"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay."--GOLDSMITH.
To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further preface, I was
the only child of a country curate, in the southern part of England,
who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced family. Contented
dispositions and an agreeable neighborhood, ready on every occasion to
oblige them, rendered them, in their humble situations, completely
happy. I was the idol of both their hearts; every one told my mother I
should grow up a beauty, and she, poor simple woman, believed the
flattering tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat romantic, she
expected nothing less than my attaining, by my charms, an elevated
situation; to fit me to it, therefore, according to her idea, she gave
me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of education. My father
being a meek, or rather an indolent man, submitted entirely to her
direction; thus, without knowing the grammatical part of my own
language, I was taught to gabble bad French by myself; and, instead of
mending or making my clothes, to flourish upon catgut and embroider
satin. I was taught dancing by a man who kept a cheap school for that
purpose in the village; music I could not aspire to, my mother's
finances being insufficient to purchase an instrument; she was therefore
obliged to content herself with my knowing the vocal part of that
delightful science, and instructed me in singing a few old-fashioned
airs, with a thousand graces, in her opinion at least.
To make me excel by my dress, as well as my accomplishments, all the
misses of the village, the remains of her finery were cut and altered
into every form which art or ingenuity could suggest; and, Heaven
forgive me, but my chief inducement in going to church on a Sunday was
to exhibit my flounced silk petticoat and painted chip hat.
When I attained my sixteenth year, my mother thought me, and supposed
every one else must do the same, the most perfect creature in the world.
I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and ambitious to an extravagant degree;
yet, truly innocent in my disposition, and often, forgetting the
appearance I had been taught to assume, indulged the natural gayety of
my heart, and in a game of hide-and-go-seek, amongst the haycocks in a
meadow, by moonlight, enjoyed perfect felicity.
Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the dancing-master's
school, to practise country dances. One evening we had just concluded a
set, and were resting ourselves, when an elegant youth, in a fashionable
riding dress, entered the room. His appearance at once excited
admiration and surprise; never shall I forget the palpitation of my
heart at his approach; every girl experienced the same, every cheek was
flushed, and every eye sparkled with hope and expectation. He walked
round the room, with an easy, unembarrassed air, as if to take a survey
of the company; he stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller's
daughter--good heavens! what were my agonies! My mother, too, who sat
beside me, turned pale, and would actually, I believe, have fainted, had
he taken any farther notice of her; fortunately he did not, but
advanced. My eyes caught his; he again paused, looked surprised and
pleased, and, after a moment, passed in seeming consideration, bowed
with the utmost elegance, and requested the honor of my hand for the
ensuing dance. My politeness had hitherto only been in theory; I arose,
dropped him a profound curtsey, assured him the honor would be all on my
side, and I was happy to grant his request. He smiled, I thought, a
little archly, and coughed to avoid laughing; I blushed, and felt
embarrassed; but he led me to the head of the room to call a dance, and
my triumph over my companions so exhilarated my spirits, that I
immediately lost all confusion.
I had been engaged to a young farmer, and he was enraged, not only at my
breaking my engagement without his permission, but at the superior
graces of my partner, who threatened to be a formidable rival to him.
"By jingo!" said Clod, coming up to me in a surly manner, "I think, Miss
Fanny, you have not used me quite genteelly; I don't see why this here
fine spark should take the lead of us all." "Creature!" cried I, with an
ineffable look of contempt, which he could not bear, and retired
grumbling. My partner could no longer refrain from laughing; the
simplicity of my manners, notwithstanding the airs I endeavored to
assume, highly delighted him. "No wonder," cried he, "the poor swain
should be mortified at losing the hand of his charming Fanny."
The dancing over, we rejoined my mother, who was on thorns to begin a
conversation with the stranger, that she might let him know we were not
to be ranked with the present company. "I am sure, sir," said she, "a
gentleman of your elegant appearance must feel rather awkward in the
present party; it is so with us, as, indeed, it must be with every
person of fashion; but, in an obscure little village like this, we must
not be too nice in our society, except, like a hermit, we could do
without any." The stranger assented to whatever she said, and accepted
an invitation to sup with us; my mother instantly sent an intimation of
her will to my father, to have, not the fatted calf, indeed, but the
fatted duck prepared; and he and the maid used such expedition, that, by
the time we returned, a neat, comfortable supper was ready to lay on the
table. Mr. Marlowe, the stranger's name, as he informed me, was all
animation and affability: it is unnecessary to say, that my mother,
father, and myself, were all complaisance, delight, and attention. On
departing, he asked, and obtained, permission, of course, to renew his
visit the next day; and my mother immediately set him down as her future
son-in-law.
