as a partner) left his
country, condemned even by his own father. If you doubt this, you have
but to inquire at ----, not ten miles from Laughton, where the elder
Mainwaring resided. Ask there what became of William Mainwaring. And
Lucretia, you do not know that the dying prayer of her uncle, Sir Miles
St. John, was that she might never enter the house he bequeathed to
your father. Not till after my poor Charles's death did I know the exact
cause for Sir Miles's displeasure, though confident it was just; but
then amongst his papers I found the ungrateful letter which betrayed
thoughts so dark and passions so unwomanly that I blushed for my sex
to read it. Could it be possible that that poor old man's prayers were
unheeded, that that treacherous step could ever cross your threshold,
that that cruel eye, which read with such barbarous joy the ravages of
death on a benefactor's face, could rest on the hearth by which your
frank, truthful countenance has so often smiled away my tears, I should
feel indeed as if a thunder-cloud hung over the roof. No, if you marry
the niece, the aunt must be banished from your house. Good heavens! and
it is the daughter of William Mainwaring, the niece and ward of Lucretia
Dalibard, to whom you have given your faithful affection, whom you
single from the world as your wife! Oh, my son,--my beloved, my sole
surviving child,--do not think that I blame you, that my heart does
not bleed while I write thus; but I implore you on my knees to pause at
least, to suspend this intercourse till I myself can reach England. And
what then? Why, then, Percival, I promise, on my part, that I will see
your Helen with unprejudiced eyes, that I will put away from me, as
far as possible, all visions of disappointed pride,--the remembrance of
faults not her own,--and if she be as you say and think, I will take her
to my heart and call her 'Daughter.' Are you satisfied? If so, come to
me,--come at once, and take comfort from your mother's lip. How I long
to be with you while you read this; how I tremble at the pain I so
rudely give you! But my poor sister still chains me here, I dare not
leave her, lest I should lose her last sigh. Come then, come; we will
console each other.

Your fond (how fond!) and sorrowing mother,

MARY ST. JOHN. SORRENTO, October 3, 1831.

P.S.--You see by this address that we have left Pisa for this place,
recommended by our physician; hence an unhappy delay of some days in my
reply. Ah