not
with an expectation that my friend should read, but to memorandum
events of which perhaps the world will never hear; and which, should
this paper by any accident be preserved, it will scarcely believe.
This vile Clifton--[Surely I ought never again to call him my Louisa's
brother]--This perverse man has grown desperate in error! The worst of
my forebodings have not equalled his intents! His plan has long been
mischief! Hypocrisy, violence, rape, no means are too foul!--Such
things are incomprehensible!
I am confined in a lone house, somewhere behind Knightsbridge. I was
seized I know not how by a band of ruffians, and conveyed hither. Every
kind of despicable deceit appears to have been practised. Frank was
decoyed from me. He flew once again to save the life, as he thought, of
this base minded man. I know not what is become of him, but have no
doubt that he like me is somewhere suffering imprisonment, if he be
permitted yet to live.
No thoughts are so tragical, no suspicions so horrid as not to be
justified, by deductions and appearances which are but too probable.
Yet I will not sink under difficulties, nor be appalled at the sight of
danger; be it death, or what else it may. That I am in a state of
jeopardy my seizure and imprisonment prove. That Frank is still in
greater peril, if still in existence, I have just cause to conclude.
There were pistols fired, and one after he leaped the hedge; I know not
at whom directed, nor what its fate!--I would if possible ward off
apprehension. I know it to be folly, and I will endeavour to steel my
heart against this as well as other mistakes. If he be dead, or if he
be to die, grief will not revive or make him invulnerable. His own
virtue must preserve him, or nothing can; and in that I will confide.
That evil is meant to me it would be absurd to doubt; but of what
nature, where it is to begin, or where end, that time must disclose.
For I will not permit myself to imagine the trifling indignities, or
violence I have hitherto encountered, an evil worthy of complaint.
'Tis true my arms are bruised, and I was rudely dealt with by the vile
men who seized me: and that there should be such men is an evil. But to
me it is none; or not worth a thought. If I would firmly meet what is
to come, I must not weakly bewail what is past.
I am not immortal, neither is my strength infinite; but the powers I
have I will use. We are oftener vanquished because we are fearful than
because we are feeble. Our debility takes birth in our cowardice, and
true fortitude is not to be abashed by trifling dangers.
I meant to write a narrative, but these reflections are forced upon me
by my situation. I will proceed.
I was brought here, on Friday--, by several men of vulgar but ferocious
countenances; and my maid Laura with me. I made all the resistance in
my power; and the men, without any regard to what I suffered in body or
mind, twisted my arms behind me, so that I imagined one of them had
been dislocated, and forced a handkerchief into my mouth; handling,
tossing, and gripping me, without any respect whatever to decency or
pain, till they had conveyed me from the fields, in which I was walking
with Frank Henley, to the place where I am.
I scarcely can guess at the distance; but they hurried me away with
great violence, crossing several gates, and forcing apertures through
hedges, for the space I believe of not more than half an hour: it might
be much less.
They brought me to a house walled round; into which having been
admitted by an old woman, they hurried me forward up stairs, and shut
me into a room decently furnished, with a fire in it and a bed-chamber
adjoining; but with the windows barred up, and in which every
precaution had evidently been taken to render escape impracticable.
Laura was shut up with me; and there was a slip of paper on the table,
on which was written--'Laura is allowed to fetch whatever you may want.
Let her ring the bell, and the door will be opened.'--The hand-writing
was Mr. Clifton's.
Among other necessaries, there was a book-case, furnished with the
works of some of the best authors; and a writing-desk, with pens, ink,
and paper.
The same old woman that opened the gate for the men, who brought me,
constantly comes to open the door for Laura, when I ring. But this
she does with great caution. A chain, similar to what is common for
street-doors, is hung on the outside; which she puts up, and looks to
see that I am not near, every time she opens the door. The first time
she came I stood just behind Laura, and in a morose tone she bade me
go back, or she would lock the door again.
After Laura had been several times down stairs, I enquired what
discoveries she had made; and, as she informs me, the house appears to
have no inhabitants but this old woman and ourselves. The old woman
resides in the kitchen. The doors and windows are all secured; and the
same care is taken to prevent escape below stairs as above.
The food that has been brought us was good, and well dressed, but
almost cold. Laura says she is sure it cannot be dressed in the house,
which is most probable.
I communicate but few of my thoughts to Laura, because I fear I have
good reason to be suspicious of her. I have long remarked her
partiality in favour of Mr. Clifton, intermixed with some contradictory
appearances, which I could not solve at the time, but which I now
believe to have been aukward attempts to conceal that partiality, and
to mislead me; which she in part effected.
The base designs of Mr. Clifton, from the nature of them, cannot have
been very recent; and nothing perhaps was more necessary, to carry them
into execution, than the seducing of the woman who by her situation
could give him the best intelligence.
