 PART ONE OF LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP DECEIVED IN FRIENDSHIP AND BETRAID IN LOVE Letter I, from Isabelle to Laura. How often, in answer to my repeated entreaties, that you would give my daughter a regular detail of the misfortunes and adventures of your life, have you said, No, my friend, never will I comply with your request, till I may be no longer in danger of again experiencing such dreadful ones. Surely that time is now at hand. You are this day fifty-five. If a woman may ever be said to be in safety from the determined perseverance of disagreeable lovers, and the cruel persecutions of obstinate fathers, surely it must be at such a time of life. Let us second, Laura, to Isabelle. Although I cannot agree with you in supposing that I shall never again be exposed to misfortunes, as unmerited as those I have already experienced, yet to avoid the imputation of obstinacy or ill-nature, I will gratify the curiosity of your daughter, and may the fortitude with which I have suffered the many afflictions of my past life prove to her a useful lesson for the support of those which may befall her in her own. Laura. Letter III. Laura to Marianne. As the daughter of my most intimate friend, I think you entitled to that knowledge of my unhappy story which your mother has so often solicited me to give you. My father was a native of Ireland and an inhabitant of Wales. My mother was the natural daughter of a Scotch peer by an Italian opera girl. I was born in Spain and received my education at a convent in France. When I had reached my eighteenth year I was recalled by my parents to my paternal roof in Wales. Our mansion was situated in one of the most romantic parts of the Vale of Usk. Though my charms are now considerably softened, and somewhat impaired by the misfortunes I have undergone, I was once beautiful. But lovely as I was, the graces of my person were the least of my perfections. Of every accomplishment, a customary to my sex, I was mistress. When in the convent, my progress had always exceeded my instructions, my acquirements had been wonderful for my age, and I had shortly surpassed my masters. In my mind, every virtue that could adorn it was centred. It was the rendezvous of every good quality and of every noble sentiment. A sensibility too tremblingly alive to every affliction of my friends, my acquaintance, and particularly to every affliction of my own, was my only fault, if a fault it could be called. Alas! how altered now! Though indeed my own misfortunes do not make less impression on me than they ever did, yet now I never feel for those of another. My accomplishments too begin to fade. I can either sing so well, nor dance so gracefully as I once did, and I have entirely forgotten the minuet de la Cour. Adieu, Laura. Let her forth, Laura to Marianne. Our neighbourhood was small, for it consisted only of your mother. She may probably have already told you that being left by her parents in indigent circumstances, she had retired into Wales on economical motives. There it was our friendship first commenced. Isabelle was then one and twenty. Though pleasing both in her person and manners, between ourselves, she never possessed the hundredth part of my beauty or accomplishments. Isabelle had seen the world. She had passed two years at one of the first boarding schools in London, had spent a fortnight in Bath, and had supped one night in Southampton. Beware, my Laura, she would often say. Beware of the insipid vanities and idle dissipations of the metropolis of England. Beware of the unmeaning luxuries of Bath, and of the stinking fish of Southampton. Alas! exclaimed I! how am I to avoid those evils I shall never be exposed to? What probability is there of my ever tasting the dissipations of London, the luxuries of Bath, or the stinking fish of Southampton? I, who am doomed to waste my days of youth and beauty in a humble cottage in the veil of us, little did I then think I was ordained so soon to quit that humble cottage for the deceitful pleasures of the world. Adieu, Laura. Letter Fifth. Laura to Marianne. One evening in December, as my father, my mother, and myself were arranged in social converse round our fireside, we were, on sudden, greatly astonished by hearing a violent knocking on the outward door of our rustic cot. My father started. What noise is that? said he. It sounds like a loud rapping at the door, replied my mother. It does indeed, cried I. I am of your opinion, said my father. It certainly does appear to proceed from some uncommon violence exerted against our unoffending door. Yes, exclaimed I, I cannot help thinking it must be somebody who knocks for admittance. That is another point, replied he. We must not pretend to determine on what motive the person may knock, though that someone does rap at the door, I am partly convinced. Here a second tremendous rap interrupted my father in his speech, and somewhat alarmed my mother and me. Had we better not go and see who it is, said she, the servants are out. I think we had, replied I. Certainly, added my father, by all means. Shall we go now? said my mother. The sooner the better, answered he. Oh! let no time be lost! cried I. A third more violent rap than ever again assaulted our ears. I am certain there is somebody knocking at the door, said my mother. I think there must, replied my father. I fancy the servants are returned, said I. I think I hear Mary going to the door. I am glad of it, cried my father, for I long to know who it is. I was right in my conjecture, for Mary instantly entering the room informed us that a young gentleman and his servant were at the door, who had lost their way, were very cold, and begged to leave to warm themselves by our fire. Won't you admit them? said I. You have no objection, my dear? said my father. None in the world! replied my mother. Mary, without waiting for any further commands, immediately left the room and quickly returned, introducing the most beauteous and amiable youth I had ever beheld, the servant she kept to herself. My natural sensibility had already been greatly affected by the sufferings of the unfortunate stranger, and no sooner did I first behold him than I felt that on him the happiness or misery of my future life must depend. Adieu, Laura. Letter Sixth. Laura to Marianne. The noble youth informed us that his name was Lindsay. For particular reasons, however, I shall conceal it under that of Talbot. He told us that he was the son of an English baronet, that his mother had been for many years no more, and that he had a sister of the middle size. My father, he continued, is a mean and mercenary wretch. It is only to such particular friends as this dear party that I would thus betray his failings. Your virtues, my amiable polydore, addressing himself to my father. Yours, dear Claudia, and yours, my charming Laura, call on me to repose in you my confidence. We bowed. My father, seduced by the false glare of fortune and the deluding pomp of title, insisted on my giving my hand to Lady Dorothea. No never, exclaimed I, Lady Dorothea is lovely and engaging. I prefer no woman to her, but no, sir, that I scorn to marry her in compliance with your wishes. No, never shall it be said that I obliged my father. We all admired the noble manliness of his reply. He continued. Sir Edward was surprised. He had perhaps little expected to meet with so spirited an opposition to his will. Where, Edward, in the name of