The Sylph Part 17

No vile pa.s.sion would have interfered to sever my heart from my beauteous wife; in her soft arms I should have found a balm for all the disquietudes of the world, and learnt to despise all its empty delusive joys in the solid bliss of being good and happy!" This fine harangue had no weight with me, though I thought it convenient he should think I was moved by it. "Alas! my Lord," said I, "it is now too late to indulge these ideas. I am doomed to be wretched; and my wretchedness feels increase, if I am the cause of making any earthly being so; yet, if you have the tenderness for me you express, you must partic.i.p.ate of my deep affliction. Ask your own heart, if a breast, torn with anguish and sorrow, as mine is, can at present admit a thought of any other sentiment than the grief so melancholy a situation excites? In pity, therefore, to the woman you profess to love, leave me for this time. I said, I would forgive and forget; your compliance with my request may do more; it certainly will make me grateful."

"Dearest of all creatures," cried he, seizing my hand, and pressing it with rapture to his bosom, "Dearest, best of women! what is there that I could refuse you? Oh nothing, nothing; my soul is devoted to you. But why leave you? Why may I not this moment reap the advantage of your yielding heart?"

"Away! away, my Lord," cried I, pushing him from me, "you promised to restrain your pa.s.sion; why then is it thus boundless? Int.i.tle yourself to my consideration, before you thus demand returns."

"I make no demands. I have done. But I flattered myself I read your soft wishes in your lovely eyes," [Detestable wretch! how my soul rose up against him! but fear restrained my tongue.] "But tell me, my adorable angel, if I tear myself from you now, when shall I be so happy as to behold you again?"

"To-morrow," I answered; "I shall be in more composed spirits to-morrow, and then I will see you here; but do not expect too much. And now leave me this moment, as I have said more than I ought."

"I obey, dearest Julia," cried the insolent creature, "I obey." And, blessed be Heaven! he left the room. I sprung to the door, and double-locked it; then called Win into the room, who had heard the whole of this conversation. The poor soul was as pale as ashes; her looks were contagious; I caught the infection; and, forgetting the distance betwixt us (but misery makes us all equal), I threw my arms round her, and shed floods of tears into her faithful bosom. When my storms of grief had a little subsided, or indeed when nature had exhausted her store, I became more calm, and had it in my power to consider what steps I should take, as you may believe I had nothing further from my intention than meeting this vile man again. I soon came to the determination to send to Miss Finch, as there was no one to whom I could apply for an asylum; I mean, for the present, as I am convinced I shall find the properest and most welcome in your's and my dear father's arms bye and bye. I rang the bell; one of the horrid bailiffs came for my orders. I desired to have Griffith called to me. I wrote a note to Miss Finch, telling her in a few words the situation of my affairs, and that my dread was so great of receiving further insult from Lord Biddulph, that I could not support the idea of pa.s.sing the night surrounded by such wretches, therefore intreated her to send some one in whom she could confide, in her carriage, to convey me to her for a little time, till I could hear from my friends. In a quarter of an hour Griffith returned, with a billet containing only three lines--but oh, how much comfort. "My dearest creature, my heart bleeds for your distresses; there is no one so proper as your true friend to convey you hither. I will be with you in an instant; your's, for ever,

MARIA FINCH."

I made Win bundle up a few night-cloaths and trifles that we both might want, and in a short time I found myself pressed to the bosom of my dear Maria. She had risen from her bed, where she had lain two days, to fly to my succour. Ah! how much am I indebted to her! By Miss Finch's advice, I wrote a few words to--oh! what shall I call him?--the man, my Louisa, who tore me from the fostering bosom of my beloved father, to abandon me to the miseries and infamy of the world! I wrote thus:

"Abandoned and forsaken by him to whom I alone ought to look up for protection, I am (though, alas! unable) obliged to be the guardian of my own honour. I have left your house; happy, happy had it been for me, never to have entered it! I seek that asylum from strangers, I can no longer meet with from my husband. I have suffered too much from my fatal connexion with you, to feel disposed to consign myself to everlasting infamy (notwithstanding I have your permission), to extricate you from a trivial inconvenience. Remember, this is the first instance in which I ever disobeyed your will. May you see your error, reform, and be happy!

So prays your much-injured, but still faithful wife,

JULIA STANLEY."

