 68. Lady Hume to Lady Barton, in answer to Letter 61, Cleveland Hall. Your fanny, my Louisa, has obeyed your kind command, and now claims the sad indulgence promised in your last. I long, yet dread to know what those events can be, which you deem more interesting than any of those extraordinary circumstances which have already happened to you. I cannot express the mixed sensation which my heart is at present sensible of. While I give it up to that joy, which happiness like mine should inspire, I fancy I defraud you of that portion of sorrow which is due to your distress. And while I tenderly reflect upon your sufferings, and busy my imagination in trying to discover those additional woes you hint at, the big drop which steals down my cheek silently reproaches me with ingratitude to my dear brother, to his amiable wife, to my reclaimed prodigal, to Providence. And when, as it sometimes happens, my melancholy becomes contagious, and that I see a gloomy look of inquiry spread over those countenances which should be lighted up with smiles, I strive, forgive me, my Louisa, to forget your sorrows, and dispel the cloud I have created by affected efforts of cheerfulness. But I will no longer, like Miss Howe and Clarissa, content myself with poorly lamenting the unhappiness of my friend. I can have no doubt of Lord Hume's indulgence. I will request his permission to see and embrace my sister. Her sighs and tears shall flow upon my bosom, and I will try to pour the balm of comfort into hers. You did not date your last letter, so that I cannot even guess where you are at present. But I shall direct this to Southfield, and impatiently wait for the explanation of that gloomy mystery in which you seem involved. All here salute you with the tenderest affection, for as I now consider myself accountable to Lord Hume for every moment of my time, I proclaimed my intention of writing to you before I retired from the drawing-room, and shall try to return to it with as cheerful a countenance as I can possibly assume, but be assured that my heart will never be truly at ease till I know that yours is so, as I shall never cease to be your faithfully affectionate friend and sister f. Hume. End of Letters 68. Letter 69 of the History of Lady Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 69 from Lady Barton to Lady Hume. The knowing that my fanny is happy is certainly a reason for my being less wretched than when I wrote last, but then the cruel thought of interrupting her felicity must add to my distress, and can it bear addition? Oh, yes, yes! The torturing suspense which I now feel too surely informs me that there yet remains many arrows in the quiver of adversity which may still be pointed at my sad heart, and yet not pierce it through. O fanny, it is very difficult to die. At least I find it so. Death sports with human misery, and would rather increase than end them. Tis his delight to bid the wretch survive the fortunate, the feeble rap the athletic in his shroud, and weeping parents build their children's homes. Excuses rhapsody I will try to collect myself and equate you with the particulars of my present distress. The morning after I written you, from Elm Grove I ordered my carriage, as I intended, and at breakfast acquainted Lady Graswold with my design of setting out for Southfield. Every argument that friendship or politeness could urge were used to prevail on me to stay with them for a few days longer, but I continued firm to my purpose. I told Harriet that she might remain with Lady Graswold till she came to return my visit, which both she and Sir Harry promised should be in ten days, or a fortnight. Harriet declined my indulgence and entreated me with uncommon earnestness to take her with me. I considered her refusal as the effect of her attention and complacence with me. Till with a very solemn air she said to me, when we were alone, if you, madame, think it necessary to quick Elm Grove, I am sure I ought to do so too. I acquisist in her opinion and desired her to get ready immediately. Lord Lucan, to my great satisfaction, did not appear at breakfast. When he was inquired for, the servant said he had rode out, very early in the morning. I took my friend Lady Graswold aside, and requested her, not without some confusion, to deliver my letter to his lordship as soon as he returned from riding. Almost at that instant a servant of Sir Williams galloped into the courtyard, and presented the following billet to me. Two, Lady Barton, the infamy of your light conduct, has for some time made me balance whether I should, by the bearer, command your immediate return to my house, or forbid your ever entering it. My respect for your family has so far turned the scale in your favor, as to make me, though unwilling, condescend to receive you under my roof, till they shall be acquainted with your