of matrimony? If your prospects are flattering--indulge them, and be
happy. I have tasted of the fruit--have found it bitter to the palate,
and corroding to the heart. Urge me not then to run any more hazards; I
have suffered sufficiently. Do not, in pity to Mr. Woodley, encourage in
him a hope, that perseverance may subdue my resolves. Fate is not more
inexorable. I should despise myself if I was capable, for one moment, of
wishing to give pain to any mortal. He cannot complain of me--he may of
_Destiny_; and, oh! what complaints have I not to make of _her!_
* * * * *
I have again perused your letter; I am not free, Louisa, even if my
heart was not devoted to the unfortunate exile. Have I not sworn to my
attendant Sylph? He, who preserved me in the day of trial? My vows are
registered in heaven! I will not recede from them! I believe he knows my
heart, with all its weaknesses. Oh! my Louisa, do not distress me more.
Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER LVI.
TO Lady STANLEY.
Where has my Julia learnt this inflexibility of mind? or what virtue so
rigid as to say, she is not free to enter into other engagements? Are
your affections to lie for ever buried in the grave of your unfortunate
husband? Heaven, who has given us renewable affections, will not condemn
us for making a transfer of them, when the continuance of that affection
can be of no farther advantage to the object. But your case is
different; you have attached yourself to a visionary idea! the man,
whose memory you cherish, perhaps, thinks no longer of you; or would he
not have sought you out before this? Are you to pass your life in
mourning his absence, and not endeavour to do justice to the fidelity of
one of the most amiable of men?
Surely, my Julia, these sacrifices are not required of you! You condemn
my father for being so interested in the fate of his friend Woodley!--he
only requests you to see him. Why not see him as an acquaintance? You
cannot form the idea of my father's wishing to constrain you to accept
him! All he thinks of at present is, that you would not suffer
prejudices to blind your reason. Woodley seeks not to subdue you by
perseverance; only give him leave to try to please you; only allow him
to pay you a visit. Surely, if you are as fixed as fate, you cannot
apprehend the bare sight of him will overturn your resolves! You fear
more danger than there really is. Still we say--_see him_. My dearest
Julia did not use to be inexorable! My father allows he has now no power
over you, even if he could form the idea of using it. What then have you
to dread? Surely you have a negative voice! I am called upon--but will
end with the strain I began. See him, and then refuse him your esteem,
nay more, your tender affection, if you can.
Adieu!
Your's most sincerely,
LOUISA GRENVILLE.
LETTER LVII.
TO Miss GRENVILLE.
Oh, my Louisa! how is the style of your letters altered! Is this change
(not improvement) owing to your attachment to Mr. Spencer? Can _love_
have wrought this difference? If it has, may it be a stranger to my
bosom!--for it has ceased to make my Louisa amiable!--she, who was once
all tenderness--all softness! who fondly soothed my distresses, _and
felt for weakness which she never knew_--
"It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly;
Our _sex_, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury--"
you, to whom I have freely exposed all the failings of my wayward heart!
in whose bosom I have reposed all its tumultuous beatings!--all its
anxieties!--Oh, Louisa! can you forget my _confidence_ in you, which
would not permit me to conceal even my errors? Why do you then join with
men in scorning your friend? You say, _my father has now no power over
me, even if he could form the idea of using power_. Alas! you have all
too much power over me! you have the power of rendering me forever
miserable, either by your persuasions to consign myself to eternal
wretchedness; or by my _inexorableness_, as you call it, in flying in
the face of persons so dear to me!
How cruel it is in you to arraign the conduct of one to whose character
you are a _stranger_! What has the man, who, unfortunately both for
himself and me, has been too much in my thoughts; what has he done, that
you should so decisively pronounce him to be inconstant, and forgetful
of those who seemed so dear to him? Why is the delicacy of _your
favourite_ to be so much commended for his forbearance till the year of
mourning was near expired? And what proof that another may not be
actuated by the same delicate motive?
