appy, with her dogs and horses, her peacocks and
silver-pheasants, and her genial sport-loving husband who simply
idolised her. Even after five years of this rustic life she wrote to
Lady Susan, who was now also a wife:

"Good husbands are not so common, at least I see none
like my own and your description of yours, from which I
reckon that we are the two luckiest women living. As for
me, I should be a monster of ingratitude if I ever made a
single complaint and did not thank God for making me the
happiest of beings."

It was fortunate that she had an idolatrous husband; for even in Arcadia
she could not, or would not, keep her coquetry within decent bounds. She
flirted outrageously with the neighbouring squires and with such men of
rank as drifted her way; but the baronet saw no cause for alarm or
resentment. He was frankly delighted that his wife had so many admirers.
He basked genially in the reflected glory of his wife's conquests!

And Lady Sarah might have lived and died the baronet's adored wife had
not Lord William Gordon crossed her path. Lord William was young,
handsome, full of romance, a dangerous rival to the bucolic and stolid
baronet, under whose unobservant eyes he carried on an open flirtation
with his wife. Before Lady Sarah realised her danger, she had drifted
into a _liaison_ with the handsome Scot, which could only have one
termination. One morning in February 1769 Sir Thomas awoke to find his
nest empty. Lady Sarah had flown, and Lord William with her.

Then followed for Lady Sarah a brief period of fearful joy, of
intoxicating passion. Far away near the Scottish border she and her
lover spent halcyon days together. Their favourite walk by the banks of
the Leader is known to-day as the "Lovers' Walk." It was a foolish
paradise in which they were living, and a rude awaking was inevitable.
After three months of bliss Lord William's family brought such pressure
to bear on him that the lovers were compelled to separate--he to travel
abroad, she to find a refuge from her shame under the roof of her
brother, Charles, Duke of Richmond, at Goodwood, where, with her child
(but not Sir Thomas Bunbury's), she spent a dozen years in penitence and
isolation.

The life which had dawned so fairly seemed to be finally merged in
night. Her betrayed husband had procured a divorce; and although he was
chivalry itself in his forgiveness of and kindness to her, she realised
that ther