But I must tell you what she did which was so clever.  Why, it was the simplest thing in the world, as all master-strokes are.  When Lady Lyndon lamented her fate and my—­as she was pleased to call it—­ shameful treatment of her, Mrs. Bridget said, ’Why should not your Ladyship write this young gentleman word of the evil which he is causing you?  Appeal to his feelings (which, I have heard say, are very good indeed—­the whole town is ringing with accounts of his spirit and generosity), and beg him to desist from a pursuit which causes the best of ladies so much pain?  Do, my Lady, write:  I know your style is so elegant that I, for my part, have many a time burst into tears in reading your charming letters, and I have no doubt Mr. Barry will sacrifice anything rather than hurt your feelings.’  And, of course, the abigail swore to the fact.

‘Do you think so, Bridget?’ said her Ladyship.  And my mistress forthwith penned me a letter, in her most fascinating and winning manner:—­’Why, sir,’ wrote she, ’will you pursue me? why environ me in a web of intrigue so frightful that my spirit sinks under it, seeing escape is hopeless from your frightful, your diabolical art?  They say you are generous to others—­be so to me.  I know your bravery but too well:  exercise it on men who can meet your sword, not on a poor feeble woman, who cannot resist you.  Remember the friendship you once professed for me.  And now, I beseech you, I implore you, to give a proof of it.  Contradict the calumnies which you have spread against me, and repair, if you can, and if you have a spark of honour left, the miseries which you have caused to the heart-broken

‘H.  Lyndon.’

What was this letter meant for but that I should answer it in person?  My excellent ally told me where I should meet Lady Lyndon, and accordingly I followed, and found her at the Pantheon.  I repeated the scene at Dublin over again; showed her how prodigious my power was, humble as I was, and that my energy was still untired.  ‘But,’ I added, ’I am as great in good as I am in evil; as fond and faithful as a friend as I am terrible as an enemy.  I will do everything,’ I said, ’which you ask of me, except when you bid me not to love you.  That is beyond my power; and while my heart has a pulse I must follow you.  It is my fate; your fate.  Cease to battle against it, and be mine.  Loveliest of your sex! with life alone can end my passion for you; and, indeed, it is only by dying at your command that I can be brought to obey you.  Do you wish me to die?’

She said, laughing (for she was a woman of a lively, humorous turn), that she did not wish me to commit self-murder; and I felt from that moment that she was mine.

. . . .