 I write to you, my dearest Louisa, under the greatest agitation of spirits, and know no other method of quieting them than communicating my griefs to you. But alas, how can you remedy the evils of which I complain? Or how shall I describe them to you? How many times have I repeated? How hard is my fate? Yes, Louisa, and I must still repeat the same. In short, what have I to trust to? I see nothing before me but the effects of deep despair. I tremble at every sound and every footstep seems to be the harbinger of some disaster. Sir William breakfasted with me this morning, the first time these three weeks, I believe. A letter was brought him. He changed countenance on the perusal of it, and, starting up, traversed the room in great disorder. Any ill news, Sir William? I asked. He heeded me not but rang the bell with violence. Get the chariot ready directly. No, give me my hat and sword. But before they could be brought, he again changed his mind. He would then write a note. He took the standish, folded some paper, wrote, blotted, and tore many sheets, bit his lips, struck his forehead, and acted at a thousand extravagances. I could contain myself no longer. Whatever may be the consequence of your anger, Sir William, said I, I must insist on knowing what sudden turn of affairs has occasioned this present distress. For heaven's sake, do not refuse to communicate your trouble. I cannot support the agony your agitation has thrown me into. And you would be less able to support it were I to communicate it. If you have any pity for me, cried I, rising, and going up to him, I conjure you by that pity to disclose the cause of your disorder. Were I certain of being unable to bear the shock, yet I would meet it with calmness rather than be thus kept in the most dreadful suspense. Suffice it, then! cried he, throwing out his arm. I am ruined for ever. Ruined! I repeated with a faint voice. Yes, he answered, starting on his feet and muttering curses between his teeth. Then, after a fearful pause, there is but one way, to escape this impending evil. Oh! cried I, may you fall on the right way, but perhaps things may not be so bad as you apprehend. You know I have valuable jewels. Let me fetch them for you. The sale of them will produce a great deal of money. Jewels! Oh, God! They are gone. You have no jewels. Indeed, my dear Sir William, I replied, shocked to death at seeing the deplorable way he was in, and fearing from his saying they were gone that his head was hurt. Indeed, my dear Sir William, I have them in my own cabinet, and immediately fetch them to him. He snatched them out of my hand and dashing them on the floor. Why do you bring me these damned bobbles? Your diamonds are gone. These are only paced. What do you mean? I cried all astonishment. I am sure they are such as I received them from you. I know it very well, but I sold them when you thought them new set, and now I am more pushed than ever. They were yours, Sir William, said I, stifling my resentment, as I thought he was now sufficiently punished. You had therefore a right to dispose of them whenever you chose, and had you made me the confidant of your intention I should not have opposed it. I am only sorry you should have been so distressed as to have yielded to such a necessity, for though my confidence in you and my ignorance in jewels might prevent my knowing them to be counterfeits, yet no doubt everybody who has seen me in them must have discovered their fallacy. How contemptible, then, have you made us appear. Oh, for God's sake, let me hear no more about them. Let them all go to the devil. I have things of more consequence to attend to. At this moment a Mr. Brooksbank was announced. By heaven, cried Sir William, we are all undone. Brooksbank, blown to the devil. Lady Stanley, you may retire to your own room. I have some business of a private nature with this gentleman. I obeyed leaving my husband with this gentleman whom I think the worst looking fellow I ever saw in my life, and retired to my own apartment to give vent to the sorrow which flowed on every side. Oh, good God! I cried bursting into floods of tears. What a change 18 months has made! A princely fortune dissipated, and a man of honour, at least one who appeared as such, reduced to the poor subterfuge of stealing his wife's jewels to pay gaming debts and support kept mistresses. These were my sad and solitary reflections. What a wretched hand has he made of it, and how deplorable is my situation! Alas, to what resource can he next fly? What is to become of us? I have no claim to any farther bounty from my own family. Like the prodigal son I have received my portion, and although I have not been the squanderer yet it is all gone, and I may be reduced to feed on the husks of acorns. At least I am sure I eat bitter herbs. Surely I am visited with these calamities for the sins of my grandfather? May they soon be expiated! That wretched Lord Bidolf has been here, and after some conversation he has taken Sir William out in his chariot. Thank heaven I saw him not, but when brought me this intelligence. I would send for Miss Finch to afford me a little consolation, but she is confined at home by a feverish complaint. I cannot think of going out while things are in this state, so I literally seem a prisoner in my own house. Oh, that I had never, never seen it! Adieu, adieu, J.S. Cointed you some time sense of Stanley's affairs being quite derange, and that he had practiced