 Section 27 of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke. Section 27. Epistle, Colonel. To Colonel Belleville, Wednesday, 3 o'clock. I really cannot help feeling prodigiously foolish about this marriage. It is a thousand to one. But I retreat yet. Prepare yourself for a disappointment, for I am exceedingly on the capriccio so. Oh heavens, I forgot to tell you. An old matchmaking lady in the neighborhood having taken it into her head I have a passion for Harry Mandeville and designing to win my heart by persuading me to what she supposes I have a mind to. Recommended him strongly to me last night for a husband. I heard her with the utmost attention and when she had finished her harangue blushed, looked down, hesitated and denied the thing was so pretty a confusion that she has gone away perfectly convinced I am to be Lady Anne Mandeville and will tell it as a secret all round the country. I am not sorry for this as it will take away all suspicion of what is really intended and secure what secrecy we wish on the occasion. The good old lady went away infinitely delighted at being possessed of a quality secret which in the country gives no little importance. Pleased too with her own penetration in discovering what nobody else has suspected I cannot conceive a happier being than she is at present. I have just received from town the most divine stomacher and sleeve-knots you ever beheld. An interesting event. Yes, creature, and what I can plead authority for mentioning. Did not Madame Waselle, Princess of the Blood of France, granddaughter of Henry the Great, write some half a dozen volumes to inform posterity that on Saturday the 14th of November 1668 she wore her blue ribbons. Surely you men think nothing of consequence but seizures and battles. Now in my sentiments it would be happy for mankind if all the heroes who make such havoc amongst their species merely because they have nothing to do would amuse themselves with sorting suits of ribbons for their ladies. I am in the sweetest good humour today that can be imagined so mild and gentle you would be amazed. A little impatient indeed for the evening which is to bring my charming Harry. I have been asking my Lord how, with Harry's sensibility, they contrived to keep him so long free from attachments in answer to which he gave me the enclosed sketch of a letter from Colonel Mandeville to a lady of his acquaintance at Rome, which he said would give me a general notion of the matter. Epistle the Countess. To the Countess Mellesbini, Paris, June 24th, 1759. Madam, you will receive this from the hands of that son I have before had the honour of recommending to your esteem. I have accompanied him myself hither, where being perfectly satisfied with his behaviour and convinced that generous minds are best one to virtue by implicit confidence, I have dismissed the tutor I intended to have sent with him to Italy, shall return to England myself and depend for his conduct on his own discretion, his desire of obliging me, and that nobleness of sentiment which will make him feel the value of my friendship for him in its utmost extent. I have given him letters to the most worthy person in every court I intend he should visit. But as my chief dependence for the advantages of this tour are on the count and yourself, I have advised him to spend most of his time at Rome, where, honoured by your friendship, I doubt not of his receiving that last finishing, that delicate polish which I flatter myself if not deceived by the fondness of a parent is all he wants to make him perfectly amiable. To you, madam, and the count, I commit him, defend him from the snares of vice and the contagion of affectation. You receive him an unexperienced youth with lively passions, a warm and affectionate heart, an enthusiastic imagination, probity, openness, generosity, and all those advantages of person and mind which a liberal education can bestow. I expect him from your hands a gentleman, a man of honour and politeness, with the utmost dignity of sentiment and character, adorned by that easy elegance that refined simplicity of manner, those unaffected graces of deportment so difficult to describe, but which it is scarce possible to converse much with you without acquiring. Sensible of the irresistible power of beauty, I think it of the utmost consequence with what part of the female world he converses. I have from childhood habituated him to the conversation of the most lovely and polite amongst the best part of the sex, to give him an abhorrence to the indelicacy of the worst. I have endeavored to impress on his mind the most lively ideas of the native beauty of virtue, and to cultivate in him that elegance of moral taste, that quick sensibility, which is a nearer way to rectitude than the dull road of inanimate precept. Continuing the same anxious cares I sent him to perfect his education, not in schools or academies, but in the conversation of the most charming amongst women. The ardent desire of pleasing you and becoming worthy your esteem, inseparable from the happiness of knowing you, will be the keenest spur to his attainments, and I shall see him return all the fond heart of a parent can wish, from his ambition of being honoured with your friendship. To you, madam, I shall make no secret of my wish, that he may come back to England unconnected. I have a view for him beyond his most sanguine hopes, to which, however I entreat, he may be a stranger. The charms of the lady cannot fail of attaching a heart which has no pre-possession, from which I conjure you, if possible, to guard him. I should even here with pleasure you permitted him to a certain degree to love you, that he might be steeled to all other charms. If he is half as much in love with you as his father, all other beauties will lay snares for him in vain. I am, madam, with the most lively esteem, your obedient and devoted, J. Mandeville. Oh, heavens, whilst I have been writing and thinking nothing of it, the pavilion, which it seems has been some time prepared, is raised opposite the window of the saloon, at the end of the walk leading to the house. We are to suppin' it this evening. It is charmant. The sight of it and the idea of its destination makes my heart palpitate a little. Mon Dieu, that ever I should be seduced into matrimony. Farewell, for an hour or two. You have no notion what divine dresses we have making for the masquerade. I shall not tell you particulars, as I would not take off the pleasure of surprise, but they are charming beyond conception. Do you not dote on a masquerade, Belleville? For my own part I think it is the quintessence of all sublimary joys. And without flattering my lord's taste, I have a strange fancy this will be the most agreeable one I ever was at in my life. The scenes, the drapery, the whole disposition