I replied: "I think you will not fail in what honour and conscience dictate. 'Tis not for me to say. 'Tis between you and Mr Dean. And now, Madam, will you give me leave to withdraw, for this hath been a painful meeting for us both."
"Not before I bless you with all my broken heart," she cried, and took my hand. "For I will now tell you that, for all these letters, I know he loves not me, nor any. I may please him better than another in moments, but there's no security. He hath a contempt for women that scorches, and to hurt them--but 'tis not this I would say. I feared to find an exulting rival when I came to you, Madam, and instead I find an angel of compassion. Sure I read it in your eyes. In this life we shall meet no more; but in my prayers you will be present, and I beseech you, as the last favour, to give me an interest in yours, that I may know myself not utterly forsook. My one sister is not long dead--I am utterly alone in the world."
She could not continue, but kissed my hand, and her tears fell on it. I told her that this meeting should remain secret, but she needed not assurance. We embraced, and so, curtseying, separated, she departing first. A good woman, if I have known one. 'Tis of good women men make their victims. The ill women cannot and do not suffer; they but repay our score. When I reached home I found her paper still in my hand.
I must now be brief. Mr Dean returned, and all was as before; but I wearied yet more of the child's play and prattle he still continued for my amusement. He was much engaged with writing. I thought him ill at ease.
I was seated by the window on a day he will recall, when he entered pale and furious.
"What hath gone amiss?" I cried, starting up.
"This," says he, in a voice I scarce knew, so awful was it; and laid before me the poor Vanessa's paper that I believed I had destroyed weeks agone. O, what had I done? 'Twas another paper I had burned, and this had lain in my pocket. 'Twas most certainly Mrs Prue--But what matter? He had what for her sake and mine I had died to hide.
"Hath that vixen dared to come anigh you?" he cried. "Hath she ventured to disquiet my friends, the wanton jade, the scheming--" and so on, pouring horrid words upon her that chilled my blood. 'T was terrible in him, that he could so swiftly change to these furies with one he had favoured, and to a rage frightful to see.
I tried to moderate him, to speak for her; but nothing availed. Finally I rose to withdraw, for he would hear nothing.
"But I'll break her spirit," he said, with clenched hands. "I'll ride to Celbridge and face her with her crime--"