Since I have begun to doubt her, I have purposely cross-questioned her
occasionally, and she has answered with hesitation and incoherency. If
however I can perceive the least hope that this letter should be
conveyed to the post-office, by any person who may visit the house, and
whom she may see but I cannot, I will trust it to her. The trust indeed
is nothing, for it cannot increase my peril. The persecution of Mr.
Clifton must prove most pernicious to himself. Unless he can deprive me
of conscious innocence, it can injure me but little.
Among other ambiguous circumstances respecting Laura, she scarcely
seems to repine at her confinement: though she has several times
affected uneasiness, which while she acted it she evidently did not
feel. Beside she is permitted to stay below, and run about the house;
which, whatever caution of bars and bolts may have been used, she would
not be suffered to do, as I should suppose, were she really in my
interest.
About an hour ago we heard the yard bell ring and the gate open, and
she was eager to go down. I encouraged her, and she rung for our
turnkey. She had seen me writing, and, without being spoken to, took
upon her to suppose it was a letter to my Louisa, and told me she _did
believe_ she could get it conveyed to the post. I am persuaded this is
preconcerted officiousness. But as I said, I have nothing to lose, and
there is a bare possibility of hope.
When she came up stairs again, she told me that the person who had rung
at the bell was some man of the neighbourhood, who had brought the old
woman various trifling articles, and whom she had ordered to return at
five o'clock, with tea and sugar.
If contrary to all expectation this should come to hand, Louisa, write
to my father; inform him of all you know: and especially write to Mr.
Clifton. It will be ineffectual, but write. If there be truth in woman,
I would rejoice to suffer much more mischief than he has the power to
inflict, could I but by that means restore him to a sense of his own
worth; or rather of the worth of virtue!
Why do I talk of mischief, and his power to inflict? I hope to shew
him he has no power over me; and that the strength of men, and the
force of walls, locks, and bars are feeble, when but resolutely
opposed by the force of truth, actuating the will of weak and despised
woman!--Injury?--Poor depraved, mistaken man! It is himself he injures!
Every effort he makes is but a new assault upon his own peace! It is
heaping coals of fire upon his own head; which it has long been the
wish of my heart to extinguish!
Had I but any reason to believe Frank Henley in safety, I would not
suffer a single sigh to escape me. But I know too well Mr. Clifton dare
not permit him to be at liberty, while he keeps me confined. Surely
nothing can be attempted against his life? And yet I sometimes shake
with horror! There is a reason which I know not whether I dare mention;
yet if Mr. Clifton should think proper to lay snares to intercept and
read my letters, he ought to be informed of this dangerous
circumstance. I know not, Louisa, whether I am addressing myself to you
or him; but Frank Henley at the time that I was seized, and he likewise
as I suppose, had bank-bills in his possession to the amount of eight
thousand pounds!
He had been that very morning into the city, to receive the money on
his father's account; and intended as we returned to leave them with
Sir Arthur's banker.
If men such as those who seized on me were employed for the same
violent purpose against him, and if they should discover a sum which
would to them be so tempting, who can say that his life would be safe?
Frank Henley, the preserver of Clifton, the preceptor of truth, and the
friend of man; the benevolent, magnanimous, noble-minded Frank, whose
actions were uniform in goodness, whose heart was all affection, and
whose soul all light--and murdered!
Why do I indulge a thought so unhuman, so impossible? It could not
be!--No, no; it could not be! A supposition so extravagant is
guilt--Yet though I who cannot aid him ought not to encourage such
doubts, let those who can be warned, and be active!
I am addressing myself to vacancy! No one hears me! No one will read
what I write!
I will be calm. It is my situation, it is confinement, the bars I see
and the bolts I hear that inspire these gloomy thoughts. They are
unfounded, and certainly unavailing--He may have escaped! He may at
this instant be in search of me! Hurrying, enquiring, despairing, and
distracted; in much deeper distress than I am: for were I but sure of
his safety, I could almost defy misfortune! Let not the world lose him!
Oh! If any human creature should in time read this, let him hear, let
him shudder, let him beware!
Pardon, Louisa! I do not address myself to you! Too well I know my
friend to doubt her! No cold delay, no unfeeling negligence, no rash
phrensy is to be feared from her!--Alas! What I am writing she will
never read! It cannot be! The man I have to encounter is too practised
in deceit, or I should not have been where I am!
Well then, may he himself read! And while he reads, thus let his
conscience speak--'There is a man whose worth and virtues are such,
that the loss of him would be a loss to the whole human race. From this
man I received a thousand acts of kindness: for which I returned ten
thousand insults. I repulsed him, scorned him, struck him; and he,
disregarding the innumerable injuries I had done him, but a few hours
after plunged headlong down the dreadful abyss, to snatch me from the
grave. I was dead and he gave me life. In return I have robbed him of
what men prize even more than life, of liberty. But if I have put him
in jeopardy, if I suffer him to remain in the power of hardened and
wicked men, and if he perish, mercy cannot pardon me, justice cannot
punish, and charity itself must hold me in abhorrence.'