THE

OLD WOMAN.

A NOVEL.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

THE HORRORS OF OAKENDALE ABBEY.

“Fear on guilt attends, and deeds of darkness;

“The virtuous breast ne’er knows it.”

HAVARD.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR,

AT THE

MINERVA-PRESS,

BY WILLIAM LANE, LEADENHALL-STREET.

1800.

THE

OLD WOMAN.

LETTER I.

Miss Baynard to Miss Carroset.

London, Nov. 1, 17—.

I THINK, my dear Charlotte, you are drawing your schemes to a conclusion, but I fear you have reckoned without your host; for it does not appear to me by any of your letters, that St. Edward has offered you his hand, should the desirable event happen, which the present train of circumstances seems so fairly to promise; but as you have on more than one occasion mentioned your swain as changeable and roving, I think you should have secured a retreat, and brought him to terms, before you had let him march off. Were this the case, I would go some lengths to assist you, as I know something of Lord Fitzarnold, and have a little degree of spite and pique against him, for having the consummate assurance to neglect some tender looks which I levelled at his heart last winter: it gave me a bad opinion of him; and his taste in preferring a poor, awkward, country, uninformed creature to one of us, proves the justice of my ideas. But I still think you have not acted with your accustomed prudence: surely it was not love that absorbed your faculties; we are, I hope, callous to that tender silly passion, only fit for girls and boys, and I believe, in these days, felt by them alone.

What could be your reason, when you had so fair an opportunity at Arkley, not to give Lord Fitzarnold a hint that he was far from being indifferent to Mrs. St. Edward; a thousand circumstances might have been contrived to corroborate your assertion; and by a proper and well-timed infusion of jealousy into the pate of the stupid husband, you might by this time have been near sailing into port. Instead of this, you have been loitering away the precious hours at a watering place, and, except in securing the unfinished letter, have not taken a step towards effecting that mischief which must be a prelude to more decided achievements. You should have secured a ground for jealousy before you took those pretty rambles in the obscure parts of the castle, and suffered yourself to be frightened at your own shadow. I thought this a silly business when I read the account. You should have secured the servants on your side, especially as they were those of a spoiled nature: you may be sure they would all side with their sweet gentle mistress. Fye, Charlotte; why did not you apply for my counsel and advice, which I am not fond of giving gratis, and never even to a friend unasked. You told me of your exploits, which you thought so famous, but you asked no assistance, and I am willing you should now see your error, that in future you may acknowledge my known superiority.

Something may yet be thought of, and I heartily wish you success. Don’t fail to let me know all the particulars of the elopement. Did not St. Edward promise to write? Perhaps you had better follow him to Arkley; you know you can do any thing with your father and mother. The mind of St. Edward should not for a moment be exposed to any tender remembrances, nor should he hear the most distant surmise of her innocence. Resentment must be kept alive, and is the more necessary, as he has a weak mind, which is liable to be warped by every impression. Mrs. St. Edward is, I dare say, cunning, and her gallant careful; yet in all these instances, there is a glaring degree of carelessness and absurdity, which exposes them to censure, and then to conviction. Were it not for these circumstances, so many divorces could not be obtained, for they require the clearest evidence; and nothing but the all-powerful passion, which infatuates the senses to a degree of forgetfulness and incaution, as to afford ample proof, could procure sufficient testimony of guilt.

An elopement to be sure is a good foundation to build upon, but then we must first be convinced that she is eloped. Might she not be taking the benefit of the morning breezes? or might she not be making her charitable visits to the old superanuated servants, who, you say, are kept as monuments of antiquity? or after all our conjectures, may she not be carried away in a supernatural manner by those very spirits and goblins which are said to haunt the castle, and of whom you made such terrific mention? Joking apart, however, she must first be proved to be gone, with a male companion too, besides abundance of etceteras essential to your grand scheme. I am so interested in your cause, that I have no time to give any account of my own embarrassments, and still less in your present situation, would you attend to them. I can only say, that I verily believe the old fellow will never die, although I do my part to plague him: the sounds of his grumbling and grunting will never be out of my ears; and notwithstanding my wishes and endeavours to the contrary, he is likely to live much longer, with the gout remaining in his legs and feet, instead of aspiring to the higher regions, where it might be of service in relieving him from his misery, and easing me of the trouble and mortification his existence occasions. I’m sure it would be a law of humanity, if all people of a certain age were ordered to be put to death. For what should they live?—to be wretched in themselves, and an eternal nuisance to every one else. I shall be absolutely dying with impatience till I hear from you: may success attend and crown your wishes. Depend upon my advice and friendship, for I am

Always yours

MARIA BAYNARD.

LETTER II.

Mrs. Clifford to Mrs. Safforey.

Arkley Castle, Nov. 3, 17—.

THE contents of your letter, my dear madam, shocked me beyond expression, and my uncle being somewhat relieved from his late indisposition, I determined at all events to go myself to Arkley Castle; for besides the account your letter brought me, I received a variety of vague and improbable intelligence, which nothing but personal investigation could reduce to certainty. My uncle too was as anxious as myself to hear tidings of our dear Julia, and hastened my departure by every attention towards the accommodation of my journey. I scarce dare hope that my coming may be attended with success to our friend, yet I am willing to flatter myself, that the violence which at first possest the mind of Mr. St. Edward is, by my interposition, in some small degree mitigated. Indeed, his suspicions and implacable resentment could not have been formed and supported merely upon the event of her absence, had he not been previously instigated by some secret enemy. This made my task more difficult; but as I well know you must be impatient to hear the particulars, I will proceed in regular order, without any of my own observations.

When I arrived at Arkley, I found the servants in the greatest confusion imaginable. Her own maid Lucy ran to me with eyes swelled by weeping, and a countenance of the utmost distraction: “Oh, madam!” she cryed “have you seen anything of my dear mistress? if you have not, what will become of me? for my master says, I knew of and helped to assist her in going, when I am as innocent as the child unborn, and would gladly have gone with her if I could, for nobody don’t want to stay here now she’s gone; but I’m sure she’s carried away by the spirits, and they’ll never let sitch an angel as she come back again.” I told her to be pacified; that no spirits could carry her away; and I had no doubt but a short time would clear up all difficulties, and restore her to her family; and I desired to be conducted to Mr. St. Edward as soon as possible.