vileness, and either find you out a proper asylum, or join in abandoning you with your highly injured husband, W Barton. I have already told you that Lady Graswold was with me when I received this shocking sentence. Amazement suspended all my powers while I read it. My sight forstook me, the paper dropped out of my hand, and I felt almost senseless upon a couch. When I recovered my speech, I bid her read it, and tell me what it meant. She quickly saw through the detested villainy, and at once exclaimed, Your husband is abused, that wicked Colonel Walter has deceived him. My aunt, unhappy and infatuated woman, corresponds with him, and has doubtless transmitted an account of Lord Lucan being here. Her summise was equal to conviction, and I, that moment, beheld myself, the victim of that wretched disappointed passion. Oh, could my heart have told me I was an innocent one? How slightly should I have regarded the utmost malice of this fiend? I need not attempt to describe the distraction of my mind. During the journey Harriet was so visibly affected with my grief, though unknowing of the cause that I would, if possible, have concealed it from her, and even accused myself for making her heart so early acquainted with sorrow. When we arrived at Southfield, Benson, with tears in her eyes, informed me that Sir William was dangerously ill, the vein in his lungs, which had been closed for some time, had opened, and the physician who attended him had very faint hopes of his life. The agony which this account threw me into, I shall leave to your own sensibility to imagine. I fell upon my knees, and in an heart felt ecstasy, cried out, Gracious God, have pity on me, spare my husband's life, and let not his murder triumph over him and me at once. Harriet and Benson raised me from the ground, with a mingled expression of pity and horror in their looks. They thought me mad. I was, alas, too sensible at least to misery. When I became a little more calm, Harriet asked me if I would not go to see Sir William. I started up at the question, and would have flown that moment to his bedside, had not Benson interposed by telling me he was just fallen into a slumber, and that the doctor had given orders he should not be disturbed. The idea that his mind was at rest afforded a little ease to my own. The tears ran silent and plenteous down my cheeks, while my heart offered up the most feverant petitions to the fountain of life for his recovery. By degrees I became composed, and at Harriet's entreaty I tried to eat, and retired to rest. In the morning Dr. Hartfield, who attends Sir William, desired to see me. He told me that the sudden and violent return of his patient's disorder had proceeded from some perturbation of mind, and that the only chance he had for his life was the being kept in a state of apathy as much as possible, and advised my not seeing him for some days yet, as even the most pleasing emotion might be productive of fatal consequences. I told him I would not attempt anything that should injure his health, though I must most earnestly wish to see him. He said he had taken the liberty of preventing two letters from being delivered to him for the reasons he had then given me. He presented them to me. I saw that one of them was the letter I had sent by the servant. The other was from Colonel Walter. Surely if a breach of trust could ever be deemed pardonable, the peculiarity of my situation must have furnished an excuse for reading this letter. But my heart revolted at the mean idea. I gave both of them to Harriet, and bid her keep them till her uncle should be able to read them himself. About an hour after this Sir William sent for Harriet. The moment he saw her he cried out, Where is she? In her chamber, Sir, weeping your illness and praying for your recovery. For my death you mean. Indeed you wrong her Sir. I never saw any person so truly concerned for another. Where is Lord Lucan? Why do you blush at that question? What then art thou become the confidant, the vile accomplice of your aunt's infamy? Believe me Sir, I never heard or saw a word or action of hers that should be called so. She is the best of women. If that be true, the whole sex are past redemption. But where is Lord Lucan? We left him at Elm Grove. My dear, dear uncle, let me entreat you to compose yourself. Indeed you wrong my aunt most cruelly. She fell on her knees at his bedside and kissed his hand. Oh Harriet, I am but too well convinced that your expression refers more justly to her. It is she who has wronged herself, and me too, but perhaps I have deserved to lose her affection, though mine was true to her, yet for her own sake. For the honour of her family I did not think she would have been abandoned, but did not dare her. He wept while he pronounced those horrid words. Harriet described the strong emotion she had seen, me feel, on