anticipated 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 space, 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 passage, 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 God'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. God 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 noble.
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 passed 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
assertion, 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 breasts 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 assured, 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.
LETTER L.
TO Sir GEORGE BRUDENEL.
Woodley-vale.
My dear Sir George,
It is with the utmost pleasure, I assure you of my niece having borne
her journey with less fatigue than we even could have hoped for. The
pleasing expectation of meeting with her beloved relations contributed
towards her support, and combated the afflictions she had tasted during
her separation from them and her native place. As we approached the last
stage, her conflict increased, and both Miss Finch and myself used every
method to re-compose her fluttered spirits; but, just as we were driving
into the inn-yard where we were to change horses for the last time, she
clasped her hands together, exclaiming, "Oh, my God! my father's
chaise!" and sunk back, very near fainting. I tried to laugh her out of
her extreme agitation. She had hardly power to get out of the coach;
and, hobbling as you know me to be with the gout, an extraordinary
exertion was necessary on my part to support her, tottering as she was,
into a parlour. I shall never be able to do justice to the scene which
presented itself. Miss Grenville flew to meet her trembling sister. The
mute expression of their features, the joy of meeting, the recollection
of past sorrows, oh! it is more than my pen can paint; it was more than
human nature could support; at least, it was with the utmost difficulty
it could be supported till the venerable father approached to welcome
his lovely daughter. She sunk on her knees before him, and looked like
a dying victim at the shrine of a much-loved saint. What agonies
possessed Mr. Grenville! He called for assistance; none of the party
were able, from their own emotions, to afford him any. At last the dear
creature recovered, and became tolerably calm; but this only lasted a
few minutes. She was seated between her father and sister; she gazed
fondly first on one, and then the other, and would attempt to speak; but
her full heart could not find vent at her lips; her eyes were rivers,
through which her sorrows flowed. I rose to retire for a little time,
being overcome by the affecting view. She saw my intentions, and, rising
likewise, took my hand--"Don't leave us--I will be more myself--Don't
leave us, my second father!--Oh! Sir," turning to Mr. Grenville, "help
me to repay this generous, best of men, a small part of what my grateful
heart tells me is his due." "I receive him, my Julia," cried her father,
"I receive him to my bosom as my brother." He embraced me, and Lady
Stanley threw an arm over each of our shoulders. Our spirits, after some
time, a little subsided, and we proceeded to this place. I was happy
this meeting was over, as I all along dreaded the delicate sensibility
of my niece.
Oh! Sir George! how could my unhappy nephew be blind to such inestimable
qualities as Julia possesses? Blind!--I recall the word: he was not
blind to them; he could not, but he was misled by the cursed follies of
the world, and entangled by its snares, till he lost all relish for
whatever was lovely and virtuous. Ill-fated young man! how deplorable
was thy end! Oh! may the mercy of Heaven be extended towards thee! May
it forget its justice, _nor be extreme to mark what was done amiss!_
I find Julia was convinced he was hurried out of this life by his own
desperate act, but she forbears to enquire into what she says she
dreads to be informed of. She appears to me (who knew her not in her
happier days) like a beautiful plant that had been chilled with a
nipping frost, which congealed, but could not destroy, its loveliness;
the tenderness of her parent, like the sun, has chaced away the winter,
and she daily expands, and discovers fresh charms. Her sister
too--indeed we should see such women now and then, to reconcile us to
the trifling sex, who have laboured with the utmost celerity, and with
too much success, to bring an odium on that most beautiful part of the
creation. You say you are tired of the women of your world. Their
caprices, their follies, to soften the expression, has caused this
distaste in you. Come to Woodley-vale, and behold beauty ever attended
by (what should ever attend beauty) native innocence. The lovely widow
is out of the question. I am in love with her myself, that is, as much
as an old fellow of sixty-four ought to be with a young girl of
nineteen; but her charming sister, I must bring you acquainted with her;
yet, unless I was perfectly convinced, that you possess the best of
hearts, you should not even have a glance from her pretty blue eyes.