I was soon introduced to him, and found him (as I had been taught to expect) full of rage and violence. He was sitting alone in the eating-parlour, and the moment he saw me, accosted me in the following words:—“Well, Mrs. Clifford, can you bring me any account of Julia: if you know anything of her, I insist upon your telling me instantly, but don’t say a word in her favour; don’t excuse her, make no such attempt; I am determined never to forgive her; I will be divorced immediately; I’ll never see her; I have convincing proof of her infidelity; I’ll hear nothing in her favour; there never was a plan more artfully concerted.”—It was impossible to be heard: I made several attempts to speak, but he would not allow me; he continued repeating several times over, all that I have related, each time with fresh vehemence, and adding still more bitter invectives. His passion being at last in some degree exhausted, I ventured to speak, first to assure him that I knew no more of Mrs. St. Edward than he did himself; that my surprise, my sorrow, and my wish for information had prompted me to come unasked to Arkley; and I entreated him to be calm, and moderate his resentment, until time should clear up the mystery; and I then ventured, though with fear and trembling, to vouch for the innocence and integrity of Mrs. St. Edward. This, however, at first put him into fresh passion, and I was again obliged to hear a variety of the most improbable conjectures and ill-placed suspicions, before he would allow me to answer; and when I made an attempt to convince him of the absurdity of them, he perfectly astonished me by producing the fragment of a letter written in Mrs. St. Edward’s own hand, to her supposed lover. It contained some warm expressions of regard, and an invitation to him to come when the rest of the family should be absent, and they might enjoy the time without interruption. There was no name to this epistle, and it appeared unfinished.

I read it over several times; it is certainly her hand-writing, or so well imitated as not to be detected; but it might apply either to you or myself, and I hazarded this conjecture to Mr. St. Edward, but he would not admit the idea; nay, he even accused me of being an accomplice in her secrets and her elopement; but not choosing to bear such an insult, I exerted a sort of spirit which had some effect, and induced him to ask my pardon. From this time he became more cool, and conversed with more composure. He asked me if I had ever seen or heard of Lord Fitzarnold. I assured him I had never seen him, and had only heard of him as a visitor at Baintree Park. I added, that if he supposed him at all concerned in the business, enquiry should be made concerning his present place of abode; and I took that opportunity of again defending Julia from concerting any plan dishonourable to herself and him; and if Lord Fitzarnold had been accessory in taking her away, search should be immediately made after both him and the unfortunate victim of his daring atrocity; for I would hazard my life upon her innocence, and if she was actually with him, she had been carried off by the most cruel violence, and was probably at this very moment suffering under the worst of apprehensions.

This remark seemed a little to abate his fury, and induced his mind to admit a small degree of tenderness and compassion. Were it as I represented, nothing but Lord Fitzarnold’s life should satisfy him; but again his features hardened, and he vowed it was impossible she should be innocent; he repeated the circumstance of the letter, and mentioned her having been seen at a very late hour on the evening preceding her elopement, walking by herself, and seeming to be anxiously waiting for some one; that the window of her chamber had been heard to open at a late hour; and that it was evident she had gone out by a private staircase, the bottom of which led to a passage, which opened on a terrace in the garden; and a door of a closet in her chamber led to this staircase, though not generally frequented. All this I allowed might be true, but I suggested that she might be forcibly conveyed through these places; that had the plan been preconcerted by herself, she would undoubtedly have taken some change of apparel with her, and I asked if this had been investigated, to which he answered sullenly, “No!”

I then desired to be shewn her room, that her maid should be called, and that he might entertain no suspicion of my acting in concert with any design injurious to him, I besought him to accompany us in the search. To this he consented, and we proceeded to her chamber, Lucy with tears and many sobs telling us the manner in which she was frightened on the morning she attempted to open the door, found the bolt down, and could obtain no answer to her repeated calls. The poor girl visibly trembled, and turned pale when she entered the room, where she had never been since the fatal morning, from a foolish apprehension that she should encounter some supernatural evidence of her mistress’s concealment. St. Edward reprobated some fears of this nature, which she could not help shewing, and we proceeded to examine the drawers of the unfortunate Julia, where appeared every article of her dress, except that she had worn the day before her non-appearance, I cannot call it elopement. The bed had not the least evidence of being slept in, and every thing, as Lucy expressed herself, looked exactly as natural as if she had prepared it for the night. Upon opening a wardrobe we found the very bonnet and cloak she had worn the preceding day; and I did not lose a moment to enforce the belief this circumstance could not fail to impress, of her having no intention to go off. I commented upon it with all the arguments such a circumstance could adduce in her favour; and I could not help being affected at the sight of these memorials of her I so much loved, and whose fate I so truly lamented; like the cloaths of a deceased friend, which always recal to my mind the image of the wearer, and a thousand tender and mournful ideas are connected with their appearance.

Such now were my recollections, and my utterance was, for several minutes, impeded by my tears. St. Edward looked at me; I thought his countenance seemed softened, and taking my hand, he led the way to the closet, where a door seemed to be recently forced open on the outward side. This was apparent, as the hangings, which were of old-fashioned gilt leather, were entirely pasted over the door, and had been evidently torn, by its being forced, from the other side. It is probable Mrs. St. Edward did not herself know of this door; it opened to a little low stone staircase, dark and steep, and this led to a passage that communicated with the garden, and in which were deposited garden-tools. I was too much absorbed in the contemplation of our dear friend’s fate, of whom no traces could be discovered, to animadvert upon the seeming inutility of these private doors and staircases, which seem so universally to belong to buildings of this date; and this appears to be a very ancient structure.

I used my utmost endeavours to prove to Mr. St. Edward the utter impossibility of Julia’s being able to open this door on the inside. He mused for some time, and then said, it was true, she might not open it herself, but he saw nothing to convince him that she had not made an assignation with some person to open it on the other side; and he again referred to the letter, adding that there were persons who suspected her intimacy with Lord Fitzarnold before their departure into Derbyshire. I ventured to say in answer, that I execrated such persons; that even purity like her’s could not be a defence against such malignity; and I greatly apprehended she had enemies of her own sex, whose malice would help to destroy her innocence: that it highly concerned his honour, as well as her fame, to investigate to the utmost this business; and if upon the clearest and most impartial judgment, she did not fully acquit herself of every charge of deception, I would forfeit all I held most dear, and give up all love and esteem for her.