of it is enchanting. Heavens, how little a while will it be that I can write myself A. Wilmot, a pistol George, to George Mondeau, Esquire, Wednesday morning. After four days past an anxiety not to be told, this ardently expected morning is come. I every moment expect Mr. Herbert. I tremble at every sound. Another hour and the happiness of my whole life will be forever determined. Mondeau, the idea chills my soul. It is now a week since I have heard from Belmont, not a line from Emily Howard or Lady Anne. The unhappy have few friends. Lord Melvin is the minion of fortune. He has taken my place in their esteem. The time is past and my friend is not here. He has therefore no letters from Lord Belmont. I rated his disinterestedness too high. Misled by the mean despicable maxims of the world, he resents my passion for his daughter. He gives her to another, without deigning even to send me an answer. He might surely have respected his own blood. My soul is on fire at this insult. His age, his virtues protect him. But Lord Melvin, let him avoid my fury. Yet am I not too rash? May not some accident have retarded my friend. I will wait patiently till evening. I cannot believe Lord Belmont. May he not have seen me, and suspecting some clandestine design. Yes, my folly has undone me. What can he think of such a concealment? Mordeaux, I cannot live in this suspense. I will send William this moment to Belmont. Five o'clock. William has come back and has thrown me into despair. Yes, my friend, it is now beyond a doubt. Lady Julia is intended for Lord Melvin. The most splendid preparations are making. All is joy and festivity at Belmont. A wretch like me is below their thoughts. Messengers are hourly coming and going from Lord Rochdale's. It is past, and I am doomed to despair. My letter has only hastened my destruction. Has only hastened this detested marriage. Over-odd by paternal authority she gives me up. She marries another. She has forgot her vows. Those vows which she called on heaven to witness. I have lost all for which life was worth my care. Mordeaux, I am no longer master of myself. Lord Melvin is this moment gone past to Belmont, dressed like a youthful, gay, and burning bridegroom. His eyes sparkle with new fire. His cheek has the glow of happy love. This very hour perhaps he calls her his. This very hour her consenting blushes. The idea is insupportable. First may the avenging bold of heaven. But why supplicate heaven? My own arm I will follow him. I will not tamely resign her. He shall first, yes, through my blood alone. What I intend I know not. My thoughts are all distraction. Epistle Colonel To Colonel Belville, seven o'clock. We expect the caro enrico every moment. My chariot is gone for Emily Howard and my niece. Lord Melvin, too, comes this evening by my permission. Lady Julia has just asked me to walk with her in the park. She wants to hear me talk of Harry, whom she cannot mention herself, though her thoughts are full of nothing else. Her color comes and goes. Her eyes have a double portion of softness. Her heart beats apprehensive pleasure. What an evening of transport will this be? Why are you not here, Belville? I shall absolutely be one of the old people tonight. Can you form an idea of happiness equal to Harry's? Raised from the depth of despair to the fruition of all his wishes. I long to see how he will receive the first mention of this happy turn of fortune. But Lady Mary has all that to herself. Adieu. Great God, to what a scene have I been witness! How shall I relate the shocking particulars? Lady Julia and I were advanced about a quarter of a mile from the house, blessing Providence, and talking of the dear hope of future happy days. She was owning her passion with blushes and all the tremor of modest sensibility when we were interrupted by the clashing of swords behind some trees near us. We turned our heads and saw Lord Melvin, distraction in his air, his sword bloody, supporting Harry Mandeville, pale, bleeding, motionless, and to all appearance in the agonies of death. Lady Julia gave a shriek and fell senseless in my arms. My cries brought some of the servants who happened to be near, part of them with Lord Melvin conveyed Harry to the house, while the rest stayed with me to take care of Lady Julia. Harry was scarce out of sight when she recovered her senses. She looked wildly towards the place where she first saw him, then starting from me, raising her eyes to heaven, her hands clasped together. Oh, Belleville! Never shall I lose the idea of that image of horror and despair. She neither spoke nor shed a tear. There was an eager wildness in her look which froze my soul with terror. She advanced hastily towards the house, looking round her every moment as if expecting again to see him. Till having exhausted all her strength, she sunk down breathless on one of the seats, where I supported her till my Lord's chariot, which I had sent for came up, in which I placed myself by her and we drove slowly towards the house. She was put to bed in a burning fever, preceded by a shivering which gives me apprehensions for her, which I endeavored to conceal from the wretched parents whose sorrows mock all description. My Lord has just come from Lord Melvin, who insisted on being his prisoner till Harry was out of danger. Distaining to fly from justice since my Lord refuses his stay at Belmont, he entreats to be given into the hands of some gentleman near. My Lord has accepted this offer and named his father Lord Rochdale for the night. He has gone under the best guard, his own honour, in which Lord Belmont has implicit confidence. I have been into Lady Julia's room. She takes no notice of anything. Emily Howard kneels weeping by her bedside. Lady Belmont melts my soul when I behold her. She sits motionless as the statue of despair. She holds the hand of the lovely daughter between hers. She presses to her bosom and the tears steal silently down her cheeks. Unable to bear the sight I am returned to my apartment. Oh, Belleville, how is this scene of happiness changed? Where are now the gay transporting hopes which warmed our hearts this morning? I have with difficulty prevailed on Lady Mary, who droops under this weight of affliction, and whose years are ill-suited to scenes of horror, to set out this evening for her own seat, my niece, whose sorrow you may easily imagine, is to accompany her thither. If Mr. Mandeville dies, murdered by the hand of him whose fate hers is connected, never must she again enter these hospitable doors. Belleville, how is the gay structure of ideal happiness fallen in one moment to the ground? The messenger who sent to Lord Tease is returned, and has brought my Lord's letter. He went from thence to Mr. Herbert's, where Mr. Mandeville was supposed to be, but found nobody there but a servant from whom he could get no information. The family had been gone five days to London, being sent for express to a relation who was dying. Oh, Belleville, how many accidents have conspired! I myself have innocently contributed to this dreadful event, misled by my Lord's equivocal expressions, which seem to point so plainly at Lord Melvin. If he dies, but I will not give way to the so shocking an idea, the servant who went for a surgeon is not yet returned. Till his wounds are examined we must be in all the torture of suspense and apprehension. 