an unsuccessful maneuver on Brudinel. A pretty piece of business he has made of it, and his worship stands a fair chance of swinging for forgery, unless I contribute my assistance to extricate him by enabling him to replace the money. As to raising any in the ordinary way, it is not in his power, as all his estates are settled on old Stanley. He, Sir William, having no children, and he is inexorable. There may be something to be said for the old fellow's favor too. He has advanced thousand after thousand till he is tired out for giving him money is really only throwing water into a seam. In consequence of his hasty letter written by the Baronet, begging me to use all my interest with Brudinel, I thought it the better way to wait on Stanley myself, and talk the affair over with him, and as he had promised to subscribe to any terms for my security, to make these terms most pleasing to myself. Besides, I confess, I was unwilling to meet Sir George about such a black piece of business, not choosing likewise to subject myself to the censures of that puritanic mortal. For having drawn Stanley into the love of play, I found Sir William under the greatest disorder of spirits. Brooksbank was with him. That fellow carries his conscience in his face. He is the portrait of villainy and turpitude. For God's sake, my lord, cried Sir William, this you know being his usual exclamation, what is to be done in this cursed affair? All my hopes are fixed on the assistance you have promised me. Why, faith, Sir William, I answered. It is, as you say, a most cursed, unlucky affair. I think Brooksbank has not acted with his accustomed caution. As to what assistance I can afford you, you may firmly rely on. But I had a confounded tumble last night after you left us. By the by, you was out of luck in absenting yourself. There was a great deal done. I lost upwards of seventeen thousand to the young cub in less than an hour and nine to the count, so that I am a little out of elbows, which happens very unfortunate at this critical time. Then I am ruined for ever. No, no, not so bad neither, do I dare say. What say you to Lady Stanley's diamonds? They are valuable. Oh, Christ, they are gone long ago, I told her. I thought they wanted new setting and supplied her with paste, which she knew nothing of till this morning that she offered them to me. All this I knew very well. For, D., the jeweler told me so. But I did not choose to inform his worship so much. You have a large quantity of plate. All melted my lord but one service, and thought I have borrowed money on. Well, I have something more to offer, but if you please, we will dismiss Mr. Brooksbank. I dare say he has other business. He took the hint and left us to ourselves. When we were alone, I drew my chair close to him. He was leaning his head on his hand, which rested on the table, in a most melancholy posture. Stanley, said I, what I am now going to say is a matter entirely between ourselves. You are no stranger to the passion I have long entertained for your wife. And from your showing no resentment for what I termed a frolic in the night of the masquerade, I have reason to believe you will not be mortally offended at this, my open avowal of my attachment. Hear me, for you changed position as seem going to speak. I adore, Lady Stanley. I have reportedly assured her of the violence of my flame, but have ever met with the utmost coldness on her side. Let me, however, have your permission. I will yet ensure my success. What, bidole, consent my own dishonour, what do you take me for? What do I take you for? cried I, with a smile, in which I infused a proper degree of contempt. What will Sir George Boudinil take you for, you mean? Curses, everlasting curses, pass me for my damned love of play that has been my bane. And I offer you your cure. The remedy is worse than the disease. Then submit to the disease and sink under it, Sir William, your humble servant, cried I, rising as if to go. Bidole, my dear Bidole, cried he, catching my hand and grasping it with dying energy. What are you about to do? You surely will not leave me in this damned exigency. Think of my situation. I have parted with every means of raising more money, and eternal infamy will be the consequence of this last cursed subterfuge of mine transpiring. Oh, my God, how sunk I am! And will you not hold out your friendly arm? I have already offered you proposals, I replied, with an effective coldness, which you do not think proper to exceed to. Would you consign me to everlasting perdition? Will you make no sacrifice to extricate yourself? Yes, my life. What, Typern? Damn, on that thought, oh, Bidole, Bidole, are there no other means? Reflect the honor of my injured wife. Will not that suffer by your undergoing an ignominious death? Ah, why do you stretch my heartstrings? Julie is virtuous and deserves a better faith than she has met within me. What a wretch must that man be who will consign his wife to infamy. No, sunk, lost, and ruined as I am, I cannot yield such baseness. I should be doubly damned. You know your own conscience best, and how much it will bear. I did not used to think you so scrupulous. What I offer is as much for your advantage as my own. Nay, faith for your advantage solely, as I may have a very good chance of succeeding with her by and by, when you can reap no benefit from it. All I ask of you is your permission to give you an opportunity, assuming for a divorce. Lay your damages as