This and much more I said in order to persuade him to think of her in a favourable light, and I hope I have gained some degree of attention to what I have advanced; at least he seems less violent, gives me rational answers, and does not, as he did at first, forget the common rules of hospitality and politeness. He was perfectly civil to me at supper, seemed thoughtful at times, and sighed deeply. In these moments I did not forget to expatiate upon the many excellences of Julia, to lament her absence, and to speak of it as a circumstance in which she was the greatest sufferer. He is going to-morrow to Baintree Park, to make all the enquiry he can concerning Lord Fitzarnold. I will not close this letter till his return.

Wednesday Morning, Nov. 4.

Mr. St. Edward set out this morning as soon as it was day, and not being yet returned, I have been amusing myself with walking, first over the castle, and then in the park. The season is not that which is the most favourable, but the day is uncommonly fine, and the different shades of the foliage render the views beautiful. The grandeur and magnificence of the building is inexpressibly fine, and the rude state of the park seems admirably to correspond with the ancient pile. It must formerly have been in the midst of a wood, for I understand that a great quantity of timber has been felled some years back, yet there still remain trees of an immense size, and some whose spreading branches, even in this advanced season, afford a delightful shade. When I viewed the castle from parts of this park, I do not wonder at the ideas of spectres and goblins being said to inhabit it. The small windows, the low towers, and the turrets, with the arched doors and broken battlements, are sufficient to impress weak minds with ideas of this nature; nor can I wonder that even Julia, whose mind was far superior to the generality of those who only formed their judgment from appearances, should be a little prone to fear.

It is by no means a place calculated for one of the finest young women in the world to be shut up in alone: mortification and superstition are of themselves sufficient to weaken the mind, and are oftentimes incitements to vice. I do not, however, mean to insinuate that our friend was in any degree influenced by them, but they might have had dominion over a less virtuous and unprincipled heart, and afford no small advantage to those who make it their business to delude the innocent and unwary.—Mr. St. Edward is just returned; he appears gloomy and dispirited; I must go to him, and will finish this after I have heard the result of his embassy.

I am sorry to be under the necessity of relating still more unpleasant circumstances. When I attended Mr. St. Edward, I perceived, by the gloom which hung upon his countenance, that he had received no favourable intelligence, and he very soon informed me that the Lovefields knew nothing of Lord Fitzarnold, except that they believed he was not in London, nor did they know of his having been in the country since he had left their house, which was early in the last month. He said that an universal silence and reserve was observed during his visit, a conduct which I thought perfectly natural, and consistent with the occasion; but with him it added confirmation to the suspicions he before entertained, and I perceived with regret that his visit to Baintree had not in the least contributed to ease his mind.

I was considering in what manner I should endeavour to bring it again to harmony, when a servant entered the room and presented him a letter; he hastily tore it open, and seemed agitated by the contents. I could not suppress my wish to hear something favourable, and I asked (perhaps impertinently) if it brought any good accounts. “No good accounts of your favourite, madam,” he replied, in a tone of contempt and displeasure, which at once shocked and silenced me. He continued reading the letter attentively, which seemed a long one, and as soon as he had finished it, he got up, and hastily rung the bell. When the servant appeared, he told him to inform the housekeeper to get the rooms and every thing in order and readiness for Mr. Cassoset’s family, whom he expected possibly to night or else to dinner the next day. The servant withdrew with apparent marks of disappointment in his countenance: as to myself, I felt mortified beyond description. The manner in which he had before spoken to me prevented me from again addressing him, and I sat like a statue. He referred to his letter, and again rung the bell: when answered, he enquired the state of the larder, ordered the ponds to be dragged for fish, and, happy and alert in these preparations, he seemed to have totally forgotten the fate of his poor wife.

I felt his behaviour so very forcibly, and her image in all the distress her situation represented her so deprest my mind, that an involuntary burst of tears claimed his attention. “What is the matter, Mrs. Clifford?” said he; “I am not going to turn you out this evening, nor to-morrow, if you like to stay: the family who are coming are very amiable people, who have a great regard and friendship for me, and would have taken Julia with them in order to prevent the mischief which has ensued, for they suspected the business long ago. But she, I suppose, had formed her plans; and now they are kindly coming to afford me consolation, and at the same time, see justice done, for they will not let me be imposed upon.” As I now knew my staying here could be no benefit to our friend, and as I could be of no service, I was the less afraid to risque my opinions; I therefore, collecting all my spirits, said,—“Allow me, sir, once more to speak in behalf of your wife, I will add, your much-injured wife; and, however you may despise my sentiments, suffer not yourself to be influenced by those who are not her friends. I have before vouched for her innocence, and I again repeat it; let your own unprejudiced judgment and a candid investigation decide your opinion, but let not her precarious situation be rendered still more dreadful, by giving her up to the mercy of her own sex, nor withdraw from her the protection of a husband. Remember your own honour is concerned in the vindication of her’s, and waste not the precious moments that should be dedicated to her cause. I speak warmly, but I hope justly,—pardon me if I offend you; but be assured, sir, there will come a time when you will think of what I am now saying. I shall take my leave to-morrow, and when next we meet, may my beloved friend be as fully justified to you and every other person, as clearly as her spotless mind is pure from all guilt.” “Be it so,” replied St. Edward; “and when that is the case, and not till then, shall I confess myself a culprit to Mrs. Clifford;” and he immediately quitted the room. A burst of tears relieved me; and I hastened to my apartment to make the little preparations that were necessary for the journey, which I would on no account delay longer than the next morning.

I had just finished these little arrangements, when a bustle in the house, and the sound of wheels in the outward court, proclaimed the arrival of some new-comers. I concluded it was the already expected guests; yet a latent hope that it might be some tidings relating to Julia made me eagerly run to the window, from whence I perceived to my great mortification, that the bustle was occasioned by the return of the Carrosets. They were no sooner entered the house, than I heard the joyful exclamations of Miss Carroset at seeing Mr. St. Edward: “How d’ye do? I am glad we are come; you must have been so melancholy by yourself, with not a soul to speak to. I hastened my father and mother as much as possible, and you can’t think how far we have come to-day that you might be alone as little as possible.” I could not plainly distinguish the words which conveyed St. Edward’s answer to her, but I dare say they were full of politeness, and strongly expressed his joy at seeing her, for she replied, “That’s a dear creature! I knew you would be rejoiced to see us.”