11 o'clock. The surgeon is come. He is now with Mr. Mandeville. How I dread to hear his sentence. The door opens. He comes out with Lord Belmont. Horror is in the face of the latter. Oh, Belleville, my presaging heart! They advance towards me. I am unable to meet them. My limbs tremble. A cold dew. Belleville, his wounds are mortal. The pen drops from my hand. A farmer's son in the neighborhood has just brought the enclosed letter for Mr. Mandeville, which not knowing the consequence my Lord has opened. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke Section 28 Epistle Henry To Henry Mandeville Esquire, London, Tuesday morning Sir, the generous concern you have been pleased to take in my misfortune leaves me no room to doubt I shall give you pleasure by informing you that they are at an end. A rich relation, who has just expired, having made a will in my favor which places me in circumstances beyond my hopes. But you will be still more happy to know you have contributed to this turn of my fortune. The express was arrived with a request from our dying friend that we would instantly come post to town, and we were lamenting our hard fate in being unable, from our indignance to undertake a journey on which so much depended, when the post brought me a bill for one hundred pounds, which could come from no hand but yours. I wish the world was such as to make it easy for us to mistake. We set out with hearts filled with the sincerest gratitude to heaven, and the most worthy of men. And on our arrival found deferring our journey even a few hours would have been fatal to all our hopes. To you therefore, to whom we owe the means of taking this journey, we owe the ease of fortune which has been the consequence of it. Heaven has been pleased to make the man on earth we most esteem the instrument of its goodness to us. The hurry of spirits in which we set out prevented my leaving a direction for you with my servant, which I hope has been of no ill consequence. I have today sent him a direction and ordered him to wait on you with this letter. As soon as my affairs here are settled we'll replace the money your generous friendship has assisted us with, wherever you please to order. I am with the most lively esteem, sir, your most affectionate and obedient servant, W. Herbert. Balvil is it not hard the exercise of the noblest virtue should have been attended with such fatal effects? He dies for having alleviated the distresses of his friend, for having sympathized in the affliction of others. Epistle Colonel to Colonel Balvil Thursday morning. The most lovely of men is no more. He expired early this morning after having in my presence owned to my lord that jealousy was the true cause of his attacking Lord Melvin, who only fought in his own defence, which he entreated him publicly to attest and to beg Lord Melvin's pardon in his name for insults which madness alone could excuse, in which it was not in man to bear. He owned Lord Melvin's behaviour in the duel had been noble and that he had avoided giving him the least wound till urged by fury and despair and aiming at the life of his generous enemy rather than at his own defence, he had rushed on the point of his sword. He expressed great indifference for life on his own account, but dreaded the effect his death might have on the most tender of fathers. Intreated my lord so often so painful a stroke by preparing him for it by degrees, and if possible to conceal from him the shocking manner of it, how ill said he as my rashness repaid him for all his anxious cares, his indulgent goodness. I suffered justly, but for him, great God, support him in the dreadful trial and pour all thy blessings on his head. He then proceeded to expostulate gently with Lord Belmont on his supposed design of forcing the heart of his daughter, and on that neglect of himself which had planted the furies of jealousy in his breast and occasioned this shocking event. These reproaches brought on an explanation of the situation to which his danger had reduced Lady Julia of my lord's intention of giving her to him and of the whole plan of purposed happiness, with his impatience irritated by a series of unforeseen accidents had so fatally destroyed. Till now he had appeared perfectly composed, but from the moment my lord began to speak a wildness had appeared in his countenance which rose before he ended to little less than distraction. He raved, he reproached heaven itself, then melting into tears, preyed with fervor unspeakable for Lady Julia's recovery. The agitation of his mind caused his wounds to bleed afresh. Successive faintings were the consequence in one of which he expired. Lord Belmont is now writing to Colonel Mandeville, how many has this dreadful event involved in misery? Who shall tell this to Lady Julia? I dread the most fatal effects from her despair, when returning reason makes her capable of knowing her own wretchedness. At present she is in a state of perfect insensibility. Her fever is not the least abated. She is every symptom which can indicate danger. Lady Belmont and Emily Howard have never left her bedside a moment. I have with difficulty persuaded them to attempt to rest a few hours, and am going to take Lady Belmont's place by her bedside. Ten o'clock. The physician is gone. He thinks Lady Julia in danger, but has not told this to the family. I am going again to her apartment. She has not yet taken notice of anybody. I had been about half an hour in Lady Julia's room when having sent the last attendant away for something I wanted. She looked round and saw we were alone. She half raised herself in the bed, and grasping my hand fixed her inquiring eyes ardently on mine. I too well understood their meaning. An unable to hide my grief was rising to leave the bedside, when catching hold of me with a look and air which froze my soul. Lady Anne, said she, does he live? My silence and the tears which I could not conceal explained to her the fatal truth. When raising her streaming eyes and supplicating hands to heaven, oh Belleville, no words can describe the excess of her sorrow and despair, fearful of the most fatal instant effects I was obliged to call her attendance of whose entrance she took not the least notice. After remaining some time absorbed in an agony of grief