But I will have done with these painful interrogatories; they only help
to wound my bosom, even more than you have done.
My good uncle is better.--You have wrung my heart--and, harsh and
unbecoming as it may seem in your eyes, I will not return to
Woodley-vale, till I am assured I shall not receive any more
persecutions on his account. Would he be content with my esteem, he may
easily entitle himself to it by his still further _forbearance._
My resolution is fixed--no matter what that is--there is no danger of
making any one a participator of my sorrows.
Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER LVIII.
To Miss GRENVILLE.
Stanley-park.
Louisa! why was this scheme laid? I cannot compose my thoughts even to
ask you the most simple question! Can you judge of my astonishment? the
emotions with which I was seized? Oh! no, you cannot--you cannot,
because you was never sunk so low in the depths of affliction as I have
been; you never have experienced the extreme of joy and despair as I
have done. Oh! you know nothing of what I feel!--of what I cannot find
words to express! Why don't you come hither?--I doubt whether I shall
retain my senses till your arrival.
Adieu!
Your's for ever,
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER LVIX.
TO Lady BRUDENEL.
Stanley-park.
Yes! my dear Maria, you shall be made acquainted with the extraordinary
change in your friend! You had all the mournful particulars of my past
life before you. I was convinced of your worth, nor could refuse you my
confidence. But what is all this? I cannot spend my time, my precious
time, in prefacing the scenes which now surround me.
You know how depressed my mind was with sorrow at the earnestness with
which my father and sister espoused the cause of Mr. Woodley. I was
ready to sink under the dejection their perseverance occasioned,
aggravated too by my tender, long-cherished attachment to the
unfortunate Baron. [This is the first time my pen has traced that word.]
I was sitting yesterday morning in an alcove in the garden, ruminating
on the various scenes which I had experienced, and giving myself up to
the most melancholy presages, when I perceived a paper fall at my feet.
I apprehended it had dropped from my pocket in taking out my
handkerchief, which a trickling tear had just before demanded. I stooped
to pick it up; and, to my surprize, found it sealed, and addressed to
myself. I hastily broke it open, and my wonder increased when I read
these words:
"I have been witness to the perturbation of your mind. How will you
atone to your Sylph, for not availing yourself of the privilege of
making application to him in an emergency? If you have lost your
confidence in him, he is the most wretched of beings. He flatters
himself he may be instrumental to your future felicity. If you are
inclined to be indebted to him for any share of it, you may have the
opportunity of seeing him in five minutes. Arm yourself with resolution,
most lovely, most adored of women; for he will appear under a semblance
not expected by you. You will see in him the most faithful and constant
of human beings."
I was seized with such a trepidation, that I could hardly support
myself; but, summoning all the strength of mind I could assume, I said
aloud, though in a tremulous voice, "Let me view my amiable Sylph!"--But
oh! what became of me, when at my feet I beheld the most wished-for, the
most dreaded, _Ton-hausen!_ I clasped my hands together, and shrieked
with the most frantic air, falling back half insensible on the seat.
"Curse on my precipitance!" he cried, throwing his arms round me. "My
angel! my Julia! look on the most forlorn of his sex, unless you pity
me." "Pity you!" I exclaimed, with a faint accent--"Oh! from whence, and
how came you here?"
"Did not my Julia expect me?" he asked, in the softest voice, and
sweetest manner.
"I expect you! How should I? alas! what intimation could I have of your
arrival?"
"From this," he replied, taking up the billet written by the Sylph.
"What do you mean? For Heaven's sake! rise, and unravel this mystery. My
brain will burst with the torture of suspence."
"If the loveliest of women will pardon the stratagems I have practised
on her unsuspecting mind, I will rise, and rise the happiest of mortals.
Yes, my beloved Julia, I am that invisible guide, that has so often led
you through the wilds of life. I am that blissful being, whom you
supposed something supernatural."
"It is impossible," I cried, interrupting him, "it cannot be!"