As everything is speedily communicated in such a small village as we
resided in, we learned on the preceding evening he had stopped at the
inn, and, hearing music, had inquired from whence it proceeded, and had
gone out of curiosity to the dance. We also learned that his attendants
reported him to be heir to a large fortune; this report, vain as I was,
was almost enough of itself to engage my heart; judge, then, whether it
was not an easy conquest to a person, who, besides the above-mentioned
attraction, possessed those of a graceful figure and cultivated mind. He
visited continually at our cottage; and I, uncultivated as I was, daily
strengthened myself in his affections. In conversing with him, I forgot
the precepts of vanity and affectation, and obeyed the dictates of
nature and sensibility. He soon declared the motives of his visits to
me--"to have immediately demanded my hand" he said, "would have
gratified the tenderest wish of his soul; but, in his present situation,
that was impossible--left, at an early age, destitute and distressed, by
the death of his parents, an old whimsical uncle, married to a woman
equally capricious, had adopted him as heir to their large
possessions--he found it difficult," he said, "to submit to their
ill-humor, and was confident, if he took any step against their
inclinations, he should forever forfeit their favor; therefore, if my
parents would allow a reciprocal promise to pass between us, binding
each to each, the moment he became master of expected fortune, or
obtained an independence, he would make me a partaker of it." They
consented, and he enjoined us to the strictest secrecy, saying, one of
his attendants was placed about him as a kind of spy. He had hitherto
deceived him with respect to us, declaring my father was an intimate
friend, and that his uncle knew he intended visiting him. But my
unfortunate vanity betrayed the secret it was so material for me to
keep. I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morning a young girl who
had been an intimate acquaintance of mine till I knew Marlowe, came to
see me, "Why, Fanny," cried she, "you have given us all up for Mr.
Marlowe; take care, my dear, he makes you amends for the loss of your
other friends." "I shall take your advice," said I, with a smile and a
conceited toss of my head. "Faith, for my part," continued she, "I think
you were very foolish not to secure a good settlement for yourself with
Clod." "With Clod!" repeated I, with the utmost haughtiness. "Lord,
child, you forget who I am!" "Who are you?" exclaimed she, provoked at
my insolence; "oh, yes, to be sure, I forget that you are the daughter
of a poor country curate, with more pride in your head than money in
your purse." "Neither do I forget," said I, "that your ignorance is
equal to your impertinence; if I am the daughter of a poor country
curate, I am the affianced wife of a rich man, and as much elevated by
expectation, as spirit, above you."
Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and reached the
ears of Marlowe's attendant, who instantly developed the real motive
which detained him so long in the village. He wrote to his uncle an
account of the whole affair; the consequence of this was a letter to
poor Marlowe, full of the bitterest reproaches, charging him, without
delay, to return home. This was like a thunder-stroke to us all; but
there was no alternative between obeying, or forfeiting his uncle's
favor. "I fear, my dear Fanny," cried he, as he folded me to his bosom,
a little before his departure, "it will be long ere we shall meet again;
nay, I also fear I shall be obliged to promise not to write; if both
these fears are realized, impute not either absence or silence to a want
of the tenderest affection for you." He went, and with him all my
happiness! My mother, shortly after his departure, was attacked by a
nervous fever, which terminated her days; my father, naturally of weak
spirits and delicate constitution, was so shocked by the sudden death of
his beloved and faithful companion, that he sunk beneath his grief. The
horrors of my mind I cannot describe; I seemed to stand alone in the
world, without one friendly hand to prevent my sinking into the grave,
which contained the dearest objects of my love. I did not know where
Marlowe lived, and, even if I had, durst not venture an application,
which might be the means of ruining him. The esteem of my neighbors I
had forfeited by my conceit; they paid no attention but what common
humanity dictated, merely to prevent my perishing; and that they made me
sensibly feel. In this distress, I received an invitation from a
school-fellow of mine, who had married a rich farmer about forty miles
from our village, to take up my residence with her till I was
sufficiently recovered to fix on some plan for subsistence. I gladly
accepted the offer, and after paying a farewell visit to the grave of my
regretted parents, I set off in the cheapest conveyance I could find to
her habitation, with all my worldly treasure packed in a portmanteau.