which took from her all power of utterance, and made her insensible to all around her, the tears which she shed in great abundance seemed to give her relief. My heart was melted. I wept with her. She saw my tears, and pressing my hand tenderly between hers seemed to thank me for the part I took in her afflictions. I had not opposed the torrent of her despair. But when I saw it subsiding, endeavored to soothe her with all the tender attention and endearing sympathy of faithful friendship, which so far succeeded, that I have left her more composed than I could have imagined it possible she should so soon have been. She has even an appearance of tranquility, which amazes me, and seeming inclined to take rest, I have left her for that purpose. May heaven restore her to her wretched parents whose life is wrapped in hers. May it inspire her with courage to bear this stroke. The severest of feeling mind can suffer. Her youth, her sweetness of temper, her unaffected piety, her filial tenderness sometimes flatter me with a hope of her recovery. But when I think on that melting sensibility, on that exquisitely tender heart which bleeds for the sorrow of every human being, I give way to all the horrors of despair. Lady Julia has sent to speak with me. I will not a moment delay attending her. How blessed should I be if the sympathizing bosom of friendship could soften by partaking her sorrows. Oh, Valville, what a request she has made! My blood runs back at the idea. She received me with a composed air, begged me to sit down by her bedside, and sending away her attendance spoke as follows. You are, I doubt not, my dear Lady Anne, surprised at the seeming tranquil manner in which I bear the greatest of all misfortunes. Yes, my heart doted on him, my love for him was unutterable. But it is past. I can no longer be deceived by the fond delusion of hope. I submit to the will of heaven. My God, I am resigned. I do not complain of what the hand has inflicted. A few unavailing tears alone. Lady Anne, you have seen my calmness. You have seen me patient as the trembling victim beneath the sacrificer's knife. Yet think not I have resigned all sensibility. No, were it possible I could live. But I feel my approaching end. Heaven in this is merciful. That I bear this dreadful stroke with patience is owing to the certainty I shall not long survive him. That our separation is but for a moment. Lady Anne, I have seen him in my dreams. His spotless soul yet waits for mine. Yes, the same grave shall receive us. We shall be joined to part no more. All the sorrow I feel is for my dear parents. To you, and Emily Howard, I leave the sad task of comforting them. By all our friendship I adjure you. Leave them not to the effects of their despair. When I reflect on all their goodness and on the misery I have brought on their grey hairs my heart is torn in pieces. I lament that such a wretch was ever created. I have been to blame, not in loving the most perfect of human beings, but in concealing that love and distressing the indulgence of the best of parents. Why did I hide my passion? Why can seal sentiments only blamable on the venal maxims of a despicable world? Had I been unreserved, I had been happy. But heaven had decreed otherwise. And I submit. But whither am I wandering? I sent for you to make a request. A request in which I will not be denied. Lady Anne, I would see him. Let me be raised and carried to his apartment before my mother returns. Let me once more behold him. Behold him for whom alone life was dear to me. You hesitate. For pity do not oppose me. Your refusal will double the pangs of death. Overcome by the earnestness of her air and manner I had not resolution to refuse her. Her maids are now dressing her, and I have promised to attend her to his apartment. I am summoned. Great God, how shall I bear a scene like this? I tremble. My limbs will scare support me. 12 o'clock. This dreadful visit is yet unpaid. Three times she approached the door and returned as often to her apartment, unable to enter the room. The third time she fainted away, her little remaining strength being exhausted, she has consented to defer her purpose till evening. I hope by that time to persuade her to decline it wholly. Faint and almost sinking under her fatigue, I have prevailed with her to lie down on a couch. Emily Howard sits by her, kissing her hand and bathing it with her tears. I have been inquiring at Lady Julia's door. She is in a sweet sleep, from which we have everything to hope. I fly to tell this to Lady Belmont. She will live. Heaven has hurt our prayers. I found the wretched mother pouring out her soul before her God and imploring his mercy on her child. She heard me, and tears of tender transport she raised her grateful hands to Heaven. I am interrupted. Dr. Evelyn is at the gate. He has come to my apartment and desires me to accompany him to Lady Julia. We found her still in a gentle sleep, composed as that of an infant. We approached the bed. Dr. Evelyn took her hand. He stood some time looking on her with the most fixed attention, when I am expressing my hopes from her sleep. Madam, said he, it is with horror I tell you that sleep will probably be her last. Nature is worn out and seeks a momentary repose before her last dreadful struggle. Not able to bear this, I left the room. Belleville, is it possible, can Heaven thus overwhelm with affliction the best, the noblest of its creatures? Shall the amiable, the reverent pair, the business lives, has been to make others happy, be doomed in age to bear the severest of all sorrows? To see all their hopes blasted in one dreadful moment? To believe this is to blaspheme providence. No, it is not possible. Heaven will yet restore her. Look down, oh God of mercy! Dr. Evelyn is now with the wretched parents, breaking to them the danger of their child. I dread seeing them after this interview. Yet he will not sure plunge them at once into despair. She is awake. I have been with her. Her looks are greatly changed. Her lips have a dying paleness. There is a dimness in her eyes which alarms me. She has desire to speak a moment with Dr. Evelyn. She would know how long he thinks it will, she may live. Six o'clock. She is gone, Belleville. She is gone. Those lovely eyes are closed in everlasting night. I saw her die. I saw the last breath quiver on her lips. She expired almost without a pang in the arms of her distracted mother. She felt her approaching dissolution of which she had been warned at her own earnest request by Dr. Evelyn. She summoned us all to her apartment. She embraced us with the most affecting tenderness. She called me to her, and giving me her picture for Colonel Mandeville begged me to tell him. She, who murdered his son, died for him. Intreated me to stay some time at Belmont to comfort her disconsolate