hearing of his illness. He wept again, yet called me a hyena, and then cried out, Why does she not appear before me? Oh, she is conscious of her crime and dare not look upon me. Harriet then acquainted him of the restraint his physician had imposed on me. It is very true, he replied. The sight of her would kill me, but let her write if she has anything to say in her defence. She then gave him my letter. He seemed much agitated when he read it. Then said he was too weak to bear these painful conflicts, and bid her tell me he would receive me, as soon as he was able, but only to confront me with such proofs, as were indefinable, and never from that moment see me more. Alas, my sister, what will now become of me? Grant it were possible I could be able to undeceive Sir William, and remove even the shadow of suspicion from his thoughts. Must I not always live in fear, a fear which my own consciousness will create? That mutual bond of congenial felicity, a perfect confidence, is now forever broken. The gloomy reflections that dwell within my bosom will still appear, and raise up fresh disquietes and alarms within my husband's breast. Though he conceals his doubts, my heart will feel them, and secretly repine that even the sacrifice of my unhappy passion has not been able to procure his peace. Yet this is the sole prospect, this the compounding hope of such a wretch as I. Harriet has seen her uncle every day, and in consequence of their conversations I have written to him twice. He seems much affected when he reads my letters, and yet returns again to his unjust suspicions. Colonel Waters' letter has been delivered to him. He inquired whether I knew who it came from, and upon Harriet's telling him I did, he replied, That has more weight with me than all that she has protested under her hand. There is, yet at least, some virtue in her. Indeed my sister, were I not convinced it is my duty to calm Sir William's mind. I could, with the utmost composure, submit to and sink under the cruel calamity thrown out against me, the world and all that it contains seems to recede from my now feeble grasp. The dejection of my spirits has diffused an universal langer through my whole frame, and some blessed intelligence whispers me that soon, very soon, this poor torn heart will be at peace. Surely, my fanny, you will, you ought, I mean, rejoice in my deliverance. I am glad of your happiness, of my brothers and of everyones. I could at this moment rejoice in a certainty of my being the only wretched creature upon earth. I wish I could prevent your sending a thought, or a sigh this way. Your sorrow for my misery can but increase it, strive to forget it, then perhaps I may yet do so too, but never shall I cease to remember that I am yours truly affectionate sister, El Barton. Letter 70. Lord Hume, to Lord Lucan, would you believe that Lucan I am become a philosopher, and that, by the worst of all possible means, experience? I find there is no such thing as permanent happiness, for in the very moment that I look down with pity upon kings, my cup has been dashed with a good smart dose of Colo Quintita. For some time before my marriage, both Sir George Cleveland and I observed that my dear fanny was frequently dejected and melancholy, but whenever we seemed to take notice of this in disposition of mind, she attributed it to the change of climate, and immediately assumed an air of cheerfulness. For my own part I sometimes thought that her uneasiness might proceed from a recollection of my former conduct, and therefore endeavour to dissipate her suspicions by every mark of the sincerest attachment. I flattered myself I had succeeded as she had given me her hand without the least affectation of reluctance, which young ladies sometimes assumed the appearance of in order to enhance the value of the gift. I think there never was a blighter bridegroom than myself, indeed I thought myself most truly unhappy, yet my fanny's fits of melancholy frequently returned and I have sometimes surprised her in tears. I used to kiss them off and beg to know the cause. She constantly evaded my request, but with so much tenderness and delicacy that I could not insist on her compliance or even let her see that I was unhappy myself lest it should render her more so. In this kind of mortal state we passed several weeks, but a letter that was delivered to her lately has unraveled the mystery. We were alone in her dressing room when it was brought to her, while she read it her countenance changed so visibly that I could not avoid taking notice of it to her. She burst into tears and exclaimed, my unhappy sister, what is she dead? I asked. Not yet. She answered and sunk back as if near fainting in her chair. By heaven, Lucan, I would not go through such another moment, for the diamond eyes of the Indian idol I forgot his name, that are computed