Indeed, I believe I shall turn monopolizer in my dotage, and keep them
all to myself. Julia is my child. Louisa has the merit with me
(exclusive of her own superlative one) of being _her_ sister. And my
little _Finch_ is a worthy girl; I adore her for her friendship to my
darling. Surely your heart must be impenetrable, if so much merit, and
so much beauty, does not assert their sway over you.
Do you think that infamous fellow (I am sorry to express myself thus
while speaking of a peer of our realm) Lord Biddulph is sincere in his
reformation? Perhaps returning health may renew in him vices which are
become habitual from long practice. If he reflects at all, he has much,
very much, to answer for throughout this unhappy affair. Indeed, he did
not spare himself in his conversation with me. If he sees his errors in
time, he ought to be thankful to Heaven, for allowing that _time_ to
him, which, by his pernicious counsels, he prevented the man he called
_friend_ from availing himself of. Adieu! my dear Sir George. May you
never feel the want of _that peace which goodness bosoms ever!_
EDWARD STANLEY.
LETTER LI.
To Miss FINCH.
You are very sly, my dear Maria. Mr. Stanley assures me, you went to
Lady Barton's purposely to give her nephew, Sir George, the meeting. Is
it so? and am I in danger of losing my friend? Or is it only the
jocularity of my uncle on the occasion? Pray be communicative on this
affair. I am sure I need not urge you on that head, as you have never
used any reserve to me. A mind of such integrity as your's requires no
disguises. What little I saw of Sir George Brudenel shews him to be a
man worthy of my Maria. What an encomium I have paid him in one word!
But, joking apart (for I do not believe you entertained an idea of a
_rencontre_ with the young Baronet at Barton-house), Mr. Stanley says,
with the utmost seriousness, that his friend Brudenel made him the
_confidante_ of a _penchant_ for our sweet Maria, some time since, on
his inviting him down hither, to pick up a wife _unhackneyed in the ways
of the world_. However, don't be talked into a partiality for the swain,
for none of us here have a wish to become match-makers.
And now I have done with the young man, permit me to add a word or two
concerning the old one; I mean Mr. Stanley. He has, in the tenderest and
most friendly manner, settled on me two thousand a year (the sum fixed
on another occasion) while I continue the widow of his unfortunate
nephew; and if hereafter I should be induced to enter into other
engagements, I am to have fifteen thousand pounds at my own disposal.
This, he says, justice prompts him to do; but adds, "I will not tell you
how far my affection would carry me, because the world would perhaps
call me an _old fool_."
He leaves us next week, to make some preparation there for our reception
in a short time. I am to be mistress of his house; and he has made a
bargain with my father, that I shall spend half the year with him,
either at Stanley-Park or Pemberton-Lodge. You may believe all the
happiness of my future life is centered in the hope of contributing to
the comfort of my father, and this my second parent. My views are very
circumscribed; however, I am more calm than I expected to have been,
considering how much I have been tossed about in the stormy ocean. It is
no wonder that I am sometimes under the deepest dejection of spirits,
when I sit, as I often do, and reflect on past events. But I am
convinced I ought not to enquire too minutely into some fatal
circumstances. May the poor deluded victim meet with mercy! I draw a
veil over his frailties. Ah! what errors are they which death cannot
cancel? Who shall say, _I will walk upright, my foot shall not slide or
go astray_? Who knows how long he shall be upheld by the powerful hand
of God? The most presumptuous of us, if left to ourselves, may be guilty
of a lapse. Oh! may _my_ trespasses be forgiven, as I forgive and forget
_his!_
My dear Maria will excuse my proceeding; the last apostrophe will
convince you of the impossibility of my continuing to use my pen.
Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
* * * * *
[The correspondence, for obvious reasons, is discontinued for some
months. During the interval it appears, that an union had taken place
between Sir George Brudenel and Miss Finch.--While Lady Stanley was on
her accustomed visit to her uncle, she receives the following letter
from Miss Grenville.]
LETTER LII.