wonder, said he, did you pick up this unmeaning gibberish, who have been studying novels, I suspect? I scorned to answer, it would have been beneath my dignity. I mounted my horse, and followed by my faithful William, set forth for my aunts. My father's house is situated in Bedfordshire, my aunts in Middlesex, and though I flatter myself with being a tolerable proficient in geography, I know not how it happened, but I found myself entering this beautiful veil which I find as in south Wales, when I had expected to have reached my aunts. After having wandered some time on the banks of the usk, without knowing which way to go, I began to lament my cruel destiny in the bitterest and most pathetic manner. It was now perfectly dark. Not a single star was there to direct my steps, and I know not what might have befallen me had I not, at length, discerned through the solemn gloom that surrounded me, a distant light, which, as I approached it, I discovered to be the cheerful blaze of your fire. Impelled by the combination of misfortunes under which I laboured, namely fear, cold, and hunger, I hesitated not to ask admittance, which at length I have gained, and now, my adorable Laura, continued he, taking my hand. When may I hope to receive that reward of all the painful sufferings I have undergone during the course of my attachment to you, to which I have ever aspired? Oh, when will you reward me with yourself? This instant, dear and amiable, Edward, replied I. We were immediately united by my father, who, though he had never taken orders, had been bred to the church. Adieu, Laura. Letters Seventh, Laura, to Marianne. We remained but a few days after our marriage, in the veil of usque. After taking an affecting farewell of my father, my mother, and my Isabelle, I accompanied Edward to his aunts in Middlesex. Philippa received us both, with every expression of affectionate love. My arrival was indeed a most agreeable surprise to her, as she had not only been totally ignorant of my marriage with her nephew, but had never even had the slightest idea of there being such a person in the world. Augusta, the sister of Edward, was on a visit to her when we arrived. I found her exactly what her brother had described her to be, of the middle size. She received me with equal surprise, though not with equal cordiality, as Philippa. There was a disagreeable coldness and forbidding reserve in her reception of me, which was equally distressing and unexpected. None of that interesting sensibility, or amiable sympathy in her manners and address to me, when we first met, which should have distinguished our introduction to each other. Her language was neither warm nor affectionate, her expressions of regard were neither animated nor cordial, her arms were not opened to receive me to her heart, though my own were extended to press her to mine. A short conversation between Augusta and her brother, which I accidentally overheard, increased my dislike to her, and convinced me that her heart was no more formed for the soft ties of love than for the endearing intercourse of friendship. But do you think that my father will ever be reconciled to this imprudent connection? said Augusta. Augusta, replied the noble youth, I thought you had a better opinion of me, than to imagine I would so abjectly degrade myself as to consider my father's concurrence in any of my affairs, either of consequence or concern to me. Tell me, Augusta, with sincerity, did you ever know me to consult his inclinations, or follow his advice in the least trifling particular since the age of fifteen? Edward, replied she, you are surely too diffident in your own praise, since you were fifteen only. My dear brother, since you were five years old, I entirely equipped you of ever having willingly contributed to the satisfaction of your father. But still I am not without apprehensions of your being shortly obliged to degrade yourself in your own eyes by seeking a support for your wife in the generosity of Sir Edward. Never, never Augusta will I so demean myself, said Edward, support? What support will Laura want which she can receive from him? Only those very insignificant ones are victuals and drink, answered she. Victuals and drink, replied my husband, in a most nobly contemptuous manner, and thus thou then imagine that there is no other support for an exalted mind such as is my Laura's, than the mean and indelicate employment of eating and drinking. None that I know of so efficacious, returned Augusta. And did you then never feel the pleasing pangs of love, Augusta? replied my Edward. Does it appear impossible to your vile and corrupted pallet to exist on love? Can you not conceive the luxury of living in every distress that poverty can inflict with the object of your tenderest affection? You are too ridiculous, said Augusta, to argue with. Perhaps, however, you may in time be convinced that— Here I was prevented from hearing the remainder of her speech, by the appearance of a very handsome young woman who was ushered into the room at the door of which I had been listening. On hearing her announced by the name of Lady Dorothea, I instantly quitted my post and followed her into the parlour, for I well remembered that she was the lady proposed as a wife for my Edward by the cruel and unrelenting baronet. Although Lady Dorothea's visit was nominally to Philippa and Augusta, yet I have some reason to imagine that, acquainted with the marriage and arrival of Edward, the See Me was a principal motive to it. I soon perceived that though lovely and elegant in her person, and though easy and polite in her address, she was of that inferior order of beings with regard to delicate feeling, tender sentiments, and refined sensibility, of which Augusta was one. She stayed but half an hour, and neither in the course of her visit confided to me any of her secret thoughts, nor requested me to confide in her any of mine. You will easily imagine, therefore, my dear Marianne, that I could not feel any ardent affection or very sincere attachment for Lady Dorothea. Adieu, Laura. Letter VIII. Laura to Marianne, in continuation Lady Dorothea had not left us long before another visitor as unexpected a one as her ladyship was announced. It was Sir Edward, who, informed by Augusta of her brother's marriage, came doubtless to reproach him for having dared to unite himself to me without his knowledge. But Edward, for seeing his design, approached him with heroic fortitude as soon as he entered the room, and addressed him in the following manner. Sir Edward, I know the motive of your journey here. You come with the base design of reproaching me for having entered into a dissolvable engagement with my Laura without your consent. But, sir, I glory in the act. It is my greatest boast that I have incurred the displeasure of my father. So saying he took my hand, and whilst Sir Edward, Philippa, and Augusta, were doubtless reflecting with admiration on his undaunted bravery, led me from the parlour to his father's carriage, which yet remained at the door, and in which we were instantly conveyed from the pursuit of Sir Edward. The pastylians had at first received orders only to take the London Road. As soon as we had sufficiently reflected, however, we ordered them to drive to M, the seat of Edward's most particular friend, which was but a few miles distant. At M, we arrived in a few hours, and on sending in our names were immediately admitted to Sophia, the wife