high as you please. I will agree to anything, and, as an earnest, will raise this sum which distresses you so much. I am not tied down as you are. I can mortgage any part of my estate. What do you say? Will you sign a paper making over all right and title of your wife in my favor? There is no time to be lost. I can assure you. Your uncle Stanley's lawyer has been with Boudinel. You know what hopes you have from that quarter, for the sooner you are out of the way, the better for the next error. You never saw a poor devil so distressed and agitated as Stanley was. He shook like one under a fit of a tertian argue. I used every argument I could muster up and conjured all the horrible ideas which were likely to terrify a man of his cast. Threatened, soothed, sneered. In short, I at last gained my point, and he signed a commission for his own cuckoldom, which that I may be able to achieve soon, dear Venus Grant. I took him with me to consult with our broker about raising the money. In the evening I intend to visit the lovely Julia. Oh, that I may be endued with sufficient eloquence to soften her gentle heart and tune it to the sweetest notes of love. But she is virtuous, as Stanley says, that she is, most truly. Yet who knows how far resentment against her brutal husband may induce her to go. If ever woman had provocation, she certainly has. Oh, that she may be inclined to revenge herself on him for his baseness to her, and that I may be the happy instrument of effecting it. God's what-a-thought is there. Adieu, Bidolf. Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. Letter, 46. To Miss Grenville. Oh, my Louisa! What will now become of your wretched sister? Surely the wide world contains not so forlorn a wretch who has not been guilty of any crime? But let me not keep you in suspense. In the afternoon of the day I wrote last, I told you Miss Bench was ill. Oh, good God! I know not what I write. I thought I would go and see her for an hour or two. I ordered the coach and was just stepping into it when an ill-looking man—Lord, bless me, I have seen none else lately—late hold of my arm saying, Madame, you must not go into that carriage. What do you mean? I asked with a voice of terror thinking he was a madman. Nothing, my lady, he answered, but an execution on Sir William. An execution? Oh heavens! What execution? I was breathless and just painting. They are bailiffs, my lady, said one of our servants. My master is arrested for debt, and these men will seize everything in the house. But you need not be terrified, your ladyship is safe, they cannot touch you. I ran back into the house with the utmost precipitation. All the servants seemed in commotion. I saw Preston, she was running upstairs with a bundle in her hand. Preston, said I, what are you about? Oh, the bailiffs, the bailiffs, my lady! They won't hurt you, I want you here. I can't come, indeed, my lady, till I have disposed of these things. I must throw them out of the window or the bailiffs will seize them. I could not get a servant near me but my faithful win who hung weeping round me. As for myself, I was too much agitated to shed a tear or appear sensible of my misfortune. Two of these horrid men came into the room. I demanded what they wanted, to see that none of the goods were carried out of the house, they answered. I asked them if they knew where Sir William Stanley was. Oh, he is safe enough, said one of them. We can't touch him. He pleads privilege as being a member of parliament. We can only take care of his furniture for him. And am I not allowed the same privilege? If so, how have you dared to detain me? Detain you, why I hope your ladyship will not say as how we have offered to detain you. You may go where you please, provided you take nothing with you. My lady was going out, said Wynn sobbing, and you would not suffer it. Not in that coach, mistress, to be sure. But don't go for to say we stopped your lady, she may go when she will. Will one of you order me a chair or hackney-coach? I have no business here. The last word melted me, and I sunk into a chair giving way to a copious flood of tears. At that instant almost the detestable bidolph entered the room. I started up. Wynn's this intrusion, my lord? I asked with a hearty tone. Are you come to join your insults with the misfortunes you have in great measure affected? I take heaven to witness, answered he, how much I was shocked to find an extent in your house. I had not the least idea of such a circumstance happening. I indeed knew that Sir William was very much straightened for money. A cursed be those, interrupted I. Ever a cursed be those whose pernicious counsels and baleful examples have brought him into these exigencies. I look on you, my lord, as one cruel cause of the ruin of our house. Rather, ladies Stanley, call me the prop of your sinking house. View in me one who would die to render you service. Would to heaven you had done so long, long before I had seen you. How unkind is that wish? I came, madam, with the intention of being serviceable to you. Do not then put such hard constructions on my words. I wish to consult with you on the most efficacious means to be used for Sir William's emolument. You know not what power you have. Power? Alas! What power have I? The most unlimited, he replied, fixing his odious eyes on my face, which I returned by a look of the utmost scorn. Oh, ladies Stanley, he continued, do not. Do not, I entreat you, use me so