"Will not my Julia recollect this poor pledge of her former confidence?"
drawing from a ribband a locket of hair I had once sent to the Sylph.
"Is this, to me inestimable, gift no longer acknowledged by you? this
dear part of yourself, whose enchantment gave to my wounded soul all the
nourishment she drew, which supported me when exiled from all that the
world had worth living for? Have you forgot the vows of lasting fidelity
with which the value of the present was enhanced? Oh! sure you have not.
And yet you are silent. May I not have one word, one look?"
"Alas!" cried I, hiding my face from his glances; "what can I say? What
can I do? Oh! too well I remember all. The consciousness, that every
secret of my heart has been laid bare to your inspection, covers me with
the deepest confusion."
"Bear witness for me," cried he, "that I never made an ill use of that
knowledge. Have I ever presumed upon it? Could you ever discover, by the
arrogance of Ton-hausen's conduct, that he had been the happy
_confidant_ of your retired sentiments? Believe me, Lady Stanley, that
man will ever admire you most, who knows most your worth; and oh!, who
knows it more, who adores it more than I?"
"Still," said I, "I cannot compose my scattered senses. All appears a
dream; but, trust me, I doat on the illusion. I would not be undeceived,
if I am in an error. I would fain persuade myself, that but one man on
earth is acquainted with the softness, I will not call it weakness, of
my soul; and he the only man who could inspire that softness." "Oh! be
persuaded, most angelic of women," said he, pressing my hand to his
lips, "be persuaded of the truth of my assertion, that the Sylph and I
are one. You know how you were circumstanced."
"Yes! I was married before I had the happiness of being seen by you."
"No, you was not."
"Not married, before I was seen by you?"
"Most surely not. Years, years before that event, I knew, and, knowing,
loved you--loved you with all the fondness of man, while my age was that
of a boy. Has Julia quite forgot her juvenile companions? Is the time
worn from her memory, when Harry Woodley used to weave the fancied
garland for her?"
"Protect me, Heaven!" cried I, "sure I am in the land of shadows!"
"No," cried he, clasping me in his arms, and smiling at my apostrophe,
"you shall find substance and substantial joys too here."
"Thou Proteus!" said I, withdrawing myself from his embrace, "what do
you mean by thus shifting characters, and each so potent?"
"To gain my charming Nymph," he answered. "But why should we thus waste
our time? Let me lead you to your father."
"My father! Is my father here?"
"Yes, he brought me hither; perhaps, as Woodley, an unwelcome visitant.
But will you have the cruelty to reject him?" added he, looking slyly.
"Don't presume too much," I returned with a smile. "You have convinced
me, you are capable of great artifice; but I shall insist on your
explaining your whole plan of operations, as an atonement for your
double, nay treble dealing, for I think you are three in one. But I am
impatient to behold my father, whom, the moment before I saw you, I was
accusing of cruelty, in seeking to urge me in the favour of one I was
determined never to see."
"But now you have seen him (it was all your sister required of you, you
know), will you be inexorable to his vows?"
"I am determined to be guided by my Sylph," cried I, "in this momentous
instance. That was my resolution, and still shall remain the same."
"Suppose thy Sylph had recommended you to bestow your hand on Woodley?
What would have become of poor _Ton-hausen_?"
"My confidence in the Sylph was established on the conviction of his
being my safest guide; as such, he would never have urged me to bestow
my hand where my heart was refractory; but, admitting the possibility of
the Sylph's pursuing such a measure, a negative voice would have been
allowed me; and no power, human or divine, should have constrained that
voice to breathe out a vow of fidelity to any other than him to whom the
secrets of my heart have been so long known."
By this time we had nearly reached the house, from whence my father
sprung with the utmost alacrity to meet me. As he pressed me to his
venerable bosom, "Can my Julia refuse the request of her father, to
receive, as the best pledge of his affection, this valuable present? And
will she forgive the innocent trial we made of her fidelity to the most
amiable of men?"