With my friend I trusted I should enjoy a calm and happy asylum till
Marlowe was able to fulfil his promise, and allow me to reward her
kindness; but this idea she soon put to flight, by informing me, as my
health returned, I must think of some method for supporting myself. I
started, as at the utter annihilation of all my hopes; for, vain and
ignorant of the world, I imagined Marlowe would never think of me if
once disgraced by servitude. I told her I understood little of anything
except fancy work. She was particularly glad, she said, to hear I knew
that, as it would, in all probability, gain me admittance to the service
of a rich old lady in the neighborhood, who had long been seeking for a
person who could read agreeably and do fancy works, with which she
delighted to ornament her house. She was a little whimsical, to be sure,
she added, but well-timed flattery might turn those whims to advantage;
and, if I regarded my reputation, I should not reject so respectable a
protection. There was no alternative; I inquired more particularly about
her, but how great was my emotion, when I learned she was the aunt of
Marlowe. My heart throbbed with exquisite delight at the idea of being
in the same house with him; besides, the service of his aunt would not,
I flattered myself, degrade me as much in his eyes as that of another
person's; it was necessary, however, my name should be concealed, and I
requested my friend to comply with my wish in that respect. She rallied
me about my pride, which she supposed had suggested the request, but
promised to comply with it; she had no doubt but her recommendation
would be sufficient to procure me immediate admittance, and,
accordingly, taking some of my work with me, I proceeded to the
habitation of Marlowe. It was an antique mansion, surrounded with
neat-clipped hedges, level lawns, and formal plantations. Two statues,
cast in the same mould, and resembling nothing either in heaven, earth,
or sea, stood grinning horribly upon the pillars of a massy gate, as if
to guard the entrance from impertinent intrusion. On knocking, an old
porter appeared. I gave him my message, but he, like the statues, seemed
stationary, and would not, I believe, have stirred from his situation to
deliver an embassy from the king. He called, however, to a domestic,
who, happening to be a little deaf, was full half an hour before he
heard him; at last, I was ushered up stairs into an apartment, from the
heat of which one might have conjectured it was under the torrid zone.
Though in the middle of July, a heavy hot fire burned in the grate; a
thick carpet, representing birds, beasts, and flowers, was spread on the
floor, and the windows, closely screwed down, were heavy with woodwork,
and darkened with dust. The master and mistress of the mansion, like
Darby and Joan, sat in arm-chairs on each side of the fire; three dogs,
and as many cats, slumbered at their feet. He was leaning on a
spider-table, poring over a voluminous book, and she was stitching a
counterpane. Sickness and ill-nature were visible in each countenance.
"So!" said she, raising a huge pair of spectacles at my entrance, and
examining me from head to foot, "you are come from Mrs. Wilson's; why,
bless me, child, you are quite too young for any business; pray, what is
your name, and where do you come from?" I was prepared for these
questions, and told her the truth, only concealing my real name, and the
place of my nativity. "Well, let me see those works of yours," cried
she. I produced them, and the spectacles were again drawn down. "Why,
they are neat enough, to be sure," said she, "but the design is
bad--very bad, indeed: there is taste, there is execution!" directing me
to some pictures, in heavy gilt frames, hung round the room. I told her,
with sincerity, "I had never seen anything like them." "To be sure,
child," exclaimed she, pleased at what she considered admiration in me,
"it is running a great risk to take you; but if you think you can
conform to the regulations of my house, I will, from compassion, and as
you are recommended by Mrs. Wilson, venture to engage you; but,
remember, I must have no gad-about, no fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my
family. You must be decent in your dress and carriage, discreet in your
words, industrious at your work, and satisfied with the indulgence of
going to church on a Sunday." I saw I was about entering upon a painful
servitude; but the idea of its being sweetened by the sympathy of
Marlowe a little reconciled me to it.
On promising all she desired, everything was settled for my admission
into her family, and she took care I should perform the promises I made
her. I shall not recapitulate the various trials I underwent from her
austerity and peevishness; suffice it to say, my patience, as well as
taste, underwent a perfect martyrdom. I was continually seated at a
frame, working pictures of her own invention, which were everything that
was hideous in nature. I was never allowed to go out, except on a Sunday
to church, or on a chance evening when it was too dark to distinguish
colors.
Marlowe was absent on my entering the family, nor durst I ask when he
was expected. My health and spirits gradually declined from my close
confinement. When allowed, as I have before said, of a chance time to go
out, instead of enjoying the fresh air, I have sat down to weep over
scenes of former happiness. I dined constantly with the old housekeeper.