I now thought it best to make my appearance, which at first I had determined not to do; but in consideration of my young friend, I changed my design, as I concluded my secluding myself from their company would give them an advantage I did not wish they should gain; and however unpleasant I should find my situation it would be wrong to leave anything untried in the cause in which I had engaged. I therefore boldly advanced to the drawing-room, and Mr. St. Edward introduced me with more good-breeding than I expected.

I don’t know who they took me for at first. The old lady professed an humble civility, bordering upon meanness; the old man stumped up to me, talked of the weather, the roads, and the shortening of the days; whilst the young lady viewed me with a supercilious kind of contempt, made a half curtsey, then took St. Edward by the arm, and whispered him, I suppose to know who I was; she then passed me with an impertinent stare, hummed a tune, and began to relate some ridiculous anecdote which had happened since he had left Buxton. I thought this trifling behaviour highly improper under the present circumstances, and I assumed an air of as much importance as I could command; for St. Edward looked so perfectly satisfied and pleased with their company, that my forbearance and my patience were nearly exhausted. The conversation was trifling and insipid, such as I could neither take part in or relate.

When supper was served, Miss Carroset seemed anxiously to expect that Mr. St. Edward should desire her to take her seat at the head of the table, but in this she was disappointed, for he sat there himself. Mrs. Carroset sat at his right hand, and he pointed to the other side for her daughter; but not having it in her power to sit where she wished, she looked sullen, and throwing herself into the chair at the bottom of the table, she said with an affected air of tenderness, “I will save my dear papa the trouble of this place.” St. Edward seemed conscious of having offended her, and tried by every attention to regain her favour. The old people are ignorant, mean, and stupid; the daughter a compound of all that is artful, deep, and designing. What a set to arraign the conduct of our dear friend, and to influence that of her weak husband! Miss Carroset affected an obsequious kind of civility towards me, at the same time that she cast the most significant glances at St. Edward.

I retired early, and have written this since I came up to bed. I fear I can do nothing for our poor friend; and I shall return to-morrow, truly lamenting the fate of her I am unable to serve. Adieu.

Dear madam,

I am ever yours,

ANN CLIFFORD.

LETTER III.

From the same to the same.

Arkley Castle, Nov. 5, 17—.

YOU will be surprised, my dear madam, to hear from me again from this place, and still more so when you hear that I have just now declared to Mr. St. Edward, that I will not stir from it until my mind is more thoroughly satisfied respecting the concealment of his wife, and an investigation be made in order to discover the mysterious causes which, I apprehend, conceal the truth. I know not where to fix suspicion, and I am so bewildered in a labyrinth of conjectures, that I know not if I am capable of giving a clear relation.

After I had retired from the company last night to my own chamber, I sat ruminating for some time on the strangeness of the circumstances which occasioned my being now here, of the infatuation of St. Edward, and of the many virtues and extraordinary fate of poor Julia. No reflections produced information, and the result of my reasoning left me in the same uncertainty which has so strangely marked this unhappy business. As I designed to set out early in the morning, and as I felt no inclination to sleep, I determined only to throw myself upon the outside of the bed, without taking off my cloaths. This I was preparing to do; I looked at my watch, it was past midnight; I put the light in the chimney, and recommended myself to that Being who is our only protector. I heard a slight noise near the door, and, as I listened, a light footstep. I knew not exactly in what apartments the visitors slept; I had no fears, but curiosity prompted me to investigate the cause of alarm, and snatching up the light, I instantly opened the door, when a tall figure, which a terrified imagination might have formed into a most formidable ghost, arrested my attention at the farther end of the gallery. I am not fearful, nor am I superstitious, but the manner of its disappearing was singular. I walked hastily up to the place, but it was gone, and by what way I could not possibly discover, for there was no door or staircase at that end by which any person could pass. I stood for some moments lost in conjecture; I listened, and I even called, but received no sort of information. I stood for some moments in that state of uncertainty, which the circumstance had occasioned; and I knew not whether to alarm the family, or to wait till the morning, before I made known my apprehensions. A little recollection, however, served to convince me that it would be better to wait for the morning, when I might form my opinions with more precision, and be more likely to gain credit for my story, than by giving a hasty recital of what might be deemed the effects of superstition or fear. I returned, therefore, to my chamber, but not to rest; I could collect my ideas into no kind of method; the more I ruminated the more my conjectures were bewildered; and I could only form the determination of relating exactly what I had seen and heard to Mr. St. Edward in the morning, and this, if possible, before any of his visitors were stirring, that his mind might be left free to direct his judgment, unprejudiced by the opinions of others.

Tedious, indeed, were the hours till the morning appeared, and even that was far advanced before any one of the family gave indications of their being risen. As soon as I could with propriety, I sent a footman to Mr. St. Edward’s chamber, to inform him that I requested to speak with him upon a subject, the importance of which would admit of no delay: his answer was, he would wait on me as soon as possible. In a shorter time than I expected, he sent to say that he waited for me in the breakfast-parlour. Thither I hastened, although my limbs trembled, and my heart palpitated with the trepidation of a culprit. When I related my story with only the simple truths which attended it, I added, with all the arguments I could collect, the necessity there was of immediately investigating the causes for such an appearance: I even hinted that Mrs. St. Edward might, at the very moment, be concealed in some obscure part of the castle, and be suffering a cruel confinement by some secret inhabitant, hitherto unknown to us. I besought him to think favourably of her, and to use every endeavour to discover the mysterious cause of her absence.

He heard me with more patience and composure than I expected, and when I ceased speaking, he answered me with politeness. He never, he said, gave heed to the idle tales that had been propagated as to the supernatural appearances in the castle, and he was surprised to hear a woman of my sense and judgment corroborate such ridiculous opinions: that with respect to what I took for footsteps, it might be occasioned by rats, of which there were great numbers; and as to what I saw, it could only be the effect of fancy; or some deficiency in my sight: that as to Julia’s being in the castle, it was utterly impossible; and by what method, he asked me, was he to ascertain this, even could such a wild imagination be at all allowed. “No,” he added, before I could make any reply, “she has abandoned me, and it is highly proper I should forget her.” “O no, no,” I replied, “let me entreat you to make no such resolve: I would pledge my life upon her innocence; she is by some means cruelly betrayed.”