to be worth a million and a half. As soon as she had recovered she entreated me not to mention what had happened to Sir George or his lady, then told me that Lady Barton was the most miserable being upon earth from the villainy of a vile fellow who lives in their neighborhood and was himself in love with her, who by a false accusation of her to her husband has rendered him so outrageously jealous as almost to endanger Sir Williams life, that from her sister's letters she had reason to believe that she also was dying and implored me to set out for Ireland with her immediately in order to rescue Lady Barton if possible by removing her from that scene of misery and distress. I readily acquiesced in her desire discovering still new charms in her tender and generous affection for her unhappy sister, which has been the sole source of her melancholy. She gave me many prudent reasons for not acquainting her brother with this affair so that our scheme was mentioned at dinner as a sudden thought and everything was fixed for our setting out in two days. But pity me, Lucan, when I tell you that my whole of life, my heart's dear Fanny, was taken ill that night, the next day grew much worse, and on the third, the physicians pronounced her disorder to be a miliary fever. She is now, thank heaven, out of danger, but weak, low, and in her bed. I did not know how truly, how fondly I loved her, Lucan, till now. I am not ashamed of the blot a tear has just made. Her impatience to set out for your country is unabated, but I fear it will be some time before her strength will be equal to the journey. She has commanded me to write a few lines in gay latte de coeur to Lady Barton as if jealous of the correspondence between them and saying that I will only allow her to answer her letters in person. This is meant to excuse her silence without alarming her about her illness, how tender, how considerate. I hope to see you soon in Dublin, and that we shall return to England together. If Lady Barton should come with us, we shall be a good melange enough for our part and quarry. I am resolved to be gay. My wife will, I hope, be cheerful when she has rescued her sister from the green-eyed monster. You will be polite and agreeable at least, and I think Lady Barton will have no great cause to be sorrowful at leaving a husband with whom she has never been happy as Fanny has now confessed to me on this occasion. In my next, I hope I shall be able to fix the day of our setting out till we meet adieu, my dear Lucan, yours, Hume. End of Letter 70 The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith Letters 71-74 From Lady Barton to Lady Hume Letter 71 Lady Barton to Lady Hume It is over, my dear sister. My trial and condemnation are past, and I now sink under the weight of his censure, from which I neither ought nor desire to appeal. Yesterday Sir William desired to see me. I instantly obeyed his summons, and approached him pale and trembling, but my wainness was the effect of ill health, and my tremor arose from weakness, yet he perhaps might have attributed these symptoms to guilt or fear. For a person arraigned is generally half condemned. I dreaded his flying into a rage at seeing me, but to do him justice he was unusually calm. As I entered the chamber, he said, I am sorry, madame, that we should meet thus. I told him I was sincerely grieved for having been the innocent cause of so much uneasiness to him. He repeated the word innocent, and then launched out into the most cruel, and I am happy to say false accusation that ever was uttered. Wretched, wretched man, my heart this moment feels for what his must one day suffer. He was violently agitated, while he proceeded in his accusation, and I sometimes thought that he appeared to doubt the improbabilities he uttered, till he produced Lord Lucan's picture, which seemed like a visible miracle to corroborate the whole legend. I offered not the least interruption, while he spoke, but when he had ended I threw myself upon my knees before him, and in the most solemn manner assured him that I had never been guilty of an act of dishonor, though I confessed that my affections had not been in Volabi restrain to him, perhaps from the harshness of his manners, perhaps from my own weakness. He was variously affected whilst I spoke, and often broke out into extravagant exclamations, denying the truth of what I said by reoccurring to the charge against me. At other times he appeared softened for an instant, but then the picture, like Othello's handkerchief, still turned his heart to stone. Why was I not at liberty to unravel that mystery? But my word was long since passed to keep its secret, and never shall that bond be forfeited, nor shall my innocence ever be justified by dishonor, besides this was but a circumstance, and that equivocal at most. He then said that as my