"Ah! I know not what to say," cried I; "here has been sad management
amongst you. But I shall soon forget the heart-aches I have experienced,
if they have removed from this gentleman any suspicions that I did not
regard him for himself alone. He has, I think, adopted the character of
Prior's Henry; and I hope he is convinced that the faithful Emma is not
a fiction of the poet's brain. I know not," I continued, "by what name
to call him."
"Call me _your's_," cried he, "and that will be the highest title I
shall ever aspire to. But you shall know all, as indeed you have a right
to do. _Your_ sister, and soon, I hope, _mine_, related to you the
attachment which I had formed for you in my tenderest years, which, like
the incision on the infant bark, _grew with my growth, and strengthened
with my strength_. She likewise told you (but oh! how faint, how
inadequate to my feelings!) the extreme anguish that seized me when I
found you was married. Distraction surrounded me; I cannot give words to
my grief and despair. I fled from a place which had lost its only
attractive power. In the first paroxysm of affliction, I knew not what
resolutions I formed. I wrote to Spencer--not to give rest or ease to my
over-burdened heart; for that, alas! could receive no diminution--nor to
complain; for surely I could not complain of you; my form was not
imprinted on your mind, though your's had worn itself so deep a trace in
mine. Spencer opposed my resolution of returning to Germany, where I had
formed some connexions (only friendly ones, my Julia, but, as such,
infinitely tender). _He_ it was that urged me to take the name of
Ton-hausen, as that title belonged to an estate which devolved to me
from the death of one of the most valuable men in the world, who had
sunk into his grave, as the only asylum from a combination of woes. As
some years had elapsed, in which I had increased in bulk and stature,
joined to my having had the small-pox since I had been seen by you, he
thought it more than probable you would not recollect my person. I
hardly know what I proposed to myself, from closing with him in this
scheme, only that I take Heaven to witness, I never meant to injure you;
and I hope the whole tenor of my conduct has convinced you how sincere I
was in that profession. From the great irregularity of your late
husband's life, I had a _presentiment_, that you would at one time or
other be free from your engagements. I revered you as one, to whom I
hoped to be united; if not in this world, I might be a kindred-angel
with you in the next. Your virtuous soul could not find its congenial
friend in the riot and confusion in which you lived. I dared not trust
myself to offer to become your guide. I knew the extreme hazard I should
run; and that, with all the innocent intentions in the world, we might
both be undone by our _passions_ before _reason_ could come to our
assistance. I soon saw I had the happiness to be distinguished by you!
and that distinction, while it raised my admiration of you, excited in
me the desire of rendering myself still more worthy of your esteem; but
even that esteem I refused myself the dear privilege of soliciting for.
I acted with the utmost caution; and if, under the character of the
Sylph, I dived into the recesses of your soul, and drew from thence the
secret attachment you professed for the happy Baron, it was not so much
to gratify the vanity of my heart, as to put you on your guard, lest
some of the invidious wretches about you should propagate any reports to
your prejudice; and, dear as the sacrifice cost me, I tore myself from
your loved presence on a sarcasm which Lady Anne Parker threw out
concerning us. I withdrew some miles from London, and left Spencer there
to apprize me of any change in your circumstances. I gave you to
understand I had quitted the kingdom; but that was a severity I could
not impose upon myself: however, I constrained myself to take a
resolution of never again appearing in your presence till I should have
the liberty of indulging my passion without restraint. Nine parts of ten
in the world may condemn my procedure as altogether romantic. I believe
few will find it imitable; but I have nice feelings, and I could act no
other than I did. I could not, you see, bear to be the rival of myself.
_That_ I have proved under both the characters I assumed; but had I
found you had forgotten Ton-hausen, Woodley would have been deprived of
one of the most delicate pleasures a refined taste can experience. And
now all that remains is to intreat the forgiveness of my amiable Julia,
for these _pious frauds_; and to reassure her she shall, if _the heart
of man is not deceitful above all things_, never repent the confidence
she placed in her faithful Sylph, the affection she honoured the happy
Ton-hausen with, nor the esteem, notwithstanding his obstinate
perseverance, which she charitably bestowed on that unfortunate
knight-errant, Harry Woodley."