He stood silent, and then as if recollecting something he had heard against her, his colour rose in his face, and he said with a stern look, “No, Mrs. Clifford, I am not the fool you take me for; I have evident testimony of her duplicity; and the whole world would laugh at me were I weak enough to adopt the opinions of her being carried away by supernatural means, or indeed by any other but the concurrence of her own inclinations.” “True,” said I, “I would by no means wish you to countenance any thing improbable; I laugh at the idea of supernatural means as much as you can do; but if no remembrance of tender pity remains in your breast, if every sentiment of conjugal affection for the wife of your choice is done away, you are still called upon to vindicate the honour of your cousin, and even by that tye, investigate and justify her fame; nor till the most flagrant proof of her guilt can appear, ought you to allow the most distant insinuation to be breathed against her. Turn from those who would blast her reputation as from poison, and admit those tender sensations of pity, which every manly breast must feel for the sufferings of an injured and unprotected woman. Perhaps, at this moment, she is imploring the aid of Heaven; an arm of courage to defend her virtue; and above all, a friend to shield her reputation.”

I was proceeding, and expressing myself with great warmth, which I saw was not unfavourable to the cause, when the door opened, and that plotter of iniquity, Miss Carroset, entered the room. Her eyes were directed to me, and might truly be said to flash fire. I was not, however, to be intimidated: I turned towards her, and said, “Miss Carroset, you are come in a happy moment, as I trust, to join with me in favour of our dear friend, whose fame must not be traduced by suspicion, nor her conduct arraigned by appearances.” “No, madam,” replied Miss Carroset, “neither shall my judgment be decided for me. If Mr. St. Edward is weak enough to be amused by a parcel of idle stories, raised merely for the purpose of concealing guilt, I am not thus to be imposed upon: and let me tell you, Mrs. Clifford, it would be much more to your credit to be attending your poor uncle, than to be pushing yourself into houses uninvited, and intruding your company upon people who move in a different sphere of life than that to which you have been accustomed. As to Mrs. St. Edward, it would ill become the purity of any modest woman to join in defending her cause: you may have your reasons for your partiality to her, but we, who are better informed, are not so easily to be duped.”

To this I replied, with as much calmness and temper as I could command, after so insolent a speech,—“As to my partiality, madam, it is founded upon a complete knowledge of her many virtues from her earliest years, from the sincerest friendship, and from a perfect conviction of her rectitude, honour, and integrity. As to my being now here, my uncle dispensed with my attendance, and urged me to defend a cause in which he enters as warmly as myself. I hope I am not an unwelcome intruder to Mr. St. Edward; for however distant may be our situations in life, he has in happier days honoured me with a pressing invitation to Arkley. Little then did I imagine that my first visit would have been under such circumstances as the present; and were every body now in their proper places, you and myself, madam, would not have met under this roof, where it cannot be more unpleasant to you than to myself. But I cannot answer to my own conscience, nor to those friends of Mrs. St. Edward’s who are most anxious for her, to leave this place before some clearer investigation has been made concerning this business; and from some strange occurrences which passed under my observation last night, I am led to believe that some uncommon mystery remains to be unfolded, and which I am persuading Mr. St. Edward to lose no time in discovering.”

When I ended my speech, Miss Carroset threw herself upon a sopha, and seemed to be absolutely choking with rage: Mr. St. Edward seated himself by her, and affected a gaiety in his looks and manner by no means proper for the time and the occasion; but I suppose it was to please and bring her into good-humour. “And what,” said he, “Mrs. Clifford, would you have me do?” and without allowing me time to answer him, he turned in a childish way to Miss Carroset, and said, “One of the castle spectres appeared last night, and sent me an order to pull down the whole structure in order to find my wife!—was it not so, Mrs. Clifford?” I could not return an answer; I walked to the window to suppress my emotion, as well as to hide the tears which flowed for our poor Julia. I heard Miss Carroset ask him if he would not obey the ghost, and prove a dear good husband to his affectionate wife. After this they conversed in a whisper too low for me to hear, but I could distinguish the word insolent as if meant to me; and finding I could have no chance of influencing his mind at this time, I retired to my chamber, waiting for the summons of the breakfast-bell, and have written thus far.

Irksome, indeed, is my situation, for as Miss Carroset says, I can but consider myself as an intruder, and since the late conversation, I have every thing to apprehend both from the malice of her designs, and the influence she has upon the mind of St. Edward; yet if my stay can be of the smallest service to our Julia, I will bear all they can inflict, and nothing but being absolutely turned out of doors, shall force me from hence. Yet after all, I fear I can do nothing to serve her; there seems to be a combination against her. I rest my hopes in some degree on those nocturnal visitors, who, whatever or whoever they are, must have some design; and no timidity shall prevent my following a being, who is, perhaps, employed in a righteous cause. I will not suffer sleep to prevent my watchfulness; I will lose no opportunity of engaging Mr. St. Edward, and in endeavouring to counteract the designs of this most artful young woman.

May these my intentions be rendered propitious by that all-ruling Power who governs all our actions, and without whose permission not a sparrow falleth to the ground. I will write as often as I have opportunity of sending my letters, or whenever anything occurs worthy your notice; and I remain,

Dear madam,

Ever yours,

ANN CLIFFORD.

LETTER IV.

Miss Carroset to Miss Baynard.

Arkley Castle, Dec. 2, 17—.

YOU see, my dear Maria, I have obeyed your commands, or rather your advice, and am once more safely lodged under the roof of Arkley Castle. Thus far you must approve; but, Maria, I will not be scolded; I cannot bear it; my mind is greatly disturbed; for although the elopement of Mrs. St. Edward bids fair for a favorable eclaircissement, yet there are formidable obstacles to overcome. If St. Edward were as warm in investigating the cause as the urgency of the case requires, I might soon be released from my present anxiety; but then on the other hand, were he to be active in the pursuit, it might bring on discoveries injurious to my plan: I am, therefore, under the necessity of keeping him in this lukewarm temper of mind, as the surest method of success to my wishes. Then again, he is such an egregious fool, that he may be drawn by a thread.