family, all but myself, were truly respectable he would, for their sakes, take some time to consider how he should act, before he branded me with infamy, and that I might remain a prisoner in his house, till he had determined on my sentence. But from that moment interdicted me from quitting my apartment, and what was still much more severe, from seeing or conversing with my soul comfort, the tender, the affectionate, the amiable Harriet. I wept, but it was in silence, and yielded to this hard decree without a murmur. He might have been more cruel to me, Benson is still permitted to attend me, nor has he yet forbidden me the melancholy pleasure of writing to my sister. I thanked him most sincerely for these two indulgences, and most devoutly hope I shall not want them long. While I live, I shall never cease to lament, my being the fatal and sole source of sorrow to my beloved sister. O dry your tears, my fanny, and turn your eyes to happier views. See an enduring husband and tender brother court you to happiness. Forget the wretch that marrs your present bliss, and renders you ungrateful for heaven's bounty. My heart sinks in me, my friend, my little Harriet is just sent away. I hear the wheels that carry her from hence. They roll upon my heart, protecting angels guard her innocence, and soothe the sorrows of her tender mind. I know it, Benson, she was drowned in tears. I feel them stream this moment on my breast. Alas, my fanny, my head turns round. I cannot write another line. Adieu, adieu, El Barton. Letter seventy-two. Lady Barton to Lady Hume. Did you not think I was completely wretched when I last wrote to you? I thought so then, but find my error now. There is no bounds to miseries like mine. The swelling ways rise upon one another, and overwhelm me. Why does this feeble bark struggle so long? Why not sink down at once to dark oblivion? But I will silence this repining heart, nor murmur at my sufferings. About eight o'clock this morning, there arrived a messenger from Waltersboro, and in a few minutes after, Sir William rushed into my room with an appearance of frenzy in his air encounterance. Vilest of women, cried he out, you have now completed your wickedness. But think not that either you or your accomplice shall escape. That pity, which pleaded in my weak heart, even for an adulteress, will but increase my rage against the murderous of my friend. He then quitted me abruptly, as if bent upon some horrid purpose. Yes, Fanny, I have heard my name traduced by the two vilest terms that ever disgraced human nature, and yet I never sighed nor shed a tear. I became petrified with horror, and fixed my eyes in stupid silence on the door at which Sir William issued, till Benson opened it some minutes after, and found me quite immovable. I blame him not for his intemperate wrath. He thinks he has just cause. There has been a duel. Lord Lucan is at fault. He was the challenger. He has destroyed my fame and peace of mind, forever. It is but just, it should be so, that he who caused my weakness should punish it. I hear that he is dangerously wounded, and Colonel Walter, mortally. Oh, could I hope my prayers might reach the throne of mercy? But am I not, as Sir William styles me, un-murderous too? Surely so. I am the fatal cause of all these crimes. Forgive me gracious heaven. No words can paint my agonies. Death only can relieve them. A note from Sir William. It has broken my heart. I fear I cannot see, to copy it. Waltersburg. Madame. I know not how to plead the pardon, either of myself, or the unhappy Colonel Walter. But if the strongest remorse for the injuries he has done you, added to the loss of life, which is now ebbing fast from his wound, may be thought and atonement, you will comply with his request and grant him your forgiveness. As to myself, I can only say that I have been most cruelly deceived, and nothing but Colonel Walter's present situation, confession, and contrition, could ever have induced me to forgive his having been the cause of so much unhappiness to you. I forgive him mine, because he has repaired it. My own offence, my own failings, have rendered me charitable to his. But if heaven shall spare my life, it shall be spent in penance for the wrongs I have done you. Colonel Walter entreats you, will let him know where his wife and child now are. Judge my surprise at hearing him acknowledge such connections. But there is now no time for reflections. As Dr. Hartford and the surgeon both say, he is not long to live. Death will be ease from the agonies he now endures in his tortured mind, and I trust in heaven's mercy that they will ensure his future peace. Be speedy, my much-injured Deweyza, in affording some relief to the most unhappy wretch I ever yet beheld, and in his pardon include that of your abused and much-afflicted husband, W. Barton. P.S. Lord Lucan's wound is