of Edward's friend. After having been deprived during the course of three weeks of a real friend, for such I term your mother, imagine my transports had been holding one most truly worthy of the name. Sophia was rather above the middle-size, most elegantly formed. A soft langer spread over her lovely features, but increased their beauty. It was the characteristic of her mind. She was all sensibility and feeling. We flew into each other's arms, and after having exchanged vows of mutual friendship for the rest of our lives, instantly unfolded to each other the most inward secrets of our hearts. We were interrupted in the delightful employment by the entrance of Augustus, Edward's friend, who was just returned from a solitary ramble. Never did I see such an affecting scene as was the meeting of Edward and Augustus. My life, my soul, exclaimed the former. My adorable angel, replied the latter, as they flew into each other's arms. It was too pathetic for the feelings of Sophia and myself. We fainted alternately on a sofa. Adieu, Laura. Letter IX. From the same to the same. Towards the close of day, we received the following letter from Philippa. Sir Edward is greatly incensed by your abrupt departure. He has taken back Augusta to Bedfordshire. Much as I wish to enjoy again your charming society, I cannot determine to snatch you from that of such dear and deserving friends. When your visit to them is terminated, I trust you will return to the arms of your, Philippa. We returned a suitable answer to this affectionate note, and after thanking her for her kind invitation, assured her that we would certainly avail ourselves of it whenever we might have no other place to go to. Though certainly nothing could, to any reasonable being, have appeared more satisfactory than so grateful a reply to her invitation. Yet I know not how it was, but she was certainly capricious enough to be displeased with our behaviour. And in a few weeks after, either to revenge our conduct, or relieve her own solitude, married a young and illiterate fortune-hunter. This imprudent step, though we were sensible that it would probably deprive us of that fortune which Philippa had ever taught us to expect, could not on our own accounts excite from our exalted minds a single sigh. Yet fearful, lest it might prove a source of endless misery to the deluded bride, our trembling sensibility was greatly affected when we were first informed of the event. The affectionate entreaties of Augustus and Sophia, that we would for ever consider their house as our home, easily prevailed on us to determine never more to leave them. In the society of my Edward, and this amiable pair, I passed the happiest moments of my life. Our time was most delightfully spent in mutual protestations of friendship, and in vows of unalterable love, in which we were secure from being interrupted by intruding and disagreeable visitors, as Augustus and Sophia had, on their first entrance in the neighbourhood, taken due care to inform the surrounding families, that as their happiness centred wholly in themselves they wished for no other society. But alas! my dear Marianne, such happiness as I then enjoyed was too perfect to be lasting, a most severe and unexpected blow at once destroyed every sensation of pleasure. Convinced as you must be from what I have already told you concerning Augustus and Sophia, that there never were a happier couple, I need not, I imagine, inform you that their union had been contrary to the inclinations of their cruel and mercenary parents, who had vainly endeavoured with obstinate perseverance to force them into a marriage with those whom they had ever abhorred. But with a heroic fortitude worthy to be related and admired they had both constantly refused to submit to such despotic power. After having so nobly disentangled themselves from the shackles of parental authority by a clandestine marriage, they were determined never to forfeit the good opinion they had gained in the world in so doing, by accepting any proposals of reconciliation that might be offered them by their fathers. To this further trial of their noble independence, however, they were never exposed. They had been married but a few months, when our visit to them commenced, during which time they had been amply supported by a considerable sum of money, which Augustus had gracefully perloined from his unworthy father's esquirtoir a few days before his union with Sophia. By our arrival their expenses were considerably increased, though their means for supplying them were then nearly exhausted. But they, exalted creatures, scorned to reflect a moment on their pecuniary distresses, and would have blushed at the idea of paying their debts. Alas! what was their reward for such disinterested behaviour? The beautiful Augustus was arrested and we were all undone. Such profidious treachery in the merciless perpetrators of the deed will shock your gentle nature, dearest Marianne, as much as it then affected the delicate sensibility of Edward, Sophia, your Laura, and of Augustus himself. To complete such unparalleled barbarity we were informed that an execution in the house would shortly take place. Ah! what could we do but what we did? We sighed and fainted on the sofa. Adieu, Laura. Letter Tenth, Laura in continuation. When we were somewhat recovered from the overpowering effusions of our grief, Edward desired that we would consider what was the most prudent step to be taken in our unhappy situation, while he repaired to his imprisoned friend to lament over his misfortunes. We promised that we would, and he set forwards on his journey to town. During his absence we faithfully complied with his desire, and after the most mature deliberation, at length agreed that the best thing we could do was to leave the house, of which we every moment expected the office of justice to take possession. We waited, therefore, with the greatest impatience for the return of Edward in order to impart to him the result of our deliberations. But no Edward appeared. In vain did we count the tedious moments of his absence. In vain did we weep. In vain even did we sigh. No Edward returned. This was too cruel. To unexpected a blow to our gentle sensibility, we could not support it. We could only faint. At length, collecting all the resolution I was mistress of, I arose. And after packing up some necessary apparel for Sophia and myself, I dragged her to a carriage I had ordered, and we instantly set out for London. As the habitation of Augustus was within twelve miles of town, it was not long ere we arrived there, and no sooner had we ended Hoburn than letting down one of the front glasses I inquired of every decent-looking person that we passed if they had seen my Edward. But as we drove too rapidly to allow them to answer my repeated inquiries, I gained little, or indeed no, information concerning him. Where am I to drive? said the Pastillion. To Newgate, gentle youth, replied I, to see Augustus. Oh, no, no! exclaimed Sophia. I cannot go to Newgate. I shall not be able to support the sight of my Augustus in so cruel a confinement. My feelings are sufficiently shocked by the recital of his distress, but to behold it will overpower my sensibility. As I perfectly agreed with her in the justice of her sentiments, the Pastillion was instantly directed to return into the country. You may perhaps have been somewhat surprised, my dearest Marianne, that in the distress I then