Do you know, there is a dreadful woman come here, a Mrs. Clifford, who was a kind of governess to Mrs. St. Edward. It seems she is well descended, has been handsome and unfortunate, with all the etceteras annexed, to claim pity and respect. She is absolutely one of the most hateful beings I ever beheld, and has such an influence over St. Edward, that were I not here to counteract and undermine her designs, he would be a lost man; for well do I know when she has been talking to him: but of this I take pretty good care, and never fail to tell him how much he would be ridiculed by the world, were he to be influenced by the whining cant and advice of an old governess. This rouses his spirits, for he can’t bear to be thought gentle; and, poor soul, fancies himself a sensible man.—In love with him indeed! No, Maria; that passion was over with me at a very early period of my life, and reason enough had I to be sick of it, when the object of my affection so basely deserted me, after he had obtained all he could possess; yet he was worth a thousand St. Edward’s—but no more of this.

To return to Mrs. Clifford; she is the niece of a clergyman, and the widow of an officer; is an enthusiast in the cause of Mrs. St. Edward, and came here post-haste upon hearing of her elopement. I wish she had broken her neck in the journey, for I assure you she is a formidable enemy. She possesses that abominable steady sense and cool resolution, which generally bear down all opposition: there is a settled ease and hauteur in her manner, which almost strikes me with a certain awe, not to say dread; for she has those kind of penetrating eyes that look one through. She has determined to stay here till Mrs. St. Edward is restored, that is her word; and she is a sort of woman that one cannot turn out of doors. I think if you were here, something might be struck out to get rid of her, but alone, I confess myself unequal to the undertaking. Do come, Maria;—I have influence sufficient here to promise you a welcome: we can then contrive to hit upon something for the destruction of her plans; and I assure you she deserves to be strangled. Let me hear that you will come; but remember you are not to rival me in the affections, nor even the attentions of St. Edward. I have had one or two tart altercations with this Mrs. Clifford, but cannot say I gained much advantage. I tell St. Edward how extremely artful she is, and that is really true, for she leaves no opportunity of taking advantage of his weakness.—Adieu my friend. If you can suggest anything favourable to the cause, do not omit giving me your opinion, and I will from time to time give you a faithful relation of our proceedings.

I am, ever yours,

CHARLOTTE CARROSET.

LETTER V.

Lord Robert Carrington to Mr. Tracy.

MY DEAR SIR,

I TAKE the earliest opportunity in availing myself of your kind permission to exchange a few lines. I feel myself greatly honoured by your attention; and I should be unjust to myself, were I to neglect the great advantages to be derived from a man of your learning, principles, and extensive knowledge. I hope you will not deem me a flatterer from these expressions, which, I assure you, flow from the sincere effusions of a grateful heart. In the short term of our acquaintance at Buxton, your ideas were so perfectly new to me, that I could not fail to admire and adopt your sentiments. As you profess yourself to be a citizen of the world, to have no limited station, nor domestic calls to engross any fixed period of your time, I shall flatter myself that you will at least give me your opinion upon a subject interesting to me, if not distressing.

I passed through school, and likewise the university, with a particular friend, the knowledge of whose acquaintance commenced at so early a period, as to create a friendship stronger, perhaps, than a later intimacy might have inspired. Our situations in life, our ages, and above all, our dispositions, were so congenial, as to unite us in no common bond. We had neither of us any brothers or sisters, either to take from or to share our regards. The most unlimited confidence secured our friendship, for I believe neither had a thought concealed from the other; and as we advanced in life, a thousand occurrences became interesting to each. As my friend was of a more volatile disposition than myself, I will confess that he frequently engaged me in acts of dissipation, which my cooler moments could not but condemn; however, as we never spared each other’s faults, I generally began with admonition, to which he would listen with good-natured attention, and ended with promises of amendment. Thus some years rolled on. My friend was naturally susceptible, and would speak in raptures of charms in females which I could not discover.

Last Summer he went to pay a visit to an acquaintance in Staffordshire, from whence he wrote to me of a very beautiful married woman, with whom he seemed desperately enamoured. I at first treated it as a joke, but finding him positive in the pursuit, and more serious than was usual in these cases, I endeavoured to dissuade, but not too pressingly, lest opposition might but augment the flame; and as I understood the lady was a pattern of honour and virtue, I had no doubt but his passion would be defeated by the best of all possible methods, her own integrity. I therefore forbore my admonitions, and for a time our correspondence ceased. On my return to London, I heard with grief and surprise, that the lady had eloped, but with whom was not yet ascertained. Suspicion glanced at my friend as the companion of her flight; hints have been thrown out in the public papers; and there are those who scruple not to affirm that they are both gone to an estate which he has in Ireland. You must know who the lady is, as the papers have been too explicit on this head; but I forbear to mention the name of my friend, in the faint hope that he may yet be acquitted of this most flagrant breach of honour. I have made all possible enquiry concerning the present residence of my friend, but hitherto without success. I am surprised there are no letters for me, but on an occasion of this nature he would be silent; and I presaged no good consequence when he ceased to inform me of his designs. I confess I am extremely hurt at this violation of laws so sacred, and I should feel the truest pity for her husband, had not some recent instances of his conduct, which fell under my own observation at Buxton, led me to believe, that the faults of the lady were but the natural consequences of the example of her husband. These are sentiments we have before discussed, and as there is nothing new in them, I shall no longer animadvert upon the subject. If your humanity and prudence can devise any means by which I may be able to develop this mysterious affair, or to recommend to the parties to return to their respective duties, before the voice of ignorant slander gives the final stab to their reputation, I shall consider myself as particularly,

Dear sir,

Your gratefully obliged and

faithful servant,

ROBERT CARRINGTON.

London, Dec. 4, 17—.

LETTER VI.

Stephen Macardoe to John Ladwick.

Blanzey Lodge, near Limerick,

Dec. 5th, 17—.