She informed me, one day, that Mr. Marlowe, her master's young heir, who
had been absent some time on a visit, was expected home on the ensuing
day. Fortunately, the good dame was too busily employed to notice my
agitation. I retired as soon as possible from the table, in a state of
indescribable pleasure. Never shall I forget my emotions, when I heard
the trampling of his horse's feet, and saw him enter the house! Vainly I
endeavored to resume my work; my hands trembled, and I sunk back on my
chair, to indulge the delightful idea of an interview with him, which I
believed to be inevitable. My severe task-mistress soon awakened me from
me delightful dream; she came to tell me: "I must confine myself to my
own and the housekeeper's room, which, to a virtuous, discreet maiden,
such as I appeared to be, she supposed would be no hardship, while her
nephew, who was a young, perhaps rather a wild young man, remained in
the house: when he again left it, which would soon be the case, I should
regain my liberty." My heart sunk within me at her words, but, when the
first shock was over; I consoled myself by thinking I should be able to
elude her vigilance. I was, however, mistaken; she and the housekeeper
were perfect Arguses. To be in the same house with Marlowe, yet without
his knowing it, drove me almost distracted.
I at last thought of an expedient, which, I hoped, would effect the
discovery I wanted. I had just finished a piece of work, which my
mistress was delighted with. It was an enormous flower-basket, mounted
on the back of a cat, which held beneath its paw a trembling mouse. The
raptures the old lady expressed at seeing her own design so ably
executed encouraged me to ask permission to embroider a picture of my
own designing, for which I had the silks lying by me. She complied, and
I set about it with alacrity. I copied my face and figure as exactly as
I could, and, in mourning drapery and a pensive attitude, placed the
little image by a rustic grave, in the church-yard of my native village,
at the head of which, half embowered in trees, appeared the lovely
cottage of my departed parents. These well-known objects, I thought,
would revive, if indeed she was absent from it, the idea of poor Fanny
in the mind of Marlowe. I presented the picture to my mistress, who was
pleased with the present, and promised to have it framed. The next day
while I sat at dinner, the door suddenly opened, and Marlowe entered the
room. I thought I should have fainted. My companion dropped her knife
and fork with great precipitation, and Marlowe told her he was very ill,
and wanted a cordial from her. She rose with a dissatisfied air, to
comply with his request. He, taking this opportunity of approaching a
little nearer, darted a glance of pity and tenderness, and softly
whispered--"To-night, at eleven o'clock, meet me in the front parlor."
You may conceive how tardily the hours passed till the appointed time
came, when, stealing to the parlor, I found Marlowe expecting me. He
folded me to his heart, and his tears mingled with mine, as I related my
melancholy tale. "You are now, my Fanny!" he cried, "entirely mine;
deprived of the protection of your tender parents I shall endeavor to
fulfil the sacred trust they reposed in my honor, by securing mine to
you, as far as lies in my power. I was not mistaken," continued he, "in
the idea I had formed of the treatment I should receive from my
flinty-hearted relations on leaving you. Had I not promised to drop all
correspondence with you, I must have relinquished all hopes of their
favor. Bitter, indeed," cried he, while a tear started in his eye, "is
the bread of dependence. Ill could my soul submit to the indignities I
received; but I consoled myself throughout them, by the idea of future
happiness with my Fanny. Had I known her situation (which, indeed, it
was impossible I should, as my uncle's spy attended me wherever I went),
no dictate of prudence would have prevented my flying to her aid!"
"Thank Heaven, then, you were ignorant of it," said I. "My aunt," he
proceeded, "showed me your work, lavishing the highest encomiums on it.
I glanced my eye carelessly upon it, but, in a moment, how was that
careless eye attracted by the well known objects presented to it! this,
I said to my heart, can only be Fanny's work. I tried to discover from
my aunt whether my conjectures were wrong, but without success. When I
retired to dress, I asked my servant if there had been any addition to
the family during my absence; he said a young woman was hired to do fine
works, but she never appeared among the servants."