not dangerous. I will write for Harriet to return immediately to Southfield. I wrote upon the instant, but even at this short interval, cannot recollect what I said. My sensations were too much diversified, too rapid, to leave strong traces on the memory. What did I not feel? Horror, pity, grief, and even a gleam of joy. Joy that my name shall not disgrace my family, nor make it hateful when I shall be but dust. Sir William's kindness in restoring Harriet, to me, is the most pleasing proof that he could give of his returning confidence. I know that it will make her happy, and therefore I do doubly thank him. All other marks of this regard must come too late. We cannot live together, yet I feel that death alone will part us. His approaches have been, his approaches have long been welcomed by me. I have thought his harbingers were slow, and child they're tardy, though sure progress. Yet would I now delay their lingering steps, till I could soar my sister to my heart? Then bid it cease to beat. This is a cruel, but natural wish. I will not press for the indulgence of it. I am most truly thankful that Lord Lucan's life is safe, but cannot form the least conjecture why he should hazard it. As he has done, it is impossible that he should know the injuries I have sustained from Colonel Walter. To you alone have I revealed my sufferings. Even Harriet was a stranger to the cause of my distress, till Sir William's violence informed her of his suspicions, and sure I am. She would not publish my disgrace. This is a point that I could wish was cleared, yet of what moment is it to me now? I have just received a letter from Lord Hume, excuse my silence to him, and assure him of my affectionate regards. My truest, tenderest love awaits my brother, and I charge you, Fanny, never to let him know what I have suffered. It would wound his peace when I shall be at rest. Another note from Sir William, containing unbounded thanks for what he calls my condescending goodness. Can there be any merit in the forgiveness of one frail and airing being to another? I will try if I can rest. Good night, my dearest sister, El Barton. Letter seventy-three, Lady Barton to Lady Hume. Sir William returned about ten o'clock this morning from Waltersboro, and I was not up. I used to be an early riser, Fanny, but may now say with Anna, in Douglas, thy votaries grief, great nature's orders break, and change the midnight to the moon-tide hour. It was near eleven before I rang my bell, and though Sir William expressed the greatest impatience to see me, he would not suffer Benson to disturb me. Why do these petit soi appear too late for him or me to profit from? As soon as she informed me that he was in the house, I rose and dressed me with the utmost expedition, then sent to let him know that I was ready to receive his commands. I found my mind infinitely more agitated than when he had summoned me to appear before him, yet I did not tremble as I then had done, but my heart beat quicker. He approached me with a look of tender anxiety, which I had never seen him wear. I arose as he entered. He caught my hand and dropped upon one knee. Lady Barton said he, it is impossible for words to express my feelings. Could you be sensible of what they are? You would both pardon and pity me. I made the strongest effort in my power to raise him from the ground, but both my strength and speech forsook me, and I sunk motionless within his arms. When I recovered, I found myself reclining upon Benson's bosom, and Sir William walking about the room, like a distracted person, exclaiming, She is lost, is gone forever, and I have killed her. I am the murderer now. The moment I could speak, I said everything in my power to calm his mind, but he continued to accuse himself much more severely than he could deserve, and when he looked upon my altered face, tears streamed from his sad eyes. Indeed, I am much changed from what I was. I think you scarce could know me. Colonel Walter is no more, though I have no faith in the effecy of prayers for the dead, yet I cannot refrain from offering up mine, for religion prompted by misfortunes is apt to exceed to superstition, but enough, or rather say too much, of this sad subject. Harriet is returned. She started at seeing me. It is amazing what a visible alteration a few days has made in my appearance. I do not myself perceive any great eternal change. An increasing weakness is all that I am sensible of. Death seems to be grateful for the ardent wishes I have so often made for him, and approaches me with the gentleness of a friend. The variety of terrors I have gone through have disarmed him of his, and though they at present seem to be past, pardon me, my sister. I cannot help considering my dissolution as a deliverance. As soon as Harriet arrived, Sir William brought her by the hand, and presenting her to me