endured, destitute of any support, and unprovided with any habitation, I should never once have remembered my father and mother, or my paternal cottage in the Vale of Usk. To account for this seeming forgetfulness, I must inform you of a trifling circumstance concerning them, which I have as yet never mentioned. The death of my parents a few weeks after my departure is the circumstance I allude to. By their decease I became the lawful in her attress of their house and fortune. But alas the house had never been their own, and their fortune had only been an annuity on their own lives. Such is the depravity of the world. To your mother I should have returned with pleasure, should have been happy to have introduced to her my charming Sophia, and should with cheerfulness have passed the remainder of my life in their dear society in the Vale of Usk had not won obstacles to the execution of so agreeable a scheme intervened, which was the marriage and removal of your mother to a distant part of Ireland. Adieu, Laura. Love and Friendship by Jane Austen Part 2 Letter 11th, Laura, in continuation, I have a relation in Scotland, said Sophia to me as we left London, who I am certain would not hesitate in receiving me. Shall I order the boy to drive there? said I, but instantly recollecting myself exclaimed, alas I fear it will be too long a journey for the horses. Unwilling, however, to act only for my own inadequate knowledge of the strengths and abilities of horses, I consulted the Pastillion, who was entirely of my opinion concerning the affair. We therefore determined to change horses at the next town, and to travel post the remainder of the journey. When we arrived at the last inn we were to stop at, which was but a few miles from the house of Sophia's relation, unwilling to intrude our society on him unexpected and unthought of, we wrote a very elegant and well-pinned note to him containing an account of our destitute and melancholy situation, and of our intention to spend some months with him in Scotland. As soon as we had dispatched this letter, we immediately prepared to follow it in person, and were stepping into the carriage for that purpose, when our attention was attracted by the entrance of a coroneted coach and fore into the innyard. A gentleman considerably advanced in years descended from it. At his first appearance my sensibility was wonderfully affected, and ere I had gazed at him a second time, an instinctive sympathy whispered to my heart that he was my grandfather. Convinced that I could not be mistaken in my conjecture, I instantly sprang from the carriage I had just entered, and following the venerable stranger into the room he had been shown to, I threw myself on my knees before him, and besought him to acknowledge me as his grandchild. He started, and having attentively examined my features, raised me from the ground, and throwing his grandfatherly arms around my neck exclaimed, Acknowledge thee, yes, dear resemblance of my Lorena and Lorena's daughter, sweet image of my Claudia and my Claudia's mother. I do acknowledge thee as the daughter of one and the granddaughter of the other. While he was thus tenderly embracing me, Sophia, astonished at my precipitate departure, entered the room in search of me. No sooner had she caught the eye of the venerable peer than he exclaimed with every mark of astonishment, another granddaughter, yes, yes, I see you are the daughter of my Lorena's eldest girl, your resemblance to the beauty as Matilda sufficiently proclaims it. Oh! replied Sophia, when I first beheld you the instinct of nature whispered me that we were in some degree related, but whether grandfathers or grandmothers I could not pretend to determine. He folded her in his arms, and whilst they were tenderly embracing, the door of the apartment opened, and a most beautiful young man appeared. On perceiving him, Lord Sinclair started, and retreating back a few paces, with uplifted hands said, another grandchild, what an unexpected happiness is this, to discover in a space of three minutes as many of my descendants. This, I am certain, is Philander, the son of my Lorena's third girl, the amiable birther. There once now but the presence of Gustavus to complete the union of my Lorena's grandchildren. And here he is, said a graceful youth, who that instant entered the room. Here is the Gustavus you desire to see. I am the son of Agatha, your Lorena's fourth and youngest daughter. I see you are indeed, replied Lord Sinclair. But tell me, continued he, looking fearfully towards the door, tell me, have I any other grandchildren in the house? None, my lord. Then I will provide for you all without further delay. Here are four banknotes of fifty pounds each. Take them, and remember I have done the duty of a grandfather. He instantly left the room, and immediately afterwards the house. Adieu, Laura. Letter XII. Laura in continuation. You may imagine how greatly we were surprised by the sudden departure of Lord Sinclair. Big noble grand sire, exclaimed Sophia, unworthy grandfather, said I, and instantly fainted in each other's arms. How long we remained in this situation I know not. But when we recovered we found ourselves alone, without either Gustavus, Philander, or the banknotes. As we were deploring our unhappy fate, the door of the apartment opened, and MacDonald was announced. He was Sophia's cousin. The haste with which he came to our relief so soon after the receipt of our note spoke so greatly in his favour that I hesitated not to pronounce him at first sight, a tender and sympathetic friend. Alas! he little deserved the name. For though he told us that he was much concerned at our misfortunes, yet by his own account it appeared that the perusal of them had neither drawn from him a single sigh, nor induced him to bestow one curse on our vindictive stars. He told Sophia that his daughter depended on her returning with him to MacDonald Hall, and that as his cousin's friend he should be happy to see me there also. To MacDonald Hall therefore we went, and were received with great kindness by Janetta, the daughter of MacDonald, and the mistress of the mansion. Janetta was then only fifteen, naturally well disposed, endowed with a susceptible heart, and a sympathetic disposition. She might, had these amiable qualities been properly encouraged, have been an ornament to human nature. But unfortunately her father possessed not a soul sufficiently exalted to admire so promising a disposition, and had endeavoured by every means on his power to prevent it increasing with her years. He had actually so far extinguished the natural noble sensibility of her heart, as to prevail on her to accept an offer from a young man of his recommendation. They would be married in a few months, and Graham was in the house when we arrived. We soon saw through his character. He was just such a man as one might have expected to be the choice of MacDonald. They said he was sensible, well-informed, and agreeable. We did not pretend to judge of such trifles. But as we were convinced he had no soul, that he had never read the sorrows of weather, and that his hair bore not the least resemblance to Orban, we were certain that Janetta could feel no affection for him, or at least that she ought to feel none. The very circumstance of his being her father's choice, too, was so much in his disfavour, that had he been deserving her in every other respect yet, that, of itself, ought to have