TO Lady STANLEY. Melford-abbey,
This last week has been so much taken up, that I could not find one day
to tell my beloved Julia that _she_ has not been _one day_ out of my
thoughts, tho' you have heard from me but once since I obeyed the
summons of our friend Jenny Melford, to be witness of her renunciation
of that name. We are a large party here, and very brilliant.
I think I never was accounted vain; but, I assure you, I am almost
induced to be so, from the attention of a very agreeable man, who is an
intimate acquaintance of Mr. Wynne's; a man of fortune, and, what will
have more weight with me, a man of strict principles. He has already
made himself some little interest in my heart, by some very benevolent
actions, which we have by accident discovered. I don't know what will
come of it, but, if he should be importunate, I doubt I should not have
power to refuse him. My father is prodigiously taken with him; yet men
are such deceitful mortals--well, time will shew--in the mean time,
adieu!
Your's, most sincerely,
LOUISA GRENVILLE.
LETTER LIII.
TO Lady STANLEY.
I cannot resist writing to you, in consequence of a piece of
intelligence I received this morning from Mr. Spencer, the hero of my
last letter.
At breakfast Mr. Spencer said to Mr. Wynne--"You will have an addition
to your party tomorrow; I have just had a letter from my friend Harry
Woodley, informing me, that he will pay his _devoir_ to you and your
fair bride before his journey to London." The name instantly struck
me--"Harry Woodley!" I repeated.
"Why do you know Harry Woodley?" asked Mr. Spencer. "I once knew a
gentleman of that name," I answered, "whose father owned that estate
_my_ father now possesses. I remember him a boy, when he was under the
tuition of Mr. Jones, a worthy clergyman in our neighbourhood." "The
very same," replied Mr. Spencer. "Harry is my most particular friend; I
have long known him, and as long loved him with the tenderest
affection--an affection," whispered he, "which reigned unrivalled till I
saw you; he _was_ the _first_, but _now_ is _second_ in my heart." I
blushed, but felt no anger at his boldness.
I shall not finish my letter till I have seen my old acquaintance; I
wish for to-morrow; I expressed my impatience to Mr. Spencer. "I should
be uneasy at your earnestness," said he, "did I not know that curiosity
is incident to your sex; but I will let you into a secret: Harry's heart
is engaged, and has long been so; therefore, throw not away your fire
upon him, but preserve it, to cherish one who lives but in your
smiles."
* * * * *
He is arrived (Mr. Woodley, I mean); we are all charmed with him. I knew
him instantly; tho' the beautiful boy is now flushed with manliness. It
is five years since we saw him last--he did not meet us without the
utmost emotion, which we attributed to the recollection that we now
owned those lands which ought in right to have been his. He has,
however, by Mr. Spencer's account, been very successful in life, and is
master of a plentiful fortune. He seems to merit the favour of all the
world.
Adieu!
Your's most truly,
LOUISA GRENVILLE.
LETTER LIV.
TO Lady STANLEY.
Melford-Abbey.
Mr. Spencer tells me, it is a proof I have great ascendancy over him,
since he has made me the _confidante_ of his friend Woodley's
attachment. And who do you think is the object of it? To whom has the
constant youth paid his vows in secret, and worn away a series of years
in hopeless, pining love? Ah! my Julia, who can inspire so tender, so
lasting, a flame as yourself? Yes! you are the saint before whose shrine
the faithful Woodley has bent his knee, and sworn eternal truth.
You must remember the many instances of esteem we have repeatedly
received from him. To me it was friendship; to my sister it was
love--and _love_ of the purest, noblest kind.
He left Woodley-vale, you recollect, about five years ago. He left all
he held dear; all the soft hope which cherished life, in the flattering
idea of raising himself, by some fortunate stroke, to such an eminence,
that he might boldly declare how much, how fondly, he adored his Julia.
In the first instance, he was not mistaken--he has acquired a noble
fortune. Plumed with hope and eager expectation, he flew to
Woodley-vale, and the first sound that met his ear was--that the object
of his tenderest wishes was, a few weeks before his arrival, married. My
Julia! will not your tender sympathizing heart feel, in some degree, the
cruel anxiety that must take place in the bosom which had been, during a
long journey, indulging itself in the fond hope of being happy--and just
at that point of time, and at that place, where the happiness was to
commence, to be dashed at once from the scene of bliss, with the account
of his beloved's being married to another? What then remained for the
ill-fated youth, but to fly from those scenes where he had sustained so
keen a disappointment; and, without calling one glance on the plains the
extravagance of his father had wrested from him, seek in the bosom of
his friends an asylum?