Miss Finch, with the goodness of an angel, took me home with her; nor would she leave me a moment to myself. She has indulged me with permission to write this account, to save me the trouble of repeating it to her. And now, my Louisa, and you, my dear honoured father, will you receive your poor wanderer? Will you heal her heart-rending sorrows, and suffer her to seek for happiness, at least a restoration of ease, in your tender bosoms? Will you hush her cares, and teach her to kiss the hand which chastises her? Oh! how I long to pour forth my soul into the breast from whence I expect to derive all my earthly comfort!

Adieu!

J.S.

LETTER XLVII.

TO Colonel MONTAGUE.

Well, Jack, we are all _entrain_. I believe we shall do in time. But old Squaretoes has stole a march on us, and took out an extent against his nephew. Did you ever hear of so unnatural a dog? It is true he has done a great deal for Sir William; and saw plainly, the more money he paid, the more extravagant his nephew grew; but still it was a d.a.m.ned affair too after all. I have been with my dear bewitching charmer. I have her promise to admit me as a visitor tomorrow. I was a fool not to finish the business to-night, as I could have bribed every one in the house to a.s.sist me. Your bailiffs are proper fellows for the purpose--but I love to have my adorables meet me--_almost_ half way. I shall, I hope gain her at last; and my victory will be a reward for all my pains and labours.

I am interrupted. A messenger from Sir William. I must go instantly to the Thatched-house tavern. What is in the wind now, I wonder?

Great G.o.d! Montague, what a sight have I been witness to! Stanley, the ill-fated Stanley, has shot himself. The horror of the scene will never be worn from my memory. I see his mangled corse staring ghastly upon me.

I tremble. Every nerve is affected. I cannot at present give you the horrid particulars. I am more shocked than it is possible to conceive.

Would to Heaven I had had no connexion with him! Oh! could I have foreseen this unhappy event! but it is too, too late. The undone self-destroyed wretch is gone to answer for his crimes; and you and I are left to deplore the part we have had in corrupting his morals, and leading him on, step by step, to destruction.

My mind is a h.e.l.l--I cannot reflect--I feel all despair and self-abas.e.m.e.nt. I now thank G.o.d, I have not the weight of Lady Stanley's seduction on my already overburdened conscience.

In what a different style I began this letter--with a pulse beating with antic.i.p.ated evil, and my blood rioting in the idea of my fancied triumph over the virtue of the best and most injured of women. On the summons, I flew to the Thatched-house. The waiter begged me to go up stairs. "Here has a most unfortunate accident happened, my Lord. Poor Sir William Stanley has committed a rash action; I fear his life is in danger." I thought he alluded to the affair of forgery, and in that persuasion made answer, "It is an ugly affair, to be sure; but, as to his life, that will be in no danger." "Oh! my Lord, I must not flatter you; the surgeon declares he can live but a few hours." "Live! what do you say?" "He has shot himself, my Lord." I hardly know how I got up stairs; but how great was my horror at the scene which presented itself to my affrighted view!

Sir George Brudenel and Mr. Stanley were supporting him. He was not quite dead, but his last moments were on the close. Oh! the occurrences of life will never for one instant obliterate from my recollection the look which he gave me. He was speechless; but his eloquent silence conveyed, in one glance of agony and despair, sentiments that sunk deep on my wounded conscience. His eyes were turned on _me_, when the hand of death sealed them forever. I had thrown myself on my knees by him, and was pressing his hand. I did not utter a word, indeed I was incapable of articulating a syllable. He had just sense remaining to know me, and I thought strove to withdraw his hand from mine. I let it go; and, seeing it fall almost lifeless, Mr. Stanley took it in his, as well as he could; the expiring man grasped his uncle's hand, and sunk into the shades of everlasting night. When we were convinced that all was over with the unhappy creature, we left the room. Neither Sir George, nor Mr. Stanley, seemed inclined to enter into conversation; and my heart ran over plentifully at my eyes. I gave myself up to my agonizing sorrow for some time. When I was a little recovered, I enquired of the people of the house, how this fatal event happened. Tom said, Sir William came there about seven o'clock, and went up stairs in the room we usually played in; that he looked very dejected, but called for coffee, and drank two dishes. He went from thence in an hour, and returned again about ten. He walked about the room in great disorder. In a short s.p.a.ce, Sir George Brudenel and Mr. Stanley came and asked for him. On carrying up their message, Sir William desired to be excused seeing them for half an hour. Within that time, a note was brought him from his own house by Griffith, Lady Stanley's servant*. [* The billet which Lady Stanley wrote, previous to her quitting her husband's house.]