hardly. Will you allow me to speak to you alone? By no means. For God's sake, do. Your servant shall remain in the next room within your call. Let me beseech you to place some confidence in me. I have that to relate concerning Sir William which you would not choose a domestic should hear. Dearest Lady Stanley, be not inexorable. You may go into that room when, said I, not dating to answer this importunate man. My Lord, addressing myself to him, you can have nothing to tell me to which I am a stranger. I know Sir William is totally ruined. This is known to every servant in the house. Believe me, said he, the execution is the least part of the evil. That event happens daily among the great people. But there is an affair of another nature, the stain of which can never be wiped off. Sir William, by his necessities, has been plunged into the utmost difficulties, and to extricate himself has used some unlawful means. In a word, he has committed a forgery. Impossible! cried I, clasping my hands together in agony. It is too true. Sir George Brutinelle has the forge deed now in his hands, and nothing can save him from an ignominious death, but the raising a large sum of money which is quite out of his power. Indeed, I might with some difficulty assist him. And will you not step forth to save him? I asked with precipitation. What would you do to save him? He asked in his turn attempting to take my hand. Can you ask me such a question? To save his life, what would I not do? You have the means in your power. Oh, name them quickly, and ease my heart of this load of distraction. It is more—much more than I can bear. Oh, my lovely angel! cried the horrid wretch. Would you but choose some tenderness to me? Would you but listen to the most faithful, most enamored of men? Much might be done. You would, by your sweet condescension, bind me forever to your interest? Might I but flatter myself? I should share your affection. Would you but give me the slightest mark of it? Oh, how blessed I should be! Say, my adorable Julia, can I ever hope to touch your heart? Wretch! cried I, unhand me. How dare you have the insolence to affront me again with a mention of your hateful passion! I believe all you have uttered to be a base falsehood against Sir William. You have taken an opportunity to insult his wife at a time when you think him too much engaged to seek vengeance, otherwise your coward soul would shrink from the just resentment you ought to expect. I am no coward, madam, he replied. But in my fears of offending the only woman on whom my soul dotes, and the only one whose scorn would wound me, I am not afraid of Sir William's resentment. I act but by his consent. By his consent? Yes, my dear creature, by his. Come, I know you to be a woman of sense. You are acquainted with your husband's handwriting, I presume. I have not committed a forgery, I assure you. Look, madam, on this paper, you will see how much I need dread the just vengeance of an injured husband when I have his a special mandate to take possession as soon as I can gain my lovely charmer's consent. And, oh, may just revenge inspire you to reward my labors. He held a paper towards me. I attempted to snatch it out of his hand. Not so, my sweet angel. I cannot part with it, but you shall see the contents of it with all my heart. Oh, Louisa, do I live to tell you what were those contents? I resign, all right, entitled to my wife Julia Stanley to Lord Biddle, on condition that he pays into my hands the sum of fourteen thousand six hundred pounds, which he enters into an engagement to perform. Witness my hand, William Stanley. Grief, resentment, and amazement struck me dumb. What say you to this, ladies Stanley? Should you not peak yourself on your fidelity to such a good husband who takes so much care of you? You see how much he prizes his life. Peace, monster, peace, cried I. You have taken a base most base advantage of the wretch you have undone. The fault is all yours. The cruelty with which you have treated me has driven me to the only course left of obtaining you. You have it in your power to save or condemn your husband. What, should I barter my soul to save one so profligate of his? But there are other resources yet left, and we may yet triumph over thee, thou cruel worst of wretches. Perhaps you may think there are hopes from old Stanley. There can be none, as he has caused this execution. It would have ruined your family to raise this sum, as there are many more debts which they would be called upon to pay. Why, then, will you put it out of my power to extricate him? Let me have some influence over you. On my knees I entreat you to hear me. I swear by the great God that made me I will marry you as soon as the divorce can be obtained. I have sworn the same to Sir William. Think, my dearest Louisa, what a situation this was for me. I was constrained to reign in my resentment lest I should irritate this wretch to some act of violence, for I had but too much reason to believe I was holy in his power. I had my census sufficiently collected, for which I owe my thanks to heaven to make a clear retrospect of my forlorn condition. Eight or ten strange fellows in the house, who, from the nature of their profession, must be hardened against every distress, and, perhaps, ready to join with the hand of oppression in enduring the unfortunate. My servants, in none of whom I could confide, most of them employed in protecting what they styled, their own property. And