said, I am happy, dear niece, to restore you again to the protection of the best, and most injured woman breathing. My future conduct to her, joined to your care and aciduity, will, I hope, restore her health, and make us all happy once more. I bowed assent to Sir William's impossible wish, and embraced my beloved Harriet with all the fondness of a mother. I shall be a loss to her, Fanny. My heart melts at the idea of her distress. I am not able to hold the pen longer at present. I will re-asume it tomorrow. I hope that contrary wins are the sole source of my not hearing from you. The agitation of my mind for some time past has prevented my thinking too deeply on your silence. I flatter myself that the next post-day will prevent my future anxiety. Adieu, El Barton. Letter 74. Lady Barton to Lady Hume. My illness, or rather languor, increases so fast upon me that it is with much difficulty I can support myself in my chair for an hour together. Yet they talk of caring me to Lisbon, how absurd, as if a long journey could cure a broken heart. Mine is the gentleness of decays. The marks of my approaching dissolution are almost as visible in the faces that surround me. As in my own, Sir William is the very statue of grief. No pen or pencil can describe the tender expression of concern and solicitude that appears in Harriet's face. Benson is become a specter, and Dr. Hartford, though long used to look on the approaches of death, seems startled and affected by them now. The unhappy affair of the duel has not yet been explained, but I have neither curiosity or concern about that or anything else now left. Even my unhappy passion have I long since sacrificed to my duty. Be witness for me, Heaven, that from the moment of Sir William's danger the fawn delirium vanished from my heart, and left not even one tainted trace behind. You have known all the conflicts of my soul, and were there ought that could disturb it now, to you I would confess the painful perturbation as to Heaven, but all is calm, my sister. Still as the sea or winds were taught to blow, or moving spirit bad the waters flow, soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven, and mild as opening gleams of promised Heaven. May the last lines be prophetic, amen, a due. I will not yet say a last one to my beloved sister, El Barton. PS, you are at liberty to equate my brother with my situation. No stain will now reflect on him from me. My memory will still be dear to those I love, to him, to you, my sister. This thought will smooth my passage to the grave, and I shall rest in peace. End of Letters 71 to 74. Letter 75 of the History of Lady Barton. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ivan Yuan from Shanghai High School International Division, The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 75. Lord Luton to Lord Hume, Dear Hume, Your last letter has brought about a fatal event. I shall make no merit of letting you into a secret, which is now an end forever. Lady Barton was the charming woman to whom my heart had dedicated my life. Her beauty, purity, and frankness sure never yet was equaled. My attentions and regards, I fear, were too much marked towards her. For as seems, they were taken notice of by a gentleman, Colonel Walter, who likewise visited at her house. This happened, unfortunately, to excite some jealousy in his breast. Low, how was it possible for such a being as her to inspire a love without honor? He gave hints of his suspicion. Low lay then appeared to be of no consequence. But upon reading your letter, my mind quickly referred to the persons in question. Low, you leader mentioned his name or mine. I was shocked at the falsehood and villainy of the story. Had Lady Barton been an object of the utmost indifference to me, honor and humanity must have excited me to exculpate both her and myself, from so vile a slander. But, adoring her as I do, mere justice was too lukewarm a principle of action. I added resentment to it. I set out immediately for his house and charged him with perfidy. He denied it at first. But when I had produced my vulture, he attempted to excuse himself by saying, that as the lady had herself acknowledged a passion for me, to him it required no right weight of philosophy to deduce the natural conclusion he had drawn from such premises. I shall then render myself worthy of such a confession, said I, by chastising your breach of honor and repeating it. I had come prepared and told him so, desiring him to follow me to the end of the groove near the place which he soon did. We were both wounded, but he immortally, I took care of him home. He seemed sensible and sorry for his crime, and said he would repair it. He is since dead. Lady Barton is now languishing in the last stage of a consumption, and I am the most wretched being upon earth. I would fly out of the kingdom this