His countenance changed on the perusal of it. "This then decides it," he exclaimed aloud. "I am now determined." He bade the waiter leave the room, and bring him no more messages. In obedience to his commands, Tom was going down stairs. Sir William shut the door after him hastily, and locked it; and before Tom had got to the pa.s.sage, he heard the report of a pistol. Alarmed at the sound, and the previous disorder of Sir William, he ran into the room where were Brudenel and Stanley, entreating them for G.o.d's sake to go up, as he feared Sir William meant to do some desperate act. They ran up with the utmost precipitation, and Brudenel burst open the door. The self-devoted victim was in an arm chair, hanging over on one side, his right cheek and ear torn almost off, and speechless. He expressed great horror, and, they think, contrition, in his looks; and once clasped his hands together, and turned up his eyes to Heaven. He knew both the gentlemen. His uncle was in the utmost agitation. "Oh! my dear Will," said he, "had you been less precipitate, we might have remedied all these evils." Poor Stanley fixed his eyes on him, and faintly shook his head. Sir George too pressed his hand, saying, "My dear Stanley, you have been deceived, if you thought me your enemy. G.o.d forgive those who have brought you to this distress!"

This (with the truest remorse of conscience I say it) bears hard on my character. I did all in my power to prevent poor Stanley's meeting with Sir George and his uncle, and laboured, with the utmost celerity, to confirm him in the idea, that they were both inexorable, to further my schemes on his wife. As I found my company was not acceptable to the gentlemen, I returned home under the most violent dejection of spirits.

Would to Heaven you were here! Yet, what consolation could you afford me? I rather fear you would add to the weight, instead of lightening it, as you could not speak peace to my mind, which is inconceivably hurt.

I am your's,

BIDDULPH.

LETTER XLVIII.

To Miss GRENVILLE.

Dear Madam,

A letter from Mr. Stanley* [* Mr. Stanley's letter is omitted.], which accompanies this, will inform you of the fatal catastrophe of the unfortunate Sir William Stanley. Do me the justice to believe I shall with pleasure contribute all in my power to the ease and convenience of Lady Stanley, for whom I have the tenderest friendship.

We have concealed the whole of the shocking particulars of her husband's fate from her ladyship, but her apprehensions lead her to surmize the worst. She is at present too much indisposed, to undertake a journey into Wales; but, as soon as she is able to travel, I shall do myself the honour of conveying her to the arms of relations so deservedly dear to her.

Mr. Stanley is not a man who deals in professions; he therefore may have been silent as to his intentions in favour of his niece, which I know to be very n.o.ble.

Lady Stanley tells me, she has done me the honour of mentioning my name frequently in her correspondence with you. As a sister of so amiable a woman, I feel myself attached to Miss Grenville, and beg leave to subscribe myself her obliged humble servant,

MARIA FINCH.

LETTER XLIX.

From the SYLPH.

The vicissitudes which you, my Julia, have experienced in your short life, must teach you how little dependence is to be placed in sublunary enjoyments. By an inevitable stroke, you are again cast under the protection of your first friends. If, in the vortex of folly where late you resided, my counsels preserved you from falling into any of its snares, the reflection of being so happy an instrument will shorten the dreary path of life, and smooth the pillow of death. But my task, my happy task, of superintending your footsteps is now over.

In the peaceful vale of innocence, no guide is necessary; for there all is virtuous, all beneficent, as yourself. You have pa.s.sed many distressing and trying scenes. But, however, never let despair take place in your bosom. To hope to be happy in this world, may be presumptuous; to despair of being so, is certainly impious; and, though the sun may rise and see us unblest, and, setting, leave us in misery; yet, on its return, it may behold us changed, and the face which yesterday was clouded with tears may to-morrow brighten into smiles.

Ignorant as we are of the events of to-morrow, let us not arrogantly suppose there will be no end to the trouble which now surrounds us; and, by murmuring, arraign the hand of Providence.

There may be, to us finite beings, many seeming contradictions of the a.s.sertion, that, _to be good is to be happy;_ but an infinite Being knows it to be true in the enlarged view of things, and therefore implanted in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s the love of virtue. Our merit may not, indeed, meet with the reward which we seem to claim in this life; but we are morally ascertained of reaping a plentiful harvest in the next.

Persevere then, my amiable pupil, in the path you were formed to tread in, and rest a.s.sured, though a slow, a lasting recompence will succeed.

May you meet with all the happiness you deserve in this world! and may those most dear to you be the dispensers of it to you! Should any future occasion of your life make it necessary to consult me, you know how a letter will reach me; till then adieu!

Ever your faithful

SYLPH.