been a sufficient reason in the eyes of Janetta for rejecting him. These considerations we were determined to represent to her in their proper light, and doubted not of meeting with a desired success from one naturally so well disposed, whose errors in the affair had only arisen from a want of proper confidence in her own opinion, and a suitable contempt of her father's. We found her indeed all that our warmest wishes could have hoped for. We had no difficulty to convince her that it was impossible she could love Graham, or that it was her duty to disobey her father. The only thing at which she rather seemed to hesitate was our assertion that she must be attached to some other person. For some time she persevered in declaring that she knew no other young man for whom she had the smallest affection. But on explaining the impossibility of such a thing, she said that she believed she did like Captain McHenry better than anyone she knew besides. This confession satisfied us, and after having enumerated the good qualities of McHenry, and assured her that she was violently in love with him, we desired to know whether he had in any wise declared his affection to her. So far from having ever declared it, I have no reason to imagine that he has ever felt any for me, said Jeanette. But he certainly adores you, replied Saphir. There can be no doubt. The attachment must be reciprocal. Did he never gaze on you with admiration, tenderly press your hand, drop an involuntary tear, and leave the room abruptly? Never, replied she, that I remember. He has always left the room indeed when his visit has been ended, but has never gone away particularly abruptly or without making a bow. Indeed, my love, said I, you must be mistaken, for it is absolutely impossible that he should ever have left you but with confusion, despair, and precipitation. Consider but for a moment, Jeanette, and you must be convinced how absurd it is to suppose that he could ever make a bow or behave like any other person. Having settled this point to our satisfaction, the next we took into consideration was to determine in what manner we should inform McHenry of the favourable opinion Jeanette entertained of him. We at length agreed to acquaint him with it by an anonymous letter which Saphir drew up in the following manner. Oh, happy lover of the beautiful Jeanette, oh, amiable possessor of her heart, whose hand is destined to another, why do you thus delay a confession of your attachment to the amiable object of it? Oh, consider that a few weeks will at once put an end to every flattering hope that you may now entertain, by uniting the unfortunate victim of her father's cruelty to the excruable and detested Graham. Alas! why do you thus so cruelly connive at the projected misery of her and of yourself by delaying to communicate that scheme which had doubtless long possessed your imagination? A secret union will at once secure the felicity of both. The amiable McHenry, whose modesty, as he afterwards assured us, had been the only reason of his having so long concealed the violence of his affection for Jeanette, on receiving this billet, flew on the wings of love to MacDonald Hall, and so powerfully pleaded his attachment to her who inspired it, that after a few more private interviews, Saphir and I experienced the satisfaction of seeing them depart for Gretna Green, which they chose for the celebration of their nuptials in preference to any other place, although it was at a considerable distance from MacDonald Hall. Adieu, Laura. Letter the Thirteenth. Laura, in continuation. They had been gone nearly a couple of hours before either MacDonald or Graham had entertained any suspicion of the affair, and they might not even then have suspected it, but for the following little accident. Saphir, happening one day to open a private drawer in MacDonald's library with one of her own keys, discovered that it was the place where he kept his papers of consequence, and amongst them some banknotes of considerable amount. This discovery she imparted to me, and having agreed together that it would be a proper treatment of so vile a wretch as MacDonald to deprive him of money perhaps dishonestly gained, it was determined that the next time we should either of us happen to go that way, we would take one or more of the banknotes from the drawer. This well-meant plan we had often successfully put in execution, but alas! On the very day of Genneta's escape, as Saphir was majestically removing the fifth banknote from the drawer to her own purse, she was most impertinently interrupted in her employment by the entrance of MacDonald himself in a most abrupt and precipitant manner. Saphir, who, though naturally all-winning sweetness, could, when occasions demanded it, call forth the dignity of her sex, instantly put on a most forbidding look, and darting an angry frown on the undaunted culprit, demanded in a haughty tone of voice, wherefore her retirement was thus incidentally broken in on, the unblushing MacDonald, without even endeavouring to exculpate himself from the crime he was charged with, meanly endeavoured to reproach Saphir with ignoble defrauding him of his money. The dignity of Saphir was wounded. Wretch! exclaimed she, hastily replacing the banknote in the drawer, how darest thou to accuse me of an act of which the bare idea makes me blush. The base Wretch was still unconvinced, and continued to upbraid the justly offended Saphir in such a probrious language that at length he so greatly provoked the gentle sweetness of her nature as to induce her to revenge herself on him by informing him of Jeanette's elopement and of the active part we had both taken in the affair. At this period of their quarrel I entered the library, and was, as you may imagine, equally offended as Saphir at the ill-grounded accusations of the malevolent and contemptible MacDonald. Base miscreant, cried I, how canst thou thus undauntedly endeavour to sully the spotless reputation of such bright excellence! Why dost thou not suspect my innocence as soon? Be satisfied, madam, replied he. I do suspect it, and therefore must desire that you will both leave this house in less than half an hour. We shall go willingly, answered Saphir. Our hearts have long detested thee, and nothing but our friendship for thy daughter could have induced us to remain so long beneath thy roof. Your friendship for my daughter has indeed been most powerfully exerted by throwing her into the arms of an unprincipled fortune-hunter, replied he. Yes, exclaimed I, amidst every misfortune it will afford us some consolation to reflect that by this one act of friendship to Jeanette we have amply discharged every obligation that we have received from her father. It must indeed be a grateful reflection to your exalted minds, said he. As soon as we had packed up our wardrobe and valuables we left MacDonald Hall, and after having walked about a mile and a half we sat down by the side of a clear limpid stream to refresh our exhausted limbs. The place was suited to meditation. A grove of full-grown elms sheltered us from the east, a bed of full-grown nettles from the west. Before us ran the murmuring brook, and behind us ran the turnpike-road. We were in a mood for contemplation, and in a disposition to enjoy so beautiful a spot. A mutual silence, which had for some time reigned between us, was at length broke by my exclaiming. What a lovely scene! Alas! Why not Edward and Augustus