He determined not to return till he was able to support the sight of
such interesting objects with composure. He proposed leaving England: he
travelled; but never one moment, in idea, wandered from the spot which
contained all his soul held dear. Some months since, he became
acquainted with the event which has once more left you free. His
delicacy would not allow him to appear before you till the year was near
expired. And now, if such unexampled constancy may plead for him, what
competitor need Harry Woodley fear?
I told you my father was much pleased with Mr. Spencer, but he is more
than pleased with his old acquaintance. You cannot imagine how much he
interests himself in the hope that his invariable attachment to you may
meet its due reward, by making, as he says, a proper impression on your
heart. He will return with us to Woodley-vale. My father's partiality is
so great, that, I believe, should you be inclined to favour the faithful
Harry, he will be induced to make you the eldest, and settle Woodley on
you, that it may be transmitted to Harry's heirs; a step, which, I give
you my honour, I shall have no objection to. Besides, it will be proving
the sincerity of Mr. Spencer's attachment to me--a proof I should not be
averse to making; for, you know, _a burnt child dreads the fire._ These
young men take up all our attention; but I will not write a word more
till I have enquired after my dear old one. How does the worthy soul do?
I doubt you have not sung to him lately, as the gout has returned with
so much violence. You know, he said, your voice banished all pain. Pray
continue singing, or any thing which indicates returning chearfulness; a
blessing I so much wish you. I have had a letter from Lady Brudenel; she
calls on me for my promised visit, but I begin to suspect I shall have
engagements enough on my hands bye and bye. I doubt my father is tired
of us both, as he is planning a scheme to get rid of us at once. But
does not this seeming eagerness proceed from that motive which guides
all his actions towards us--his extreme tenderness--the apprehension of
leaving us unconnected, and the infirmities of life hastening with large
strides on himself? Oh! my Julia! he is the best of fathers!
Adieu! I am dressed _en cavalier_, and just going to mount my horse,
accompanied by my two beaux. I wish you was here, as I own I should have
no objection to a _tête-à-tête_ with Spencer; nor would Harry with you.
But _here_--he is in the way.
Your's,
L. GRENVILLE.
LETTER LV.
TO Miss GRENVILLE.
Stanley-park.
Alas! my dearest Louisa, is it to me your last letter was addressed? to
me, the sad victim of a fatal attachment? Torn as has been my heart by
the strange vicissitudes of life, am I an object fit to admit the bright
ray of joy? Unhappy Woodley, if thy destiny is to be decided by my
voice! It is--it must be ever against thee. Talk not to me, Louisa, of
love--of joy and happiness! Ever, ever, will they be strangers to my
care-worn breast. A little calm (oh! how deceitful!) had taken
possession of my mind, and seemed to chace away the dull melancholy
which habitual griefs had planted there. Ah! seek not to rob me of the
small share allotted me. Speak not--write not of Woodley; my future
peace depends upon it. The name of _love_ has awakened a thousand,
thousand pangs, which sorrow had hushed to rest; at least, I kept them
to myself. I look on the evils of my life as a punishment for having too
freely indulged myself in a most reprehensible attachment. Never has my
hand traced the fatal name! Never have I sighed it forth in the most
retired privacy! Never then, my Louisa, oh! never mention the
destructive passion to me more!
I remember the ill-fated youth--ill-fated, indeed, if cursed with so
much constancy! The first predilection I felt in favour of one too
dear--was a faint similitude I thought I discovered between him and
Woodley. But if I entertained a partiality at first for him, because he
reminded me of a former companion, too soon he made such an interest in
my bosom, as left him superior there to all others. It is your fault,
Louisa, that I have adverted to this painful, this forbidden subject.
Why have you mentioned the pernicious theme?