Marlowe proceeded to say, "he could not bear I should longer continue in
servitude, and that without delay he was resolved to unite his fate to
mine." I opposed this resolution a little; but soon, too
self-interested, I fear, acquiesced in it. It was agreed I should inform
his aunt my health would no longer permit my continuing in her family,
and that I should retire to a village six miles off, where Marlowe
undertook to bring a young clergyman, a particular friend of his, to
perform the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was carried into execution,
and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was now, you will suppose, elevated
to the pinnacle of happiness; I was so, indeed, but my own folly
precipitated me from it. The secrecy I was compelled to observe
mortified me exceedingly, as I panted to emerge from the invidious cloud
which had so long concealed my beauty and accomplishments from a world
that I was confident, if seen, would pay them the homage they merited.
The people with whom I lodged had been obliged by Marlowe, and,
therefore, from interest and gratitude, obeyed the injunction he gave
them, of keeping my residence at their house a secret; they believed, or
affected to believe, I was an orphan committed to his care, whom his
uncle would be displeased to know he had taken under his protection.
Three or four times a week I received stolen visits from Marlowe, when,
one day (after a month had elapsed in this manner) standing at the
parlor window, I saw Mrs. Wilson walking down the village. I started
back, but too late to escape her observation; she immediately bolted
into the room with all the eagerness of curiosity. I bore her first
interrogatories tolerably well, but when she upbraided me for leaving
the excellent service she had procured for me, for duplicity in saying I
was going to another, and for my indiscretion in respect to Marlowe, I
lost all command of my temper, and, remembering the inhumanity with
which she had forced me into servitude, I resolved to mortify her
completely, by assuming all the airs I had heretofore so ridiculously
aspired to. Lolling in my chair, with an air of the most careless
indifference, I bid her no longer petrify me with her discourse. This
raised all the violence of rage, and she plainly told me, "from my
conduct with Marlowe, I was unworthy her notice." "Therefore," cried I,
forgetting every dictate of prudence, "his wife will neither desire nor
receive it in future." "His wife!" she repeated, with a look of scorn
and incredulity. I produced the certificate of my marriage; thus, from
an impulse of vanity and resentment, putting myself in the power of a
woman, a stranger to every liberal feeling, and whose mind was inflamed
with envy towards me. The hint I forced myself at parting to give her,
to keep the affair secret, only determined her more strongly to reveal
it. The day after her visit, Marlowe entered my apartment--pale,
agitated, and breathless, he sunk into a chair. A pang, like conscious
guilt, smote my heart, and I trembled as I approached him. He repulsed
me when I attempted to touch his hand. "Cruel, inconsiderate woman!" he
said, "to what dreadful lengths has your vanity hurried you; it has
drawn destruction upon your own head as well as mine!" Shame and remorse
tied my tongue; had I spoken, indeed, I could not have vindicated
myself, and I turned aside and wept. Marlowe, mild, tender, and adoring,
could not long retain resentment; he started from his chair, and clasped
me to his bosom. "Oh, Fanny!" he cried, "though you have ruined me, you
are still dear as ever to me."
This tenderness affected me even more than reproaches, and tears and
sighs declared my penitence. His expectations relative to his uncle were
finally destroyed, on being informed of our marriage, which Mrs. Wilson
lost no time in telling him. He burned his will, and immediately made
another in favor of a distant relation. On hearing this intelligence, I
was almost distracted; I flung myself at my husband's feet, implored his
pardon, yet declared I could never forgive myself. He grew more composed
upon the increase of my agitation, as if purposely to soothe my spirits,
assuring me, that, though his uncle's favor was lost, he had other
friends on whom he greatly depended. We set off for London, and found
his dependence was not ill-placed; for, soon after his arrival, he
obtained a place of considerable emolument in one of the public offices.
My husband delighted in gratifying me, though I was often both
extravagant and whimsical, and almost ever on the wing for admiration
and amusement. I was reckoned a pretty woman, and received with rapture
the nonsense and adulation addressed to me. I became acquainted with a
young widow, who concealed a depraved heart under a specious appearance
of innocence and virtue, and by aiding the vices of others, procured the
means of gratifying her own; yet so secret were all her transactions,
that calumny had not yet attacked her, and her house was the rendezvous
of the most fashionable people. My husband, who did not dislike her
manner, encouraged our intimacy, and at her parties I was noticed by a
young nobleman, then at the head of the ton. He declared I was one of
the most charming objects he had ever beheld, and, for such a
declaration, I thought him the most polite I had ever known. As Lord T.