either totally regardless of me or what I more feared, might unite with this my chief enemy in my destruction. As to the forgery, though the bear surmise through me into agonies, I rather thought it a proof how far the vile bid-off would proceed to terrify me than reality. But the fatal paper signed by Sir William, that was too evident to be disputed. This conflict of thought employed every faculty and left me speechless. Bid-off was still on his knees. For heaven's sake, cried he, do not treat me with this scorn. Make me not desperate. Hardened as my passion is, I would not lose sight of my respect for you. That you have already done, I answered, in thus openly avowing a passion to me so highly disagreeable. Prove your respect, my lord, by quitting so unbecoming a posture, and leave the most unfortunate of women to her destiny. Take care, take care, madam, cried he, how you drive me to despair. I have long, long adored you. My perseverance notwithstanding your frowns calls for some reward, and unless you assure me that in a future day you will not be thus unkind, I shall not easily forego the opportunity which now offers. For mercy's sake, exclaimed I, starting up, what do you mean? Lord Bid-off, how dare I insist, sir, leave me. I burst into tears, and throwing myself again in my chair gave free vent to all the anguish of my soul. He seemed moved. Again he knelt and implored my pardon. Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, thou sweet excellence. I will not hereafter offend if it is in nature to suppress the extreme violence of my love. You know not how extensive your sway is over my soul. Indeed, you do not. On the condition of your leaving me directly, I will endeavor to forgive and forget what is past. I sobbed out, for my heart was too full of grief to articulate clearly. Urge me not to leave you, my angelic creature. Ah, seek not to drive the man from your presence who dotes, dotes on you to distraction. Think what a villain your husband is. Think into what accumulated distress he has plunged you. Behold in me one who will extricate you from all your difficulties, who will raise you to rank, title, and honor, one whom you may make a convert. Oh, that I had met with you before this cursed engagement, I should have been the most blessed of men. No vile passion 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 you 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 increased if I am the cause of making any earthly being so. Yet if you have the tenderness for me you express, you must participate of my deep affliction. Ask your own heart if her breast, torn with anguish and sorrow as mine is, can at present admit a thought of any other sentiment than the grief so melancholia situation excites. In pity, therefore, to the woman you professed 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 promise to restrain your passion. Why, then, is it thus boundless? Entitle 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 rolls 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? Tomorrow, I answered, I shall be in more composed spirits tomorrow, 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 wind 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 yours and my dear father's arms by and by. 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 Bidolf, that I could not support the idea of passing the night surrounded by such wretches, therefore entreated her to send someone 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. Yours, forever, Maria Finch. I made Wynn bundle up a few nightclothes 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 sucker. Ah! How much I am 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 connection 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 praise your much injured but still faithful wife. Well, Jack, we are all enthroned. I believe we shall do in time, but old square-toes has stole a march on us, and took out an extint 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 such a damned affair, too, after all. I have been with my dear bewitching charmer. I have her promise to admit me as a visitor to-morrow. I was a fool not to finish the business to-night, as I could have bribed everyone in the house to assist me. Your bailiffs are proper fellows for the purpose. But I love to have my adorables meet me, almost halfway. I shall, I hope, gain her at last, and my victory will be a reward for all my pains and labors. I am interrupted, a messenger from Sir William. I must go instantly to the thatch-touse tavern. What is in the wind now, I wonder? Great God, Montague, what a sight I have been witness to! Stanley, the ill-fated Stanley, has shot himself. The horror of this scene will never be worn from my memory. I see his mangled course staring ghastly upon me. I tremble. Every nerve is affected. I cannot at present give you the horde of particulars. I am more shocked than it is possible to conceive. Would to heaven I had no connection with him. Good 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 heading him on, step by step to destruction. My mind is a hell. I cannot reflect. I feel all despair and self-abasement. I now, thank God, have not the weight of Lady Stanley's seduction on my already overburdened conscience. In what a different style I began this letter, with the pulse beating with anticipated evil, and my blood rioting in the idea of my fancy 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 