moment, but I must stay to take my trial here. Alas, of what use would flight be to me? Can I leave the remembrance of my sorrow behind? Let me see you as soon as you arrive, and believe me, your unhappy friend. LEADER 76 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHESTER In what term shall I express the feelings of my heart for my more than amiable, my unhappy sister? Her sufferings have brought me near the brink of the grave, and now that they are past, why does she cruelly refuse her own ascent to life and happiness? Live, my Louisa, and do not doom me forever to lament that I was blessed with such a friend. I am scarce recovered from a dangerous fever, and yet have got so far on my way to assist your recovery, unmindful of my own. Let not my fond attention be thrown away, I conjure you. But in pity to Sir William, to the gentle Harriet, and to me at least, exert a wish to live. I ask no more. The rest may be expected from your youth, and the unceasing aciduity of such tender friends. I have not strength to undertake a journey through Wales. Besides, it must delay our meeting. I shall sail this night from Pargate. My dear Lord trembles for what I may suffer from seasickness. I can feel no ills, but yours. The moment we land, I shall set out for Southfield. I hope I shall be there before this letter. I am incapable of writing. My fears distract me. Yet I will strive to hope. I acquainted my brother with every particular of your story the moment I had received your permission, which was the very hour before we parted. He wept, and would have accompanied me if his dealier had been in a condition for travelling. The tenderest of husbands joins me in the most fervent prayers and wishes for your recovery. O live, to be a witness of the happiness I experience from his kindness, and that happiness will be then complete. Adieu, my dearest sister. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith. Letter 77. Lady Hume to Sir George Cleveland, Southfield. Yes, my dear brother, I have seen her, but fear I shall not long enjoy that blessing. Death lies in ambush on her lovely cheek, and lurks beneath the dimples of her smiles. My Lord said she never looked so beautiful as now. I think so too. Why must those beauties perish in the grave? She was transported at seeing me. Joy overpowered her feeble frame. She became quite exhausted, and was obliged to retire to her chamber very early. The next morning she sent for Sir William and me into her dressing room. She appeared more animated than I had ever seen her when she addressed him thus. Heaven has indulged my utmost wish in granting me the happiness of seeing my beloved sister. But I should be unworthy of this blessing if I did not endeavor that you also should be a gainer by it. Here is Sir William, pointing to me. Here is the witness of my weakness and my virtue. Every movement of my heart has been laid open to her view, and to her I dare appeal to justify its purity, while with myself she must condemn its frailty. If there yet needs a farther proof to satisfy you, I will entreat my fanny to submit the letters which have passed between us to your perusal. There you will see the conflicts of a weak, not wicked mind, and for the single trespass of my heart, though an involuntary one, I now upon my knees implore your pardon. Sir William caught her in his arms before she could kneel, and bathed her face with his fast-flowing tears. His voice was inarticulate, and he could scarce pronounce, to his eye that ought to kneel and sue for pardon my angel, my Louisa. Oh, spare yourself and me these strong emotions. I, only I, have been to blame, and could I now restore your life and happiness by parting with my own. I should not think my punishment severe. But oh, to lose you thus is misery extreme. How severely do I now reproach myself for not sooner acquainting you with the unhappy situation of our dear sister. Perhaps you might have rendered it more easy, and saved her precious life. But it was at her request that I concealed it, till Colonel Walters dying confession had cleared her innocence. I cannot write more, my heart is breaking. Soon, too soon, shall I, I fear, subscribe myself, your only and affectionate sister, F. Hume. End of Letter 77. Letter 78. Lady Hume to Sir George Cleveland, Southfield. She is gone, forever. I shall no more behold her. Her gentle spirit took its flight to heaven, while these fond arms in vain endeavour to support the feeble frame from whence it parted. She sunk upon my bosom and expired. Nor sigh nor groan gave warning of her death. She closed her eyes and slept forever. No words can paint the grief and distraction of her unhappy husband, the tender sorrow of the gentle Harriet, or the heartfelt anguish of your afflicted sister, F. Hume. End of Letter 78. End of the History of Lady Barton by Elizabeth Griffith.