condescended to wear my chains, I must certainly, I thought, become
quite the rage. My transports, however, were a little checked by the
grave remonstrances of my husband, who assured me Lord T. was a famous,
or rather an infamous libertine; and that, if I did not avoid his
lordship's particular attentions, he must insist on my relinquishing the
widow's society. This I thought cruel, but I saw him resolute, and
promised to act as he desired--a promise I never adhered to, except when
he was present. I was now in a situation to promise an increase of
family, and Marlowe wished me to nurse the child. The tenderness of my
heart seconding his wish, I resolved on obeying it; but when the widow
heard my intention she laughed at it, and said it was absolutely
ridiculous, for the sake of a squalling brat, to give up all the
pleasures of life; besides, it would be much better taken care of in
some of the villages about London. I denied this; still, however, she
dwelt on the sacrifices I must make, the amusements I must give up, and
at last completely conquered my resolution. I pretended to Marlowe my
health was too delicate to allow me to bear such a fatigue and he
immediately sacrificed his own inclinations to mine. I have often
wondered at the kind of infatuation with which he complied with all my
desires. My little girl, almost as soon as born, was sent from me; but,
on being able to go out again, I received a considerable shock, from
hearing my noble admirer was gone to the Continent, owing to a trifling
derangement in his affairs. The vain pursuits of pleasure and
dissipation were still continued. Three years passed in this manner,
during which I had a son, and my little girl was brought home. I have
since often felt astonished at the cold indifference with which I
regarded my Marlowe, and our lovely babe, on whom he doted with all the
enthusiasm of tenderness. Alas! vanity had then absorbed my heart, and
deadened every feeling of nature and sensibility; it is the parent of
self-love and apathy, and degrades those who harbor it below humanity.
Lord T. now returned from the Continent; he swore my idea had never been
absent from his mind, and that I was more charming than ever; while I
thought him, if possible, more polite and engaging. Again my husband
remonstrated. Sometimes I seemed to regard these remonstrances,
sometimes protested I would not submit to such unnecessary control. I
knew, indeed, that my intentions were innocent, and I believed I might
safely indulge my vanity, without endangering either my reputation or
peace. About this time Marlowe received a summons to attend a dying
friend four miles from London. Our little girl was then in a slight
fever, which had alarmed her father, and confined me most unwillingly, I
must confess, to the house. Marlowe, on the point of departing, pressed
me to his breast: "My heart, my beloved Fanny!" said he, "feels
unusually heavy. I trust the feeling is no presentiment of approaching
ill. Oh! my Fanny! on you and my babe, I rest for happiness--take care
of our little cherub, and above all (his meek eye encountering mine),
take care of yourself, that, with my accustomed rapture, I may, on my
return, receive you to my arms." There was something so solemn, and so
tender, in this address, that my heart melted, and my tears mingled with
those which trickled down his pale checks. For two days I attended my
child assiduously, when the widow made her appearance. She assured me I
should injure myself by such close confinement, and that my cheeks were
already faded by it. She mentioned a delightful masquerade which was to
be given that night, and for which Lord T. had presented her with
tickets for me and herself; but she declared, except I would accompany
her, she would not go. I had often wished to go to a masquerade; I now,
however, declined this opportunity of gratifying my inclination, but so
faintly, as to prompt a renewal of her solicitations, to which I at last
yielded; and, committing my babe to the care of a servant, set off with
the widow to a warehouse to choose dresses. Lord T. dined with us, and
we were all in the highest spirits imaginable: about twelve we went in
his chariot to the Haymarket, and I was absolutely intoxicated with his
flattery, and the dazzling objects around me. At five we quitted this
scene of gayety. The widow took a chair; I would have followed her
example, but my Lord absolutely lifted me into his chariot, and there
began talking in a strain which provoked my contempt, and excited my
apprehensions. I expressed my displeasure in tears, which checked his
boldness, and convinced him he had some difficulties yet to overcome ere
he completed his designs. He made his apologies with so much humility,
that I was soon appeased, and prevailed on to accept them. We arrived at
the widow's house in as much harmony as we left it; the flags were wet,
and Lord T. insisted on carrying me into the house. At the door I
observed a man muffled up, but as no one noticed him, I thought no more
about it. We sat down to supper in high spirits, and chatted for a
considerable time about our past amusements. His lordship said: "After a
little sleep we should recruit ourselves by a pleasant jaunt to
Richmond, where he had a charming villa." We agreed to his proposal, and
retired to rest. About noon we arose; and, while I was dressing myself
for the projected excursion, a letter was brought in to me. "Good Lord!