DEAR JOHN,

YOU nose as I promished to rite, and I be the moor willen so to do because you nose of my parshality to Mrs. Jane, and I shud a rit soonder, but we a been in so mutsh bussle an confushion that I had no hart to set down to rite. My lord is gon now, marcy on him—I wish weed niver comed hear, but I musent tell tails. Sitch wachings an ridings by day an by nite, an for wat, for nothin but wat wull be a disgrase an the sweetest lady—but she as gin us the go by, an now we be all left at Blanzey upon bored wages, an not a thing can we get for our munny, for theres nothen to be had. Ireland is tore to peces, sad doins, indeed you may meet we rebles evry step you stur, an evry body goes harmed, an fokes hear mins no moor bein murdurd then if they was goen to a feest. Lord help us say I, but this is nothen to the purpus of wat as I ment to rite about. Tell Mrs. Jane as how in all my trubbles, an all my gurneys, an all my walkins, I niver forgot she, nor was niver arter thinkin of any thing ellse, tho my lord kep us up nite arter nite, and now we ha bin skuwring ovver the contry ater madam, I musent menchun her name for fear of axidents. I think she must be dead or killed by the rebles, for wear can she be gon to, she ha no frends hear, an dont no nothen of her way, how shoud she poor fowl, an she was carred off in sitch a frite an a urry from her oun hous as she niver rekoverd, an she woudent speke to my lord if she cood help it, an was resentful to the last, but when my lord whent away, he sayed as how hed niver com bak till hed foond her, for she was all he walled in lif, so how it will hend God only nose, but bein as how she was a marred whoman, hit may prov a bad gob, and my pore Lord git into trubble, but wheniver you tels hit hit must be a seekret. I shal be glad to here from you. Pleas to remembar me to all freends, and in partikilar to Mrs. Jane. Dereckt to me at write honnabel Lord Wycount Fitzarnolds Blanzey Lodge near Limerick Ireland, an if you pays the postadge it wull com free, so no more to command your

Loving freend

STEPHEN MACARDOE.

P.S. If you shoud here of Madam Sent Edward you may let me no, an you shall sheer sum of my reward, but her nam musent be menshend.

LETTER VII.

Mrs. Clifford to Mrs. Safforey.

Arkley Castle, Dec. 9, 17—.

THIS is the last letter I shall write from this place, where I can be of no possible service to our dear friend. I find the resolution of St. Edward so weak, and he is so easily led away by the arts and vile insinuations of Miss Carroset, that all attempts to counteract her devices are vain. My situation too is so truly irksome; but I should not regard these inconveniences, had I any hopes of succeeding, but really there are none; and I am by no means certain that I am not weakening the cause I wish to strengthen; for after every attempt to rouse Mr. St. Edward from his present opinions, I am only giving a fairer opportunity to Miss Carroset of displaying her power over him, and giving a latitude to her inventive fancy to detract and vilify the object of her hatred and revenge.

Indeed the total silence attending this uncommon business, adds wonder to the misfortune, and gives disappointment and grief to her friends,—exultation and triumph to her enemies. I hope I have omitted nothing in my power towards the elucidation of the mystery. I have traversed over every part of this huge castle, as far as I could: but there are rooms and places beneath, which I could not penetrate to, secured by heavy doors with immense hinges, filled with large nails, overgrown with cobwebs, and which seemed to have remained unopened for ages; nobody knew where the keys were; and when I mentioned my wish of seeing what they contained to Mr. St. Edward, he only treated my anxiety as a mark of womanish curiosity, and would not allow his own to conquer his usual apathy.

I visited the room appropriated for the old domestics, and was not a little pleased, as well at their venerable appearance, as with the zeal and warmth in which they expressed their gratitude to their former masters for the benefits and comforts they now enjoy; to their present one, for the fulfilment of their claims; and sincere lamentations for the late unhappy event. They spoke in raptures upon the merits of Julia, and had no doubt but she would be restored, as she must, they said, be an object of peculiar preservation and providential favour. After I had made this visit, I rambled in the park; the day was tolerably fine for the season. In a little shrubbery near the house, I had an opportunity of admiring many elegant marks of the taste and ingenuity of Julia. The shrubs were beautifully disposed by her order, as the gardener informed me, and though at this season little judgment could be formed of their effect, yet it was a proof that she meant to superintend and watch their growth and beauty in the ensuing spring.

This reflection produced many melancholy ones, for, alas! I fear they will not blow for her; and I could almost be reconciled to the idea that she is no longer an inhabitant of this earth, but is gone to meet with a reward for her merits and sufferings in a better world: for what are her prospects in this?—exposed to the certain resentment of a weak husband, to the envy and revenge of her enemies, to the suspicions of all, and the universal pity and censure of an ill-judging multitude.

There is an idea which sometimes crosses my mind, but is scarcely allowed a moment’s residence, and I hardly dare name it:—cannot you, madam, guess?—your brother,—yet it cannot be; Julia possessed the greatest rectitude; and I should apologize for an opinion of any one so near and dear to you. But my mind is harassed and disturbed, harbouring and allowing ideas foreign to its usual suggestions, and rendered alive to suspicion from the conduct of those about me. Let these excuses plead for me, my dear madam, and say, in a letter to Crayborne, that you forgive

Your sincere and obliged

humble servant,

ANN CLIFFORD.

LETTER VIII.

Mrs. Safforey to Mrs. Clifford.

Ledcombe, Dec. 15, 17—.

PREPARE your mind, my dear Mrs. Clifford, to hear some faint tidings of our Julia. I will neither raise your hopes, nor suffer my own to be too sanguine, but will hasten to inform you what is my intelligence, from which you will form your own judgment, as to the probability of what we have to expect. Yesterday’s post brought me a letter from a Mrs. Eastbrook. She formerly lived with my mother, and though in the capacity of a servant, was, from her good conduct and uncommon abilities, far removed above the general standard of that order. She is now housekeeper in the family of Lord Duncarrel; and I wrote to her upon the subject of my friend soon after her disappearance. I enjoined the most strict secresy, consistent with the indefatigable zeal which the cause demanded. I knew her situation in life was of that nature as to give her a more extensive knowledge of what passed in different families, than a more exalted sphere would allow, as servants are more particularly inclined to speak of the secrets of a family, as well for the pleasure of mutual communication, as the pride of consequence they think it gives them. They are, for these reasons, dangerous implements to use, nor are their opinions often guided either by judgment or veracity; and as a community they are rather more to be dreaded than trusted. I hope the present instance will prove an exception to the general rule, and that you will acquit me of any meanness in the application, when you consider the urgency of the case. I have already given you the outlines of the character of Mrs. Eastbrook; you will judge of the rest from the inclosed letter; and make allowances for the style and manner of a person, who, you may observe, stands not a little exalted in her own estimation.

LETTER IX.

Mrs. Eastbrook to Mrs. Safforey.

London, Dec. 11, 17—.