parents. Conjured Emily to be a child to them, and never to let them miss their Julia. She begged forgiveness of her wretched parents for the only instance in which she had ever forgot her duty, and for which she now so severely suffered, and treated them to submit to the hand of heaven, and not give way to immoderate affliction. To consider that if they were about to lose a child, thousands were at that moment suffering under the same distress, that death was the most common portion of humanity, from which youth was not more exempt than age, that their separation was only temporary whilst their reunion would be eternal. Then, raising her blameless hands, prayed fervently to heaven for them, implored their last blessing, and, turning to her agonizing mother, speechless with excess of sorrow, conjured her to reflect on the past goodness of heaven, and the many years of happiness she had already passed with the best of men, that this was the first misfortune she had ever known, then embracing her fondly, weeping on her neck, and thanking her for all her goodness, pressed her to her bosom, and expired. Let me draw a veil over the ensuing scene, to which words cannot do justice. With difficulty have we forced Lady Belmont from the body. I have left Emily Howard with the venerable pair, whose sorrow would melt the most obdurate heart. She kneels by Lady Belmont. She attempts to speak, but tears stop her utterance. The wretched mother sees her not, inattentive to all but her grief, her eyes fixed on the ground, stupefaction and horror in her look. She seems insensible of all that passes around her. Sinking under his own distress, and unable to support the sight of hers, my lord is retired to his apartment. May heaven look with pity on them both, and enable them to bear this blow to all their hopes. Belleville, where are now all our gay schemes? Where the circle of happy friends? How vain are the designs of man, unmindful of his transitory state. He lays plans of permanent felicity. He sees the purpose of his heart ready to prosper. The air-drawn building rises. He watches it with a beating heart. It touches the very point at which he aimed, the very summit of imagined perfection. When an unforeseen storm arises, and the smiling deceitful structure of hope is dashed in one moment to the ground. Friday morning. Not an eye has been closed this night. The whole house is a scene of horror. The servants glide up and down the apartment's wildness in their look as if the last day was come. Scares have we been able to keep life in Lady Belmont. She asks eagerly for her child, her Julia. She conjures us to lead her to her. She will not believe her dead. She starts up and fancies she hears her voice, then recollecting the late dreadful scene lifts her expostulating hands to heaven and sinks motionless into the arms of her attendants. Six o'clock. Worn out by her long watchings and the violence of her emotions, Lady Belmont is fallen into a slumber. It is now two days and nights since she has attempted rest. May that gracious God, who alone has the power, calm and tranquilize her mind. Eight o'clock. I have been standing an hour looking on the breathless body of my angel friend. Lovely, even in death. A serene smile sits on that once charming face. Her paleness accepted she looks as if in a tranquil sleep. Belleville, she is happy. She is now a saint in heaven. How persuasive is such a preacher. I gaze on the once matchless form and all vanity dies within me. Who was ever lovely like her? Yet she lies before me a clot of senseless clay. Those eyes which once gave love to every beholder are now robbed of their living luster. That beautyous bosom is cold as a marble on the silent tune. The roses of those cheeks are faded. Those vermilion lips from whence truth and virtue ever proceeded. Belleville, the starting tears, I cannot go on. Look here ye proud and be humble, which you all can vie with her. Youth, health, beauty, birth, riches, all that men call good were hers. All are now of no avail. Virtue alone bids defiance to the grave. Great heaven! Colonel Mandeville is at the gate. He knows not the cup of sorrow which awaits him. He cannot yet have received my lord's letter. He alights with a smile of transport. The exultation of hope is in his air. Alas, how soon to be destroyed! He comes to attend the bridal day of his son. He finds him a lifeless corpse. The servants bring him this way, then leave to me the dreadful talk. Belleville, I cannot go through it. I have seen the most unhappy of fathers. I have followed him wither my heart shuttered to approach. Too soon informed of his wretched fate, he shot like lightning to the apartment of his son. He kissed his pale lifeless lips. He pressed his cold hands to his bosom. He bathed it with a torrent of tears. Then, looking round with the dignity of affliction, waved his hand for us all to retire. We have left him to weep at liberty over the son on whom his heart doted. To enjoy alone and undisturbed the dreadful banquet of despair. He has been now two hours alone with the body. Not an attendant has dared to intrude on the sacred rites of paternal sorrow. My lord is this moment gone to him, to give him a melancholy welcome to Belmont. Great God, what a meeting! How different from that which their sanguine hopes had projected. The bridal couch is the bed of death. Oh, Belleville, but shell presumptuous man dare to arraign the ways of heaven. The History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke Section 29 Epistle Colonel To Colonel Belleville Tuesday morning Your letter, my dear Belleville, gave me all the consolation it is possible to receive amid such a scene of wretchedness and despair. The tender sympathy of pitying friendship is the best balm for every woe. The delicacy with which you decline mentioning a subject so improper for the time would increase my esteem for you, if that was possible. I know the goodness, the tender sensibility of your heart too well to doubt your approving my resolution. To give six months to the memory of my angelic friend, and the sad task of endeavouring to soften the sorrows of her parents. Her dying voice adjured me not to leave them to their despair. I will not forget the sad task her friendship imposed. The agony of Lady Balmont's grief begins to give place to a sorrow more reasonable, though perhaps not less exquisite. The violence of her emotions abates. She still weeps, but her air is more calm. She raises her eyes to heaven, but it is with a look of patient resignation, which whilst it melts my soul to behold gives me hopes she will not sink under her afflictions. Lord Balmont struggles with his own grief, lest it should increase hers. He attempts to comfort her, he begs her with an irresolute air to consider the hand from whence the stroke proceeded. Unable