here to enjoy its beauties with us? Ah! my beloved Laura! cried Sophia, for pity's sake for bear recalling to my remembrance the unhappy situation of my imprisoned husband. Alas! What would I not give to learn the fate of my Augustus, to know if he is still in Newgate, or if he is yet hung? But never shall I be able so far to conquer my tender sensibility, as to inquire after him. Oh! do not I beseech you ever let me again hear you repeat his beloved name. It affects me too deeply. I cannot bear to hear him mentioned. It wounds my feelings. Excuse me, my Sophia, for having thus unwillingly offended you, replied I, and then changing the conversation desired her to admire the noble grandeur of the elms which sheltered us from the eastern Zephyr. Alas! my Laura! returned she, avoid so melancholy a subject I entreat you. Do not again wound my sensibility by observations on those elms. They remind me of Augustus. He was like them, tall, majestic. He possessed that noble grandeur which you admire in them. I was silent, fearful lest I might any more unwillingly distress her, by fixing on any other subject of conversation which might again remind her of Augustus. Why do you not speak, my Laura? said she, after a short pause. I cannot support this silence. You must not leave me to my own reflections. They ever recur to Augustus. What a beautiful sky! said I! How charmingly is the azure varied, by those delicate streaks of white! Oh, my Laura! replied she, hastily withdrawing her eyes from a momentary glance at the sky. Do not thus distress me by calling my attention to an object which so cruelly reminds me of my Augustus's blue satin waistcoat striped in white. In pity to your unhappy friend, avoid a subject so distressing. What could I do? The feelings of Sophia were at that time so exquisite, and the tenderness she felt for Augustus so poignant that I had not power to start any other topic, justly fearing that it might, in some unforeseen manner, again awaken all her sensibility by directing her thoughts to her husband. Yet to be silent would be cruel, she had entreated me to talk. From this dilemma I was most fortunately relieved by an accident truly apropos. It was the lucky overturning of a gentleman's fight on, on the road which ran murmuring behind us. It was a most fortunate accident, as it diverted the attention of Sophia from the melancholy reflections which she had been before indulging. We instantly quitted our seats and ran to the rescue of those who, but a few moments before, had been in so elevated a situation as a fashionably high fight on, but who were now laid low and sprawling in the dust. What an ample subject for reflection on the uncertain enjoyments of this world would not that fight on and the life of Cardinal Wolsey afford a thinking mind, said I to Sophia, as we were hastening to the field of action. She had not time to answer me, for every thought was now engaged by the horrid spectacle before us. Two gentlemen, most elegantly attired, but weltering in their blood, was what first struck our eyes. We approached. They were Edward and Augustus. Yes, dearest Marianne, they were our husbands. Sophia shrieked and fainted on the ground. I screamed and instantly ran mad. We remained thus mutually deprived of our senses some minutes, and on regaining them were deprived of them again. For an hour and a quarter did we continue in this unfortunate situation, Sophia fainting every moment and I running mad as often. At length a groan from the hapless Edward, who alone retained any share of life, restored us to ourselves. Had we indeed before imagined that either of them lived, we should have been more sparing of our grief. But as we had supposed when we first beheld them that they were no more, we knew that nothing could remain to be done but what we were about. No sooner did we therefore hear my Edward's groan than postponing our lamentations for the present. We hastily ran to the dear youth, and kneeling on each side of him implored him not to die. Laura said he, fixing his now languid eyes on me, I fear I have been overturned. I was overjoyed to find him yet sensible. Oh, tell me, Edward, said I, tell me I beseech you before you die, what has befallen you since that unhappy day in which Augustus was arrested and we were separated? I will, said he, and instantly fetching a deep sigh, expired. Sophia immediately sank again into a swoon. My grief was more audible. My voice faltered. My eyes assumed a vacant stare. My face became as pale as death, and my senses were considerably impaired. Talk not to me of phyton's, said I, raving in a frantic, incoherent manner. Give me a violin. I'll play to him and soothe him in his melancholy hours. Beware ye gentle nymphs of Cupid's thunderbolts. Avoid the piercing shafts of Jupiter. Look at that grove of furs. I see a leg of mutton. They told me Edward was not dead, but they deceived me. They took him for a cucumber. Thus I continued wildly exclaiming on my Edward's death. For two hours did I rave thus madly, and should not then have left off, as I was not in the least fatigued, had not Sophia, who was just recovered from her swoon, entreated me to consider that night was now approaching, and that the damps began to fall. And with her shall we go, said I, to shelter us from either. To that white cottage, replied she, pointing to a neat building which rose up amidst the grove of elms, on which I had not before observed. I agreed, and we instantly walked to it. We knocked at the door. It was opened by an old woman. On being requested to afford us a night's lodging, she informed us that her house was but small, that she had only two bedrooms. But that, however, we should be welcome to one of them. We were satisfied, and followed the good woman into the house, where we were greatly cheered by the sight of a comfortable fire. She was a widow, and had only one daughter, who was then just seventeen. One of the best of ages. But alas! she was very plain, and her name was Bridget. Nothing, therefore, could be expected from her. She could not be supposed to possess either exalted ideas, delicate feelings, or refined sensibilities. She was nothing more than a mere good-tempered, civil and obliging young woman. As such we could scarcely dislike her. She was only an object of contempt. Adieu, Laura. Ah! What were the misfortunes I had before experienced, and which I have already related to you, to the one I am now going to inform you of? The death of my father, and my mother, and my husband, though almost more than my gentle nature could support, were trifles in comparison to the misfortune I am now proceeding to relate. The morning after our arrival at the cottage, Sophia complained of a violent pain in her delicate limbs, accompanied with a disagreeable headache. She attributed it to a cold caught by her continued faintings in the open air, as the dew was falling the evening before. This I feared was but too probably the case, since how could it otherwise be accounted for that I should have escaped the same in disposition, but by supposing that the bodily exertions I had undergone in my repeated fits of frenzy had so effectively circulated and warmed my blood as to make me proof against the chilling damps of night. Whereas Sophia, lying totally inactive on the ground, must have been exposed to all their severity. I was most seriously alarmed by her illness, which trifling as it may appear to you, a certain instinctive