Swift seems to have been surprised.  He did what he could to quiet her.  He told her that they were too unequal in years and fortune for anything but friendship, and he offered to give her as much friendship as she desired.

Doubtless he thought that, after returning to Ireland, he would not see Vanessa any more.  In this, however, he was mistaken.  An ardent girl, with a fortune of her own, was not to be kept from the man whom absence only made her love the more.  In addition, Swift carried on his correspondence with her, which served to fan the flame and to increase the sway that Swift had already acquired.

Vanessa wrote, and with every letter she burned and pined.  Swift replied, and each reply enhanced her yearning for him.  Ere long, Vanessa’s mother died, and Vanessa herself hastened to Ireland and took up her residence near Dublin.  There, for years, was enacted this tragic comedy—­Esther Johnson was near Swift, and had all his confidence; Esther Vanhomrigh was kept apart from him, while still receiving missives from him, and, later, even visits.

It was at this time, after he had become dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, in Dublin, that Swift was married to Esther Johnson—­ for it seems probable that the ceremony took place, though it was nothing more than a form.  They still saw each other only in the presence of a third person.  Nevertheless, some knowledge of their close relationship leaked out.  Stella had been jealous of her rival during the years that Swift spent in London.  Vanessa was now told that Swift was married to the other woman, or that she was his mistress.  Writhing with jealousy, she wrote directly to Stella, and asked whether she was Dean Swift’s wife.  In answer Stella replied that she was, and then she sent Vanessa’s letter to Swift himself.

All the fury of his nature was roused in him; and he was a man who could be very terrible when angry.  He might have remembered the intense love which Vanessa bore for him, the humility with which she had accepted his conditions, and, finally, the loneliness of this girl.

But Swift was utterly unsparing.  No gleam of pity entered his heart as he leaped upon a horse and galloped out to Marley Abbey, where she was living—­“his prominent eyes arched by jet-black brows and glaring with the green fury of a cat’s.”  Reaching the house, he dashed into it, with something awful in his looks, made his way to Vanessa, threw her letter down upon the table and, after giving her one frightful glare, turned on his heel, and in a moment more was galloping back to Dublin.

The girl fell to the floor in an agony of terror and remorse.  She was taken to her room, and only three weeks afterward was carried forth, having died literally of a broken heart.

Five years later, Stella also died, withering away a sacrifice to what the world has called Swift’s cruel heartlessness and egotism.  His greatest public triumphs came to him in his final years of melancholy isolation; but in spite of the applause that greeted The Drapier Letters and Gulliver’s Travels, he brooded morbidly over his past life.  At last his powerful mind gave way, so that he died a victim to senile dementia.  By his directions his body was interred in the same coffin with Stella’s, in the cathedral of which he had been dean.