to go on his voice trembles, his bosom swells with unutterable anguish. He rises, he leaves the room, the tears trickle down his reverend cheeks. These, Belleville, these are the scenes I have perpetually before my eyes. Colonel Mandeville indulges his sorrow alone. Shut up continually in his apartment, a prey to silent distress. He seems to fly from all human converse. If entreated he joins our sad party a moment. He enters with a dejected air. His eyes are bent earnestly to the ground. He sits motionless, in a tentive, absorbed in reflection on his own misery. Then starting up exclaims, all else I could have borne, and retires to give himself up to despair. I am now convinced Emily Howard deserved that preference Lady Julia gave her over me and her heart, of which I once so unjustly complained. I lament, I regret, but am enough myself to reason to reflect Emily Howard can only weep. Far from being consoled for the loss of her lovely friend, by the prospect of inheriting Lord Balmont's fortune, to which after Colonel Mandeville she is entitled, she seems incapable of tasting any good in life without her. Every idea of happiness her gentle mind could form included Lady Julia's friendship. With her she wished to spend all her days. She was all to her tender Emily. Without her she finds the world a desert. She is changed beyond conception by her grief. A grief which has not a moment's intermission. The almost dying paleness of her cheeks is a witness of the excess of her affliction. Yet this very paleness has a thousand charms. Her distress has something in it, unspeakably lovely, adorned by sorrow. She puts me in mind of what young describes women in general. So properly the object of affliction, that heaven is pleased to make this dress become her, and dresses her most amiably in tears. Tuesday evening. Belleville. I have been walking in a little wilderness of flowering shrubs once peculiarly happy in Lady Julia's favour. There is a rose which I saw planted by her hand. It still flourishes in youthful bloom, whilst she, the fairest flower heaven ever formed, lies cropped by the cruel hand of death. What force has the imagination over the senses? How different is the whole face of nature in my eyes. The once smiling scene has a melancholy gloom which strikes a damp through my inmost soul. I look in vain for those vivid beauties which once charmed me. All beauty died with Lady Julia. In this spot where we have so often walked together I give way to all the voluptuousness of sorrow. I recall those happy days which are never to return. A thousand tender ideas rush on my memory. I recollect those dear moments of confidence and friendship engraved forever on my heart. I still hear the sweet accents of that voice, still behold that matchless form. I see her every moment before me, in all the playfulness of youth and innocence. I see her presence gazing on her as she passes, with that lively transport a parent only can know. It was here her rising blushes first discovered to me the secret of her heart. It was here the loveliest of mankind first implored me to favour his passion for my sweet friend. Pleased with the tender sorrow which possessed all my soul, I determined to indulge it to the utmost. And revolving in my imagination the happy hours of cheerful friendship to which a smiling scene had been witnessed prolonged my walk till evening had almost unperceived spread its gloomy horrors round till the very tints of the flowers were lost in the deepening shades of night. Awakening at once from the reverie in which I had been plunged I found myself at a distance from the house, just entering the little wood so loved by my charming friend. The every moment increasing darkness gave an awful gloom to the trees. I stopped. I looked round. Not a human form was in sight. I listened, and heard not a sound but the trembling of some poplars in the wood. I called. The echo of my own voice was the only answer I received. A dreary silence reigned around. A terror I never felt before seized me. My heart panted with timid apprehension. I breathed short. I started at every leaf that moved. My limbs were covered with a cold dew. I fancied I saw a thousand airy forms flit around me. I seemed to hear the shrieks of the dead and dying. There is no describing my horrors. At the moment when my fears had almost deprived me of sense I saw a Colonel Mandeville approach. I concealed from him the terrors of my soul lest they should add to the sorrow which consumed him. He addressed me in a faltering voice, conducted me to the house almost without speaking, and leading me into the saloon. Oh, Balvil, how shall I describe what I felt on entering that room? Is not death of itself sufficiently dreadful that we thus clothe it in additional tears by the horrid apparatus with which we suffer it to be attended? The room was hung with black, lighted up to show the affecting objects it contained, and in the midst, in their coffins, the breathless bodies of the hapless lovers, on a couch near them supported by Emily Howard, the wretched mother wringing her hands in all the agony of despair. Lord Belmont standing by the bodies, looking at them alternately, weeping over his child and raising his desponding eyes to heaven, beseeching the God of mercy to relieve him from this load of misery, and to put a speedy period to that life which was now robbed of all its happiness. I approached Lady Julia's coffin. I gazed eagerly on her angel countenance. Serene is that of a sleeping infant. I kissed her lifeless lips which still wore the smile of innocence and peace. Balvil, may my last end be like hers. May I meet her in the regions of immortality. Never shall I forget her gentle virtues or the delight I found in her friendship. She was wrapped in a loose robe of white sateen, her head covered with a veil of gauze. The village maids who laid her in the coffin had adorned her with the freshest flowers that stood at an awful distance, weeping her hard fate and their own. They haven't treated to watch around her this night, and to bear her to-moral to the grave. I had stood some time looking on the dear remains of Julia when Colonel Mandeville took my hand and led me to the coffin in which his sons were deposited. Lady Anne, said he, you have forgot your once-favoured friend, your once-gay, once-lovely Harry Mandeville. Behold, all that death has left of the darling of a fond parent's heart. The graces of that form are lost, those lips have ceased to utter the generous sentiments of the noblest heart which ever beat, but never will his varied perfections be blotted from the mind of his father. I approached the most lovely of men. The traces of sorrow were visible on his countenance. He died in the moment when he heard the happiness which had been vainly intended for him. My tears