“A Colonel Dempster came down with my eldest brother, who was a captain in the same regiment of guards—a more prepossessing person I never beheld, and for the first time I felt that I would with pleasure give up being at the head of my father’s establishment to follow the fortunes of another man. If my predilection was so strong, I had no reason to complain of want of attention on his part. He courted me in the most obsequious manner, the style more suited to my haughty disposition, and I at once gave way to the feelings with which he had inspired me. I became fervently in love with him, and valued one of his smiles more than an earthly crown. Two months passed, his original invitation had been for one week, and he still remained. The affair was considered as arranged, not only by myself, but by everybody else. My father, satisfied that he was a gentleman by birth, and being able to support himself by his own means in so expensive a regiment, made no inquiries, leaving the matter to take its own course. But, although two months had passed away, and his attentions to me were unremitting, Colonel Dempster had made no proposal, which I ascribed to his awe of me, and his diffidence as to his success. This rather pleased me than otherwise; but my own feelings now made me wish for the affair to be decided, and I gave him every opportunity that modesty and discretion would permit. I saw little of him during the mornings, as he went out with his gun with the other gentlemen, but in the evenings he was my constant and devoted attendant. I received many congratulations from female acquaintances (friends I had none) upon my having conquered one who was supposed to be invulnerable to the charms of our sex, and made no disclaimer when spoken to on the subject. Every hour I expected the declaration to be made, when, imagine my indignation and astonishment, at being informed one morning when I arose, that Colonel Dempster and my sister Ellen had disappeared, and it was reported that they had been seen in a carriage driving at furious speed.
“It was but too true. It appeared that Colonel Dempster, who had been informed by my brother of my temper and disposition, and who was aware that without paying court to me, his visit would not be extended, and who had fallen in love with Ellen almost as soon as he saw her, had practised this dissimulation towards me to enable him, without my knowledge, to gain my sister’s affections; that his mornings were not spent in shooting with my brother, as was supposed, but in my sister Ellen’s company; my brother, to whom he had acknowledged his attachment, conniving with him to deceive me. A letter from the colonel to my father, excusing himself for the step he had taken, and requesting him to pardon his daughter, was brought in the same morning and read by me. ‘Very foolish of him,’ said my father; ‘what is the use of stealing what you may have for asking. He might have had Ellen if he had spoken to me; but I always thought that he was courting you, Barbara.’
“This letter, proving the truth of the report, was too much for me; I fell down at my father’s feet in a violent fit, and was carried to my bed. The next day I was seized with a brain fever, and it was doubtful if ever my reason would return. But it did gradually, and, after a confinement to my room of three months, I recovered both health and reason; partially, I may say, for I doubt not but that the shock I then received has had a lasting effect upon me, and that it has caused me to be the unsettled, restless, wandering thing that I now am, only content when in motion, and using my pen to create an artificial excitement. I believe most people are a little cracked before they begin to write. I will not assert that it is a proof of madness, but it is a proof that a very little more would make them mad. Shakespeare says ‘the lover, the lunatic, and the poet, are of an imagination all compact.’ It matters little whether it is prose or poetry; there is often more imagination and more poetry in prose than in rhyme. But to proceed—
“I arose with but one feeling—that of revenge; I say but one feeling, alas! I had forgotten to mention hatred, the parent of that revenge. I felt myself mortified and humiliated, cruelly deceived and mocked. My love for him was now turned to abhorrence, and my sister was an aversion. I felt that I never could forgive her. My father had not replied to the colonel’s letter; indeed, the gout in his hand prevented him, or he would probably have done so long before I left my room. Now that I was once more at his side, he said to me,
“‘Barbara, I think it is high time to forgive and forget. I would have answered the colonel’s letter before, but I could not. Now we must write and ask them to come and pay us a visit.’
“I sat down and wrote the letter, not according to his dictation, which was all kindness, but stating that my father would never forgive him or my sister, and requested all correspondence might cease, as it would be useless.
“‘Read what you have said, Barbara.’
“I read the letter as if it was written according to his wishes.
“‘That will do, dearest—they’ll come back fast enough. I long to have Ellen in my arms again—she was very precious to me that child, for she cost the life of your dear mother. I want to ask her why she ran away. I really believe that it was more from fear of your anger than of mine, Barbara.’
“I made no reply, but folded the letter and sealed it. As I always opened the post-bag, I prevented my father from ever receiving the many letters written by my poor sister, imploring his forgiveness, and did all I could to excite his anger against her. At last I found out from her letters, that they had gone to the continent. Months passed. My poor father fretted sadly at the silence of Ellen, and the supposed rejection of his kind overtures. His unhappy state of mind had evidently an effect upon his body; he grew weaker and more querulous every day. At last a letter arrived from Ellen, which I now blush to say, gave me inexpressible joy. It announced the death of her husband—a trifling wound on the thumb having terminated in locked-jaw and death.