the gruel drunk by him on the Monday and Tuesday nights, that she believed it “would make him kind to him [Cranstoun] and her,” and that she did not know it to be poison “till she had seen its effects.”  She declined to assist in bringing her lover to justice—­she considered him as her husband, “though the ceremony had not passed between them.”  In reply to further pertinent questions, e.g., whether she really pretended to believe in the childish business of the “love philtre”? why Cranstoun described it, if innoxious, as “powder to clean the pebbles with”? why, in view of her father’s grave condition, she failed sooner to call in medical aid? and why she had concealed from him (Addington) what she knew to be the true cause of the illness? her answers were not such, says Dr. Addington, as gave him any satisfaction.  She made, however, the highly damaging admission that, about six weeks before, she had put some of the powder into her father’s tea, which Susan Gunnell drank and was ill for a week after.  This was said in presence of Betty Binfield.  Thus, it will be observed, Mary Blandy, on her own showing knew, long before she operated upon, the gruel at all, the baneful effects of the powder.  Her statement that the motive for administering it was to make her father “kind” both to herself and Cranstoun should also be, in view of her subsequent defence, remembered.

On Tuesday, the 13th, the doctors found their patient delirious and “excessively weak.”  He grew worse throughout the day; but next morning he regained consciousness for an hour, and spoke of making his will in a day or two—­a characteristic touch.  He soon relapsed, however, and rapidly sinking, died at two o’clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, 14th August, 1751.  So the end for which, trampling upon the common instincts of her kind and hardening her heart against the cry of Nature, she had so persistently and horribly striven, was at last attained—­with what contentment to “The Fair Parricide,” in her guarded chamber, may be left to the speculation of the curious.  The servants had access to their mistress’s room.  That afternoon Miss Blandy asked Robert Harman, the footman, to go away with her immediately—­to France, says one account—­and offered him L500 if he would do so.  He refused.  At night, by her request, the cook, Betty Binfield, sat up with her.  “Betty, will you go away with me?” she cried, so soon as they were alone.  “If you will go to the Lion or the Bell and hire a post-chaise, I will give you fifteen guineas when you get into it, and ten guineas more when we come to London!” “Where will you go—­into the North?” inquired the cautious cook; “Shall you go by sea?” and learning that the proposed excursion would include a voyage, Betty, being, as appears, a bad sailor, declined the offer.  Her mistress then “burst into laughter,” and said she was only joking!  In the Narrative, written after her condemnation, Mary boldly denies that these significant incidents occurred; in her more elaborate Account she makes no reference to the subject.  Those who saw her at this time testify to her extreme anxiety regarding her own situation, but say she showed no sign of sorrow, compassion, or remorse for her father’s death.