Halcot!" exclaimed I, turning to the widow, "if Marlowe is returned,
what will become of me?" "Oh! read, my dear creature!" cried she
impatiently, "and then we can think of excuses." "I have the letter
here," continued Mrs. Marlowe, laying her hand to her breast, and
drawing it forth after a short pause, "I laid it to my heart to guard it
against future folly."
THE LETTER.
The presages of my heart were but too true--we parted never to
meet again. Oh! Fanny, beloved of my soul, how are you lost to
yourself and Marlowe! The independence, splendor, riches, which
I gave up for your sake, were mean sacrifices, in my estimation,
to the felicity I fondly expected to have enjoyed with you
through life. Your beauty charmed my mind, but it was your
simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as I thought, the
perfect child of innocence and sincerity to my bosom; resolved,
from duty, as well as from inclination, to shelter you in that
bosom, to the utmost of my power, from every adverse storm.
Whenever you were indisposed, what agonies did I endure! yet,
what I then dreaded, could I have possibly foreseen, would have
been comparative happiness to my present misery; for, oh! my
Fanny, far preferable would it have been to behold you in the
arms of death than infamy.
I returned immediately after witnessing the last pangs of my
friend--oppressed with the awful scene of death, yet cheering my
spirits by an anticipation of the consolation I should receive
from my Fanny's sympathy. Good God! what was my horror, when I
found my little babe, instead of being restored to health by a
mother's care, nearly expiring through her neglect! The angel
lay gasping on her bed, deserted by the mercenary wretch to
whose care she was consigned. I inquired, and the fatal truth
rushed upon my soul; yet, when the first tumult of passion had
subsided, I felt that, without yet stronger proofs, I could not
abandon you. Alas! too soon did I receive those proofs. I traced
you, Fanny, through your giddy round, till I saw you borne in
the arms of the vile Lord T. into the house of his vile
paramour. You will wonder, perhaps, I did not tear you from his
grasp. Could such a procedure have restored you to me, with all
your unsullied innocence, I should not have hesitated; but that
was impossible, and my eyes then gazed upon Fanny for the last
time. I returned to my motherless babe, and, I am not ashamed to
say, I wept over it with all the agonies of a fond and betrayed
heart.
Ere I bid an irrevocable adieu, I would, if possible, endeavor
to convince you that conscience cannot always be stifled--that
illicit love is constantly attended by remorse and
disappointment; for, when familiarity, or disease, has
diminished the charms which excited it, the frail fetters of
admiration are broken by him who looks only to an exterior for
delight; if, indeed, your conscience should not be awakened till
this hour of desertion comes, when it does arrive, you may,
perhaps, think of Marlowe. Yes, Fanny, when your cheeks are
faded by care, when your wit is enfeebled by despondency, you
may think of him whose tenderness would have outlived both time
and change, and supported you, without abatement, through every
stage of life.
To stop short in the career of vice is, they say, the noblest
effort of virtue. May such an effort be yours; and may you yet
give joy to the angels of heaven, who, we are taught to believe,
rejoice over them that truly repent! That want should strew no
thorns in the path of penitence, all that I could take from my
babe I have assigned to you. Oh! my dear culprit, remember the
precepts of your early youth--of those who, sleeping in the
dust, are spared the bitter tear of anguish, such as I now
shed--and, ere too late, expiate your errors. In the solitude to
which I am hastening, I shall continually pray for you; and when
my child raises its spotless hands to Heaven, it shall implore
its mercy for erring mortals; yet, think not it shall ever hear
your story. Oh! never shall the blush of shame, for the
frailties of one so dear, tinge its ingenuous countenance. May
the sincerity of your repentance restore that peace and
brightness to your life, which, at present, I think you must
have forfeited, and support you with fortitude through its
closing period! As a friend, once dear, you will ever exist in
the memory of
MARLOWE.
As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been gradually
receding, entirely forsook me, and I fell senseless on the floor. Mrs.
Halcot and Lord T. took his opportunity of gratifying their curiosity by
perusing the letter, and when I recovered, I found myself supported
between them. "You see, my dear angel," cried Lord T., "your cruel
husband has entirely abandoned you; but grieve not, for in my arms you
shall find a kinder asylum than he ever afforded you." "True," said Mrs.
Halcot; "for my part, I think she has reason to rejoice at his
desertion."