sensibility whispered me, would in the end be fatal to her. Alas! my fears were but too fully justified. She grew gradually worse, and I daily became more alarmed for her. At length she was obliged to confine herself solely to the bed, allotted us by our worthy landlady. Her disorder turned to a galloping consumption, and in a few days carried her off. Amidst all my lamentations for her, and violent you may suppose they were, I yet received some consolation in the reflection of my having paid every attention to her that could be offered in her illness. I had wept over her every day, had bathed her sweet face with my tears, and had pressed her fair hands continually in mine. My beloved Laura, said she, a few hours before she died, take warning from my unhappy end, and avoid the imprudent conduct which had occasioned it. Beware of fainting fits, though at the time they may be refreshing and agreeable, yet believe me, they will in the end, if too often repeated and at improper seasons, prove destructive to your constitution. My fate will teach you this. I die a martyr to my grief for the loss of Augustus. One fatal swoon has cost me my life. Beware of swoons, dear Laura. A frenzy fit is not one quarter so pernicious. It is an exercise to the body, and if not too violent, is, I dare say, conducive to health and its consequences. Run mad as often as you choose, but do not faint. These were the last words she ever addressed to me. It was her dying advice to her afflicted Laura, who has ever most faithfully adhered to it. After having attended my lamented friend to her early grave, I immediately, though late at night, left the detested village in which she died, and near which had expired my husband and Augustus. I had not walked many yards from it, before I was overtaken by a stagecoach, in which I instantly took a place, determined to proceed in it to Edinburgh, where I hoped to find some kind, some pitying friend, who would receive and comfort me in my afflictions. It was so dark when I entered the coach, that I could not distinguish the number of my fellow travellers. I could only perceive that they were many. Regardless, however, of anything concerning them, I gave myself up to my own sad reflections. A general silence prevailed. A silence, which was by nothing interrupted, but by the loud and repeated snores of one of the party. What an illiterate villain must that man be! thought I to myself. What a total want of delicate refinement must he have, who can thus shock our senses by such a brutal noise? He must, I am certain, be capable of every bad action. There is no crime too black for such a character. Thus reasoned I within myself, and doubtless such were the reflections of my fellow travellers. At length, returning day, enabled me to behold the unprincipled scoundrel who had so violently disturbed my feelings. It was Sir Edward, the father of my deceased husband. By his side sat Augusta, and on the same seat with me were your mother and Lady Dorothea. Imagine my surprise at finding myself thus seated amongst my old acquaintance. Great as was my astonishment, it was yet increased when on looking out of windows I beheld the husband of Philippa, with Philippa by his side on the coach-box, and when on looking behind I beheld Philander and Gustavus in the basket. Oh heavens! exclaimed I! Is it possible that I should so unexpectedly be surrounded by my nearest relations and connections? These words roused the rest of the party, and every eye was directed to the corner in which I sat. Oh my Isabelle! continued I, throwing myself across Lady Dorothea into her arms. Receive once more to your bosom the unfortunate Laura. Alas! when last we parted in the veil of Usk I was happy in being united to the best of Edwards. I had then a father and a mother, and had never known misfortunes. But now, deprived of every friend but you— What! interrupted Augusta, is my brother dead then? Tell us I and treat you what has become of him. Yes, cold and insensible nymph! replied I, that luckless swain your brother is no more, and you may now glory in being the heiress of Sir Edward's fortune. Although I had always despised her from the day I had overheard her conversation with my Edward, yet in civility I complied with hers and Sir Edward's entreaties that I would inform them of the whole melancholy affair. They were greatly shocked, even the obdurate heart of Sir Edward and the insensible one of Augusta were touched with sorrow by the unhappy tale. At the request of your mother I related to them every other misfortune which had befallen me since we parted, of the imprisonment of Augustus and the absence of Edward, of our arrival in Scotland, of our unexpected meeting with our grandfather and our cousins, of our visit to Macdonald Hall, of the singular service we there performed towards Ginetta, of her father's ingratitude for it, of his inhuman behaviour, unaccountable suspicions and barbarous treatment of us in obliging us to leave the house, of our lamentations on the loss of Edward and Augustus, and finally of the melancholy death of my beloved companion. Pity and surprise were strongly depicted in your mother's countenance during the whole of my narration, but I am sorry to say that the eternal reproach of her sensibility, the latter infinitely predominated. Nay! Faultless as my conduct had certainly been during the whole course of my late misfortunes and adventures, she pretended to find fault with my behaviour in many of the situations in which I had been placed. As I was sensible myself, that I had always behaved in a manner which reflected honour on my feelings and refinement, I paid little attention to what she said, and desired her to satisfy my curiosity by informing me how she came there, instead of wounding my spotless reputation with unjustifiable approaches. As soon as she had complied with my wishes in this particular, and had given me an accurate detail of everything that had befallen her since our separation, the particulars of which, if you were not already acquainted with, your mother will give you. I applied to Augusta for the same information, respecting herself, Sir Edward, and Lady Dorothea. She told me that having a considerable taste for the beauties of nature, her curiosity to behold the wonderful scenes it exhibited in that part of the world, had been so much raised by Gilpin's tour to the Highlands, that she had prevailed on her father to undertake a tour to Scotland, and had persuaded Lady Dorothea to accompany them. That they had arrived at Edinburgh a few days before, and from thence had made daily excursions into the country around in the stagecoach they were then in, from one of which excursions they were at that time returning. My next inquiries were concerning Philippa and her husband, the latter of whom I learned, having spent all her fortune, had recourse for subsistence to the talent in which he had always most excelled, namely driving, and that, having sold everything which belonged to them except their coach, had converted it into a stage, and in order to be removed from any of his former acquaintance, had driven it to Edinburgh, from whence he went to Stirling every other day. That Philippa, still retaining her affection for her ungrateful husband, had followed him to Scotland, and generally accompanied him in his little excursions to Stirling. It has only been to throw a little money into their pockets, continued Augusta, that my