DEAR AND HONOURED MADAM,

I WAS favoured with your’s of the 2d instant, and am greatly obliged for the honour of your commands, as well as truly distressed for the sad occasion of them. I remember poor Miss St. Edward, and a sweet creature she was! Your dear mama, madam, used to say, she was too charming to be happy; but I don’t know why that should be neither, for we all know handsome ladies that are, aye, and that deserve to be, happy. I had heard of the elopement as it is called, before your letter arrived, for there is nothing but what I hear; and you could not, madam, have addressed a more proper person than myself on this occasion, for I suppose there is not a house in town where such multitudes of people resort as this of our’s; indeed, the hurry and bustle, and the late hours we keep, were too much for my nerves, and I was under the necessity of leaving his lordship’s house, and retiring to my niece’s at Edgware, until my health was recovered; but I was soon requested to return, and higher emoluments offered to induce me to stay. Indeed, my lady said to me, “Eastbrook, you are absolutely essential to my existence!” and you know, madam, there was no resisting that: indeed, there is nothing done in this house wherein I am not consulted; and my young lord, who is just going to the university, said to me the other day, “Mrs. Eastbrook, I must consult and advise with you on the subject of my allowance, for I know you have liberal notions, and have seen a great deal of the world.” And then my young ladies too, whenever they are going to have new dresses, always pass a whole morning with me before they make a choice;—to say nothing of the number of people of all ranks who ask my opinions before they undertake any great scheme.

It was but the other day that Mrs. Westphalia, Lady Rantum’s superintendant, (who gives the best entertainments, and has the most superb fêtes in London,) came to me to be best informed how to arrange these matters. But I fear, madam, I shall tire you with this account of myself, when you may be impatient to hear of another subject; but I could not help mentioning the above circumstances, just to shew you how proper a person I am to give you the desired information, and to negotiate any further commands you may honour me with.

Last Sunday evening I went to the chapel, where I heard Dr. Dormouse preach a very excellent sermon. You must, madam, have heard of Dr. Dormouse: he made choice of his lady from the same station which I now fill; and very fine preferment he has got, and is not, as many others are, at all lifted up by it; on the contrary, he is as affable and pleasant as ever, always enquiring how I am, and wondering I look so well under the fatigues I encounter. I cannot say just the same of his lady; she carries herself very high, and seldom deigns to speak, and when she does, it is in a high tone; “How do ye?” as if she had quite forgot (indeed, I suppose she has,) when she used to come with her squeezing humble curtseys to beg I would do her the honour of returning her visits.

Well, but to return,—as I said, after I had been at the chapel, I invited a few friends to take tea with me, and amongst others Mr. O’Nettle, Lord Connor’s gentleman. They are but just come from Ireland. To be sure it was terrifying to hear the account he gave of that distracted country, and says he, “There is a d—d business of another and more private nature;” I must give it you in his own words, madam, because you would not like to lose any part of it. “Lord Fitzarnold, a fine young man with a very large estate, has made so free with an English gentleman, as to carry off his wife per force!” “Aye,” replied some of the company, “how happened that?” “True upon my soul!” says O’Nettle; “it was neither by your leave or with your leave; and if report says true, what was most extraordinary, it was against the lady’s own consent!” “Why then,” replied others, “won’t his lordship be hanged?” “Why no,” says O’Nettle; “I suppose circumstances will come out to prevent that; for it seems the lady and her husband lived upon very ill terms, and that will go a great way to exculpate Lord Fitzarnold.” “O now I think of it,” said Mrs. Lacy, “it was mentioned in our still room the other day, and one of our servants had got a letter from one Macardoe, who lives with Lord Fitzarnold; and moreover, he said that the lady was got away, and gone nobody knew whither, and that she was the sweetest creature that ever was seen.”

Many more things were said which I now forget, and thought no more about, little supposing it was Miss St. Edward; but upon the receipt of your letter, madam, I went to Lord Connor’s, and I asked Mr. O’Nettle to tell me all the particulars, which were much the same as what I have related; but he advised me to go to Sir Charles Elliot’s, and enquire for one John Ladwick, who could give me the best information. Accordingly I did so, and after some intreaty, I got a sight of this Macardoe’s letter: a curious epistle it is, and so vilely written, and so badly spelt, that it was with difficulty I could make out the sense of it; however, it left no room to doubt of the facts; and though he affects secresy, he mentions the name of Mrs. St. Edward in the postscript, and then like a true Irishman, says it must not be named. It appears from this letter that she has got away from Lord Fitzarnold, and that she was positively carried away against her consent. I tried every possible means to get the letter into my possession, and I would have inclosed it to you, madam, but I could not prevail with the man to part with it, and he seemed not satisfied with himself that he had been induced to let me have a sight of it. If I can be of farther service in this business, or any other, please, madam, to command my best services, being always ready and happy to oblige as far as can be in the power of,

Dear and honoured madam,

Your obliged and very obedient

humble servant,

MARY EASTBROOK.

(Mrs. Safforey in continuation.)

I will suppose, my dear Mrs. Clifford, that you have read the inclosed, if your patience could endure the prolixity of Madam Eastbrook: I confess mine has seldom been tried more severely. What can be done for our poor Julia? and what may she not be suffering whilst we are debating upon the method of recovering her? It is absolutely necessary that her fame should be restored by the full declaration of her being carried away by force; and the guilt of Lord Fitzarnold must likewise be made public: yet I shudder to reflect upon the consequences of an enraged husband’s resentment; for enraged he must be when he has such proof of his wife’s innocence, however supine he may hitherto have been.

I have written to Mrs. Eastbrook to get further information. I wish we could get Macardoe’s letter; St. Edward should be shewn this: and yet I dread to think how it must end. I could have been glad that you had staid longer at Arkley; possibly in that case things might have been better managed; for, my dear Mrs. Clifford, we want some able adviser; women are but weak negotiators in any arduous undertaking; we fancy we can do a great deal, but when judgment, policy, and safety are required, we want the steady sense, the clear precision of the wiser sex, and feel our inability and weakness. What says your worthy uncle? Were he young and freed from his infirmities, we should need no better champion. He may still direct and counsel our opinions, and I know you will consult him on this trying occasion. My ideas are sadly confused; I know not what will be for the best; I am impatient for the vindication of my dear friend’s honour, and yet I feel a dread, a horror, in the necessary execution of it. Let me have your’s and your worthy uncle’s advice as speedily as may be; and believe me always,

Your truly affectionate friend,

ELINOR SAFFOREY.

LETTER X.