I shall not attempt to repeat all I had said to them in the height of my
distraction. Suffice it to say, I reproached them both as the authors of
my shame and misery; and, while I spurned Lord T. indignantly from my
feet, accused Mrs. Halcot of possessing neither delicacy nor feeling.
Alas! accusation or reproach could not lighten the weight on my heart--I
felt a dreadful consciousness of having occasioned my own misery. I
seemed as if awaking from a disordered dream, which had confused my
senses; and the more clearly my perception of what was right returned,
the more bitterly I lamented my deviation from it. To be reinstated in
the esteem and affection of my husband was all of felicity I could
desire to possess. Full of the idea of being able to effect a
reconciliation, I started up; but, ere I reached the door, sunk into an
agony of tears: recollecting that ere this he was probably far distant
from me. My base companions tried to assuage my grief, and make me in
reality the wretch poor Marlowe supposed me to be. I heard them in
silent contempt, unable to move, till a servant informed me a gentleman
below stairs desired to see me. The idea of a relenting husband
instantly occurred, and I flew down; but how great was my disappointment
only to see a particular friend of his! Our meeting was painful in the
extreme. I asked him if he knew anything of Marlowe, and he solemnly
assured me he did not. When my confusion and distress had a little
subsided, he informed me that in the morning he had received a letter
from him, with an account of our separation, and the fatal cause of it.
The letter contained a deed of settlement on me of a small paternal
estate, and a bill of fifty pounds, which Marlowe requested his friend
to present himself to me. He also added my clothes were sent to his
house, as our lodgings had been discharged. I did not find it difficult
to convince this gentleman of my innocence, and, putting myself under
his protection, was immediately conveyed to lodgings in a retired part
of the town. Here he consoled me with assurances of using every effort
to discover the residence of my husband. All, alas! proved unsuccessful;
and my health gradually declined. As time wore away, my hope yet left
still undiminished my desire of seeing him. Change of air was at last
deemed requisite to preserve my existence, and I went to Bristol. I had
the good fortune to lodge in the house with an elderly Irish lady, whose
sweet and benevolent manner soon gained my warmest esteem, and tempted
me to divulge my melancholy tale, where so certain of obtaining pity.
She had also suffered severely from the pressure of sorrow; but hers, as
it proceeded not from imprudence, but the common vicissitudes of life,
was borne without that degree of anguish mine occasioned. As the period
approached for her return to her native country, I felt the deepest
regret at the prospect of our separation, which she, however, removed,
by asking me to reside entirely with her. Eight years had elapsed since
the loss of my husband, and no latent hope of his return remained in my
heart sufficiently strong to tempt me to forego the advantages of such
society. Ere I departed, however, I wrote to several of his friends,
informing them of the step I intended taking, and, if any tidings of
Marlowe occurred, where I was to be found. Five years I passed with my
valuable friend in retirement, and had the pleasure of thinking I
contributed to the ease of her last moments. This cottage, with a few
acres adjoining it, and four hundred pounds, was all her wealth, and to
me she bequeathed it, having no relations whose wants gave them any
claim upon her.
The events I have just related will, I hope, strengthen the moral so
many wish to impress upon the minds of youth, namely--that, without a
strict adherence to propriety, there can be no permanent pleasure; and
that it is the actions of early life must give to old age either
happiness and comfort, or sorrow and remorse. Had I attended to the
admonitions of wisdom and experience, I should have checked my
wanderings from prudence, and preserved my happiness from being
sacrificed at the shrine of vanity; then, instead of being a solitary in
the world, I might have had my little fireside enlivened by the partner
of my heart, and, perhaps, my children's children sporting around; but
suffering is the proper tax we pay for folly; the frailty of human
nature, the prevalence of example, the allurements of the world, are
mentioned by many as extenuations for misconduct. Though virtue, say
they, is willing, she is often too weak to resist the wishes they
excite. Mistaken idea! and blessed is that virtue which, opposing, ends
them. With every temptation we have the means of escape; and woe be to
us if we neglect those means, or hesitate to disentangle ourselves from
the snare which vice or folly may have spread around us. Sorrow and
disappointment are incident to mortality, and when not occasioned by any
conscious imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials from
Heaven to improve and correct us, and therefore cheerfully be borne. A
sigh stole from Oscar as she spoke, and a tear trickled down the soft
cheek of Adela. "I have," continued Mrs. Marlowe, "given you, like an
old woman, a tedious tale; but that tediousness, with every other
imperfection I have acknowledged, I rest upon your friendship and candor
to excuse."