father has always travelled in their coach to view the beauties of the country since our arrival in Scotland, for it would certainly have been much more agreeable to us to visit the Highlands in a post-chase than merely to travel from Edinburgh to Stirling, and from Stirling to Edinburgh every other day in a crowded and uncomfortable stage. I perfectly agreed with her in her sentiments on the affair, and secretly blamed Sir Edward for thus sacrificing his daughter's pleasure for the sake of a ridiculous old woman whose folly in marrying so young a man ought to be punished. His behaviour, however, was entirely of a peace with his general character, for what could be expected from a man who possessed not the smallest atom of sensibility, who scarcely knew the meaning of sympathy, and who actually snored. Adu, Laura. Letter XV. Laura, in continuation. When we arrived at the town where we were to breakfast, I was determined to speak with Philander and Gustavus, and to that purpose, as soon as I left the carriage, I went to the basket, and tenderly inquired after their health, expressing my fears of the uneasiness of their situation. At first they seemed rather confused at my appearance, dreading no doubt that I might call them to account, for the money which our grandfather had left me, and which they had unjustly deprived me of. But finding that I mentioned nothing of the matter, they desired me to step into the basket, as we might there converse with greater ease. Accordingly I entered, and whilst the rest of the party were devouring green tea and buttered toast, we feasted ourselves in a more refined and sentimental manner, by a confidential conversation. I informed them of everything which had befallen me during the course of my life, and at my request they related to me every incident of theirs. They were the sons, as you already know, of the two youngest daughters which Lord Sinclair had by Lorena, an Italian opera girl. Our mothers could neither of them exactly ascertain who were our father, though it is generally believed that Philander is the son of one Philip Jones, a bricklayer, and that my father was one Gregory Staves, a staymaker of Edinburgh. This is, however, of little consequence, for as our mothers were certainly never married to either of them, it reflects no dishonour on our blood, which is of a most ancient and unpolluted kind. Bertha, the mother of Philander, and Agatha, my own mother, always lived together. They were neither of them very rich. Their united fortunes had originally amounted to nine thousand pounds, but as they had always lived on the principle of it, when we were fifteen it was diminished to nine hundred. This nine hundred they always kept in a drawer in one of the tables, which stood in our common sitting-pala, for the convenience of having it always at hand. Whether it was from this circumstance of it being easily taken, or from a wish of being independent, or from an excess of sensibility, for which we were always remarkable, I cannot now determine. But certain it is that when we had reached our fifteenth year we took the nine hundred pounds and ran away. Having obtained this prize we were determined to manage it with economy and not to spend it with either folly or extravagance. To this purpose we therefore divided it into nine parcels, one of which we devoted to victuals, the second to drink, the third to housekeeping, the fourth to carriages, the fifth to horses, the sixth to servants, the seventh to amusements, the eighth to clothes, and the ninth to silver buckles. Having thus arranged our expenses for two months, for we expected to make the nine hundred pounds last as long, we hastened to London, and had the good luck to spend it in seven weeks and a day, which was six days sooner than we had intended. As soon as we had thus happily disencumbered ourselves from the weight of so much money, we began to think of returning to our mothers. But accidentally hearing that they were both starved to death, we gave over the design and determined to engage ourselves to some strolling company of players as we had always had a turn for the stage. Accordingly we offered our services to one and were accepted. Our company was indeed rather small, as it consisted only of the manager, his wife, and ourselves. But there were fewer to pay, and the only inconvenience attending it was the scarcity of plays, which for want of people to fill the characters we could perform. We did not mind trifles, however. One of our most admired performances was Macbeth, in which we were truly great. The manager always played Banquo himself, his wife, my Lady Macbeth. I did the three witches, and Philander acted all the rest. To say the truth, this tragedy was not only the best, but the only play that we ever performed. And after having acted it all over England and Wales, we came to Scotland to exhibit it over the remainder of Great Britain. We happened to be quartered in that very town, where you came and met your grandfather. We were in the in-yard when his carriage entered, and perceiving by the arms to whom it belonged, and knowing that Lord Sinclair was our grandfather, we agreed to endeavour to get something from him by discovering the relationship. You know how well it succeeded. Having obtained the two hundred pounds, we instantly left the town, leaving our manager and his wife to act Macbeth by themselves, and took the road to Stirling, where we spent our little fortune with greater clath. We are now returning to Edinburgh in order to get some preferment in the acting way, and such, my dear cousin, is our history. I thanked the amiable youth for his entertaining narration, and after expressing my wishes for their welfare and happiness, left them in their little habitation, and returned to my other friends, who impatiently expected me. My adventures are now drawing to a close, my dearest Marianne, at least for the present. When we arrived at Edinburgh, Sir Edward told me that as the widow of his son he desired I would accept from his hands a four hundred a year. I graciously promised that I would, but could not help observing that the unsympathetic baronet offered it more on account of my being the widow of Edward than in being the refined and amiable Laura. I took up my residence in a romantic village in the Highlands of Scotland, where I have ever since continued, and where I can, uninterrupted by unmeaning visits, indulge in a melancholy solitude, my unceasing lamentations for the death of my father, my mother, my husband, and my friend. Augusta has been for several years united to Graham, the man of all others most suited to her. She became acquainted with him during her stay in Scotland. Sir Edward, in hopes of gaining an heir to his title and estate, at the same time married Lady Dorothea, his wishes have been answered. Philander and Gustavus, after having raised their reputation by their performances in the theatrical line at Edinburgh, removed to Covent Garden, where they still exhibit under the assumed names of Louis and Quick. Philippa has long paid the debt of nature. Her husband, however, still continues to drive the stagecoach from Edinburgh to Stirling. Adieu, my dearest Marianne. Laura. Finney. June 13th, 1790. End of Part Three and End of Love and Friendship by Jane Austen. The music included in this recording is from Schubert's Fantasy in C Major, played by Daniel Blanche. Available from musopen.org. M-u-s-o-p-e-n dot o-r-g.