streamed afresh when I beheld him, when I remembered the sweet hours we passed together, the gay scenes which hope had painted to our hearts. I wept over the friend I had so loved, I pressed his cold hand to my lips. Belleville, I am now accustomed to horrors. We have prevailed on the wretched parents to retire. Emily Howard and I haven't treated to watch our angel friends till midnight, and then leave them to the village maids, to whom Lady Julia's weeping attendants insist on being joined. I dread the rising of tomorrow's dawn. He was meant to light us to happiness. Thursday morning. Belleville, this morning is come. This morning once so ardently expected. Who shall ever dare to say, tomorrow I will be happy? At dawn of day we return to the saloon. We bid a last adieu to the loved remains. My lord and Colonel Mandeville had been before us. They were going to close the coffins when Lady Balmont burst wildly into the room. She called eagerly for her Julia, for the idol of her agonizing soul. Let me once more behold my child. Let me once more kiss those icy lips. Oh Julia, this day first gave thee birth. This day fond hope set down for thy bridles. This day we resign thee to the grave. Overcome by the excess of her sorrow, she fainted into the arms of her woman. We took that opportunity to convey her from this scene of terrors. Her senses are not yet returned. Thursday evening. What a day have I passed. May the idea of it be ever blotted from my mind. Nine o'clock. The sad procession begins. The whole village attend in tears. They press to perform the last melancholy duties. Her servants crowd eagerly round. They weep. They beat their bosoms. They call on their angelic mistress. They kiss the pawl that covers her breathless form. Born by the youngest of the villagemaids. Oh, Balville, never more shall I behold her. The loveliest of her sex. The friend on whom my heart resists. One grave receives the hapless lovers. They move on, far other processions. But who shall resist the hand of heaven? Emily Howard comes this way. She has left the wretched parents. There is a wildness in her air which chills my blood. She will behold her friend once more. She proposes to meet and join the procession. I embrace the offer with transport. The transport of enthusiastic sorrow. We have beheld the closing scene. Balville, my heart is breaking. The pride of the world, the loveliest pair that ever breathed, the vital air, are now cold and inanimate in the grave. Section 30. To Colonel Balville, Sunday morning. I am just come from chapel with Lady Belmont, who has been pouring out the sorrows of her soul to her creator, with a fervor of devotion which a mind like hers alone can feel. When she approached the seat once filled by Lady Julia, the tears streamed involuntarily down her cheeks. She wiped them away. She raised her eyes to heaven and falling on her knees with a look of pious resignation seemed to sacrifice her grief to her god, or at least to suspend the expression of it in his presence. Next Sunday she goes to the parish church where the angelic pair are interred. I dread her seeing the vault, yet think she cannot too soon visit every place which must renew the excess of her affliction. She will then and not till then find by degrees the violence of her sorrow subside, and give way to that pleasing melancholy, that tender regret which, however strange it may appear, is one of the most charming sensations of the human heart. Whether it be that the mind appores nothing like a state of inaction, or from whatever cause I know not, but grief itself is more agreeable to us than indifference, nay, if not too exquisite, is in the highest degree delightful of which the pleasure we take in serenity, or in talking of our dead friends, is a striking proof. We wish not to be cured of what we feel on these occasions. The tears we shed are charming. We even indulge in them. Balvil, does not the very word indulge shoe the sensation to be pleasurable? I have just now a letter from my niece. She is in despair at this dreadful event. She sees the amiable, the venerable parents whose happiness was the ardent wish of her soul, and from whom she had received every proof of esteem and friendship reduced to the extremest misery, by the hand of him she loves, forever excluded from Belmont, forever to them an object of horror. She seems to herself guilty of their wretchedness. She seems to have struck the fatal blow. Since Mr. Mandeville's death she has left Lady Mary, whose tears she fancied were redoubled at her sight. Nor is she less wretched on Lord Melvin's account. She is distracted with her terrors for his life, which is however safe by Mr. Mandeville's generous care, who when expiring gave testimony to his innocence. You will oblige me by begging of Lady Betty to take her at present under her protection. It ill suits the delicacy of her sex and birth to remain in London alone and unconnected. With your amiable mother she cannot fail of being happy. I had persuaded Lady Belmont to walk in the garden. She went with me, leaning on my arm, when the door being opened the first object that struck her sight was the pavilion raised for the marriage of her daughter, which none of us had thought of having removed. She started, she returned hastily to her apartment, and throwing herself on a couch gave a loose to all the anguish of her soul. Velville, every object she meets will remind her of the darling of her heart. My Lord and Colonel Mandeville are together. They are projecting a tomb for their lovely children. A tomb worthy the ardor of their own parental affection, worthy to perpetuate the memories of their virtues, their love, and their wretched fate. How often shall I visit this tomb? How often shall I stir it with the sweetest flowers? Sunday Afternoon As I passed this moment through the saloon, I went mechanically to the window from whence we used to contemplate the happy group of villagers. Velville, how I was struck with the change. Not one of the late joyous train appeared. All was a dismal scene of silent, unsocial solitude. Lost to the idea of fear, all revere, all partake, the sorrows of the God-like benefactors. With Lady Julia, all joy has left the once charming shades of Belmont. Lord Fonville has gone past with his bride. In all the splendor of exulting transport, scarce can I forbear accusing heaven, the worthless live and prosper, the virtuous sink untimely to the grave. My Lord has ordered the pavilion to be removed. He will build an obelisk on the spot where it stood, on the spot once dedicated to the happiness of his child. A stranger has been today at the parish church, inquiring for the grave of Mr. Mandeville. His behavior witnessed the most lively sorrow. It can be no other than Mr. Herbert. I have told this to my Lord who will write and ask