upstairs. Here has a most unfortunate accident happened, my lord. Poor 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 a 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 the stairs, but how great was my horror at the scene which presented itself to my affrighted view. Sir George Boudinel 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 the syllable. He had just since remained to know me, and I thought strove to withdraw his hand from mine. I let it go, and seen 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 inquired of the people of the house how this fatal event happened. Tom said Sir William came there about seven o'clock, and went upstairs 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 Bruggenel 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 bought 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 was changed on the perusal of it. This then decided, he exclaimed aloud, I am now determined. He bade the waiter leave the room and bring him no more messages. He knew obedience to his commands, Tom was going downstairs. Sir William shut the door after him hastily unlocked 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 Bruggenel and Stanley, and treating them for God's sake to go up as he feared Sir William met to do some desperate act. They ran up with the utmost precipitation, and Bruggenel burst open the door. The self-devoted victim was in an armchair, 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. They knew both the gentlemen. His uncle was in the utmost agitation. Oh, my dear Will! said he. Had you been less precipitant 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 labored 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 ejection 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 yours, Bidolf. End of LETTER 47 LETTER 48 OF THE SILF This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jennifer Pratt The Silf by Georgianna Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. LETTER 48 To Miss Grenville, dear madam, A letter from Mr. Stanley, 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 surmise 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 Ms. Grenville, and beg leave to subscribe myself, her obliged humble servant, Maria Finch. End of Letter 48 Recorded by Jennifer Pratt Letter 49 of the SIL, this is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org The SILF by Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, Letter 49 From the SILF The vicissitudes which you might do you 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 and 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 veil 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 unblessed 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 tomorrow brighten into smiles. Ignorant as we are of the events of tomorrow, let us not arrogantly suppose there will be no end to the trouble which now surrounds us, and by murmuring a rain 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 people, in the path you were formed to tread in, and rest assured though a slow, a lasting recompense 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 self. End of Letter 49 Letter 50 of the self This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Adrienne Stevens The Sylph by Georgiana Cavendish Duchess of Devonshire Letter 50 To Sir George Brudenal 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 tested 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 recompose her fluttering spirits. But just as we were driving into the in-yard, when we were to change horses for last time, she clasped her hands together exclaiming, oh my god, my father's chase, 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-compaint. It was more than human nature could support. At least it was with the utmost difficulty he 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 I can dispossess, 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. 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 effecting view. She saw my attentions 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 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 laid his Stanley through an arm over each of our shoulders. Our spirits, after some time, and all subsided. 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 inestable qualities, as Julia possesses? Blind? I recall the world. 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. He avoided young man. How deplorable was thy end! O may the mercy of heaven be extended toward 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, for best to inquire into what she says, she dreads to be informed of. She appears to me, who knew her not in her happy days. Like a beautiful plant that had been chilled with a nipping frost, which can be geode, but could not destroy its loveliness. The tenderness of a parent, like the sun, has chased away the winter. 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 were tired of the women of your world. Their caprices, their follies, to soften the expression has caused this distaste in you. Come to Woody 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, and thus 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 term monopoliser in my dotage, and keep them all to myself. Julia is my child. Louisa has 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 that 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 Bidolf 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 piece which goodness bosoms ever. Edward Stanley. End of Letter 50. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Céline Mejor. The Sylph by Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. Letter 51. 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 jugularity 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 yours requires no disguises. What little I saw of Sir George Brutonel shows him to be a man worthy of my Maria. What an incognium I have paid him in one word. But, joking apart, for I do not believe you entertained an idea of a rencontre with a young baronet at Barton's house, Mr. Stanley says with the utmost seriousness that his friend Brutonel 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 partiality for this wane, for none of us here have a wish to become matchmakers. 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 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 ejection of spirits when I sit as I often do and reflect on past events. But I am convinced I ought not to inquire 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. O, 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 Rudinelle and Miss Finch. While Lady Stanley was on her accustomed visit to her uncle, she receives the following letter from Miss Grenville. And of Letter 51. 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. Though 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. Wins, 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 importing it, 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 show. In the meantime, Adieu, yours most sincerely, Louisa Grenville. Letter 53 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. Winn, 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 duvar to you and to 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 neighborhood. 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 unrivaled 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 tomorrow. 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 has arrived, Mr. Woodley, I mean. We are all charmed with him. I knew him instantly, though 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 own 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. Yours most truly, Louisa Grenville. Letter fifty-four. 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 confidant 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 beloveds 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 planes the extravagance of his father had rested 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 inquired 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 anything which indicates returning cheerfulness. A blessing I so much wish you. I have had a letter from Lady Brudnell. She calls on me for my promised visit, but I begin to suspect I shall have engagements enough on my hands by and by. 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 bows. I wish you were here, as I own, I should have no objection to a tete-tete with Spencer, nor would Harry with you. But here, he is in the way. Yours, L. Grenville. To me, the sad victim of a fatal attachment. Tornus 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 chase away the dull melancholy which habitual griefs had planted there. Ah, seek not to rob me of the small share allotted me. Speak not, right 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 at forth in the most retired privacy. Never then, my Louisa, oh, never mentioned 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 favor 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? Why should my father be so earnest to have me again entered to the pale of matrimony? If your prospects are flattering, indulge them and be happy. I have tasted of the fruit, have found it bitter to the palette 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 him in 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 self, 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. End of letter 55. Letter 56 of the Sylph. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Devorah Allen. The Sylph. By Georgiana Cavendish. Duchess of Devonshire. Letter 56 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 forever 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 further 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 used 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 we'll end with the strain I began. See him, and then refuse him your esteem. Nay more, your tender affection, if you can. Adieu. Yours most sincerely, Louisa Grenville. End of letter 56. Letters 57 and 58 of the Sylph. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Celine Mejour. The Sylph, by Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire. Letter 57. 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. Quote. It is not friendly, it is not maidenly. Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, though I alone do feel the injury. End quote. 