"Heaven send I never may!" said I. But really I shall be half afraid to
venture the remainder of my life with such a variable being. However, my
father undertakes to answer for him in future.
I assure you, my dear Maria, you are much indebted to me for this
recital, for I have borrowed the time out of the night, as the whole day
has been taken up in a manner you may more easily guess than I can
describe.
Say every thing that is civil to Sir George on my part, as you are
conscious I have no time to bestow on any other men than those by whom I
am surrounded. I expect my sister and her swain tomorrow.
Adieu!
I am your's ever
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER LX.
TO Lady BRUDENEL.
You would hardly know your old acquaintance again, he is so totally
altered; you remember his pensive air, and gentle unassuming manner,
which seemed to bespeak the protection of every one. Instead of all
this, he is so alert, so brisk, and has such a saucy assurance in his
whole deportment, as really amazes; and, I freely own, delights me, as I
am happily convinced, that it is owing to myself that he is thus
different from what he was. Let him be what he will, he will ever be
dear to me.
I wanted him to relate to me all the particulars of his friend
Frederick, the late Baron's, misfortunes. He says, the recital would
fill a volume, but that I shall peruse some papers on the subject some
time or other, when we are tired of being chearful, but that now we have
better employment; I therefore submit for the present.
I admire my sister's choice very much; he is an agreeable man, and
extremely lively: much more so naturally, notwithstanding the airs some
folks give themselves, than my Proteus. Louisa too is quite alive; Mr.
Stanley has forgot the gout; and my father is ready to dance at the
wedding of his eldest daughter, which, I suppose, will take place soon.
Pray how do you go on? Are you near your _accouchement_? or dare you
venture to travel as far as Stanley-park? for my uncle will not part
with any of us yet.
Ah! I can write no longer; they threaten to snatch the pen from my hand;
that I may prevent such a solecism in politeness, I will conclude, by
assuring you of my tenderest wishes.
Adieu!
JULIA STANLEY.
LETTER LXI.
TO Lady STANLEY.
Upon my word, a pretty kind of a romantic adventure you have made of it,
and the conclusion of the business just as it should be, and quite in
the line of _poetical justice_. Virtue triumphant, and Vice dragged at
her chariot-wheels,--for I heard yesterday, that Lord Biddulph was
selling off all his moveables, and had moved himself out of the kingdom.
Now my old friend Montague should be sent on board the Justitia, and
_all's well that ends well_. As to your Proteus, with all his _aliases_,
I think he must be quite a Machiavel in artifice. Heaven send he may
never change again! I should be half afraid of such a Will-of-the-wisp
lover. First this, then that, now the other, and always the same. But
bind him, bind him, Julia, in adamantine chains; make sure of him, while
he is yet in your power; and follow, with all convenient speed, the
dance your sister is going to lead off. Oh! she is in a mighty hurry!
Let me hear what she will say when she has been married ten months, as
poor I have been! and here must be kept prisoner with all the
dispositions in the world for freedom!
What an acquisition your two husbands will be! I bespeak them both for
god-fathers; pray tell them so. Do you know, I wanted to persuade Sir
George to take a trip, just to see how you proceed in this affair; but,
I blush to tell you, he would not hear of any such thing, because he is
in expectation of a little impertinent visitor, and would not be from
home for the world. _Tell it not in Gath_. Thank heaven, the dissolute
tribe in London know nothing of it. But, I believe, none of our set will
be anxious about their sentiments. While we feel ourselves happy, we
shall think it no sacrifice to give up all the nonsense and hurry of the
_beau monde._
Adieu!
MARIA BRUDENEL.
FINIS.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Sylph, Volume I and II, by Georgiana Cavendish