him to Belmont that he may mix his tears with ours. Whoever loved Mr. Mandeville will be here a most welcomed guest. Monday Morning I have persuaded Lady Belmont to go out for an hour with me in my cherry at this morning. We are to go a private road where we are sure of not seeing a human being. I do. Epistle the Earl To the Earl of Belmont, Mount Melvin, Wednesday My Lord, if my regret for the late dreadful event, an event embittered by the circumstances your last letter communicated to me, could receive any increase is certainly must from the generous behavior of Mr. Mandeville, whose care for my unhappy son when expiring is a proof his blood was drawn from the same source as our Lordship's. Yes, he was indeed worthy the happiness you intended him, worthy the honored name of Mandeville. Relived by the noble conduct of your lamented kinsmen, from the fears I entertained for my son's life, my sorrow for the miseries he has occasioned is only the more severe. I feel with unutterable anguish that my ancient friend, the friend of my earliest youth, is childless by the crime of him who owes his being to me. The blow his hand unwillingly struck has reached the heart of the incomparable Lady Julia. I think of her angelic perfections, of the untimely fate which has robbed the world of its loveliest ornament, and almost wish never to have been a father. Lady Rochedale and Louisa are in tears by me. Forever excluded from Belmont, they look on themselves as exiles, though at home. The horrors of mine under which my son labors are unutterable. He entreats to see Colonel Mandeville to obtain his pardon for that involuntary crime which has destroyed all the happiness of his life. Will you, my friend, once more admit us, allow us one interview with yourself and Colonel Mandeville? I ask no more, nor will ever repeat the visit. I could not support the sight of Lady Belmont. I am my lord, your lordship's most faithful, though wretched friend, Rochedale. Epistle the Earl to the Earl of Rochedale, Belmont, Wednesday. My lord. Convinced Lord Melvin is more uncomfortable than culpable, it would be cruel to treat him as a criminal. I feel a horror I cannot conquer at the idea of ever receiving the visit your lordship has proposed, but conscious of the injustice of indulging it, I sacrifice it to our ancient friendship, and only postpone not refuse the visit. I will struggle with the reluctance of my heart to see the guiltless author of my misery. As soon as he is publicly exculpated from the crime he at present stands charged with, Colonel Mandeville must appear as his accuser, wretched as his hand has made me, just as obliges me to bear witness to his innocence. Lady Anne Wilmot, who was present at Mr. Mandeville's dying declaration, is ready to confirm my evidence. Lord Melvin, therefore, has nothing to fear. The trial once passed I will endeavour to prevail on Colonel Mandeville and Lady Belmont to make the same painful sacrifice to friendship, to which time and reason will, I hope, perfectly reconcile us. But your lordship will, on a moment's reflection, be convinced that, till this is past, it would be indecent in me to see Lord Melvin. We are greatly obliged to Lady Rochdale and Lady Louisa, the time of whose visit their own politeness and sensibility will regulate. It is a severe addition to my wretchedness that the family of my friend is so fatally involved in it. Oh, Lord Rochdale, you are a father and can pity us. You can judge the anguish to which we must ever be a prey. Never more shall we know a cheerful hour. Our lost child will be ever at our hearts. When I remember her filial sweetness, her angel virtues, her matchless perfections, the only view we had in life was to see her happy. That is past, and all is now a dreary wild before us. Time may blunt the keen edge of sorrow and enable us to bear the load of life with patience, but never must we hope the return of peace. The shortness of life and the consideration of how much of our own is past are the only consolations we can receive. It cannot be long before we rejoin our beloved child. We have only to pray for that ardently expected hour which will reunite us to all we love. Why will man lay schemes of lasting felicity? By an over solicitude to continue my family and name and secure the happiness of my child, I have defeated my own purpose and fatally destroyed both. Humboldened in the dust I confess the hand of heaven, the pride of birth, the grandeur of my house, had too great a share in my resolves. Oh, my friend, but I consider the hand which directed the blow and submit to the will of my God. I am and see Belmont. Epistle Colonel to Colonel Belleville, Belmont Sunday morning. I am desired by my Lord to ask you hither and to beg you will bring my niece with you. Lady Belmont joins in the request. Her nobleness of sentiment has conquered the reluctance. She had to see her. She has even promised to endeavor to bear the sight of Lord Melvin, but I fear this is more than is in her power. She fainted when the request was first made. Lady Mary is expected here this evening. Belville, you are coming to Belmont once the smiling paradise of friendship. Alas, how changed from that once happy abode, where are those blameless pleasures, that convivial joy, those sweet follies which once gave such charms to this place, forever gone, forever changed to a gloomy sadness, forever buried with Lady Julia. Lady Belmont struggles nobly with her grief. She is consented to see her friends, to see all who will hear her talk of her child. A tender melancholy has taken place of those horrors, which it was impossible long to support and live. Colonel Mandeville is to stay at Belmont. They are to indulge in all the voluptuousness of sorrow. They are to sit all day and talk of their children, and count the hours till they follow them to the grave. They have invited all who will join in tears with them. The coach is gone today for Mr. and Mrs. Herbert. Emily Howard and I bend our whole thoughts to find out means to soften their sorrows. I hope much from your conversation, and the endearing sensibility of your soul. It is not by resisting, but by soothing grief, that we must heal the wounded heart. There is one pleasure to which they can never be insensible. The pleasure of relieving the miseries of others. To divert their attention from the sad objects which now engross them, we must find out the retreats of wretchedness. We must point out distress which it is in their power to alleviate. Oh, Belville, but in vain does the pride of human wisdom seek to explore the councils of the most high. Certain of the paternal care of our creator, our part is submission to his will. End of section 30. Recording by Jadapi. www.publicdomainaudiobooks.blogspot.com End of the History of Lady Julia Mandeville by Francis Brooke.