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 scarning 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 seem so dear to him? Why is the delicacy of your favorite 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 their same delicate motive? But I will have done with these painful interrogatories. They only helped to wound my bosom even more than you have done. My good uncle is better. You have rung 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 anyone a participator of my sorrows. Adieu, Julia Stanley. Letter 58 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. Yours forever, Julia Stanley. End of Letters 57 and 58 Letters 59 and 60 of The SILF This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Celine Majore The SILF by Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire Letter 59 To Lady Brutinelle 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 and taken out my handkerchief which a trickling tear had just before demanded. I stooped to pick it up, and to my surprise 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 yourself 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 self. But, oh, what became of me, when at my feet I beheld the most wished for, the most dreaded, torn housing. I clasped my hands together and shrieked with the most frantic air falling back half insensible on the seat. Curse on my precipitants. 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 self. What do you mean? For heaven's sake, rise and unravel this mystery. My brain will burst with the torture of suspense. 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 suppose 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 ribbon a locket of hair I had once sent to this self? 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. Bare 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 Taunhausen'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 doubt on the illusion. I would not be undeceived if I am in an error. I would bane 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 circumcised. 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 favor 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 myself, cried I, in this momentous instance. That was my resolution and still shall remain the same. Suppose thy self had recommended you to bestow your hand on Woodley. What would have become a port on Hosen? My confidence in the self 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 self'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 heartaches 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 Pryor'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 yours, 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 overburdened 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 yours had worn itself so deep a trace in mine. Spencer opposed my resolution of returning to Germany where I had formed some connections, only friendly ones, my Julia, but as such infinitely tender. He it was that urged me to take the name of Tonhausen, 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 smallpox 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 rather 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 right 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 self, 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 Ann Parker threw out concerning us. I withdrew some miles from London and left Spencer there to apprise 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 procedures altogether romantic. I believe few will find it admittable, 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, Tonhausen, Woodley would have been deprived of one of the most delicate pleasures a refined taste can experience. And now all that remains is to entreat 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 to the confidence she placed in her faithful self the affection she honoured the happy Tonhausen with, nor the esteem notwithstanding his obstinate perseverance, which she charitably bestowed on that unfortunate knight-errant, Harry Woodley. Heaven sent 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 everything that is civil to Sir George on my part, as you are conscious I have no time to bestow on any other man than knows by whom I am surrounded. I expect my sister and her swaying to-morrow. Adieu. I am yours ever, Julia Stanley. Letter 60 to Lady Brutinelle. You would hardly know your old acquaintance again, he is so totally altered. You remember his pence of air, and a gentle unassuming manner which seemed to bespeak the protection of everyone. Instead of all this, he is so alert, so brisk, and has such a saucy assurance in his whole department, has 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 never 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 fail of volume, but that I shall peruse some papers on the subject some time or other when we are tired of being cheerful, 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 error some folks give themselves, than my protease. 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 solicism and politeness I will conclude by assuring you of my tenderest wishes. Adieu, Julia Stanley. Letters 61 To Lady Stanley Upon my word a pretty kind of romantic adventure you've made of it, and the conclusion of the business just as it should be, and quite in the line of poetical justice. Virtue triumphant in vice dragged at her chariot wheels, for I heard yesterday that Lord Bidolf was selling off all his movables, 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 Machiavell in art of us. Heaven's 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. 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 Godfathers, 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 an 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 Beaumond. Adieu, Maria. Maria Brudinelle. End of letter number sixty-one. Finney. Recording by Jennifer Pratt. End of The Sylph by Georgiana Cavendish. Duchess of Devonshire.