The Sylph Part 11

As is too common in such cases, the public-house seemed the properest asylum for the disappointed lover. He there met with a recruiting serjeant of the Colonel's, who, we since find, was sent on purpose to our village, to get Nancy's future husband out of the way. The bait unhappily took, and before morning he was enlisted in the king's service. His father and mother, half distracted, ran to our house, to learn the cause of this rash action in their son. Nancy, whose virtuous attachment to her former lover had only been lulled to sleep, now felt it rouze with redoubled violence. She pictured to herself the dangers he was now going to encounter, and accused herself with being the cause.

Judging of the influence she had over the Colonel, she flew into his presence; she begged, she conjured him, to give the precipitate young soldier his discharge. He told her, 'he could freely grant any thing to her pet.i.tion, but that it was too much his interest to remove the only obstacle to his happiness out of the way, for him to be able to comply with her request. However,' continued he, taking her hand, 'my Nancy has it in her power to preserve the young man.' 'Oh!' cried she, 'how freely would I exert that power!' 'Be mine this moment,' said he, 'and I will promise on my honour to discharge him.' 'By that sacred word,' said Nancy, 'I beg you, Sir, to reflect on the cruelty of your conduct to me!

what generous professions you have made voluntarily to me! how sincerely have you promised me your friends.h.i.+p! and does all this end in a design to render me the most criminal of beings?' 'My angel,' cried the Colonel, throwing his arms round her waist, and pressing her hand to his lips, 'give not so harsh a name to my intentions. No disgrace shall befall you. You are a sensible girl; and I need not, I am sure, tell you, that, circ.u.mstanced as _I_ am in life, it would be utterly impossible to marry you. I adore you; you know it; do not then play the s.e.x upon me, and treat me with rigour, because I have candidly confessed I cannot live without you. Consent to bestow on me the possession of your charming person, and I will hide your lovely blushes in my fond bosom; while you shall whisper to my enraptured ear, that I shall still have the delightful privilege of an husband, and Will Parker shall bear the name. This little delicious private treaty shall be known only to ourselves. Speak, my angel, or rather let me read your willingness in your lovely eyes.' 'If I have been silent, Sir,' said my poor girl, 'believe me, it is the horror which I feel at your proposal, which struck me dumb. But, thus called upon, let me say, I bless Heaven, for having allowed me to see your cloven-foot, while yet I can be out of its reach. You may wound me to the soul, and (no longer able to conceal her tears) you have most sorely wounded me through the side of William; but I will never consent to enlarge him at the price of my honour. We are poor people. He has not had the advantages of education as you have had; but, lowly as his mind is, I am convinced he would first die, before I should suffer for his sake. Permit me, Sir, to leave you, deeply affected with the disappointments I have sustained; and more so, that in part I have brought them on myself.' Luckily at this moment a servant came in with a letter. 'You are now engaged, Sir,' she added, striving to hide her distress from the man. 'Stay, young woman,' said the Colonel, 'I have something more to say to you on this head.' 'I thank you Sir,' said she, curtseying, 'but I will take the liberty of sending my father to hear what further you may have to say on this subject.' He endeavoured to detain her, but she took this opportunity of escaping. On her return, she threw her arms round her mother's neck, unable to speak for sobs. Good G.o.d! what were our feelings on seeing her distress! dying to hear, yet dreading to enquire. My wife folded her speechless child to her bosom, and in all the agony of despair besought her to explain this mournful silence. Nancy slid from her mother's incircling arms, and sunk upon her knees, hiding her face in her lap: at last she sobbed out, 'she was undone for ever; her William would be hurried away, and the Colonel was the basest of men.' These broken sentences served but to add to our distraction. We urged a full account; but it was a long time before we could learn the whole particulars. The poor girl now made a full recital of all her folly, in having listened so long to the artful addresses of Colonel Montague, and the no less artful persuasions of our perfidious neighbour; and concluded, by imploring our forgiveness. It would have been the height of cruelty, to have added to the already deeply wounded Nancy. We a.s.sured her of our pardon, and spoke all the comfortable things we could devise. She grew tolerably calm, and we talked composedly of applying to some persons whom we hoped might a.s.sist us.

Just at this juncture, a confused noise made us run to the door, when we beheld some soldiers marching, and dragging with them the unfortunate William loaded with irons, and hand-cuffed. On my hastily demanding why he was thus treated like a felon, the serjeant answered, he had been detected in an attempt to desert; but that he would be tried to-morrow, and might escape with five hundred lashes; but, if he did not mend his manners for the future, he would be shot, as all such cowardly dogs ought to be; and added, they were on the march the regiment. Figure to yourself, Madam, what was now the situation of poor Nancy. Imagination can hardly picture so distressed an object. A heavy stupor seemed to take intire possession of all her faculties. Unless strongly urged, she never opened her lips, and then only to breathe out the most heart-piercing complaints. Towards the morning, she appeared inclinable to doze; and her mother left her bed-side, and went to her own. When we rose, my wife's first business was to go and see how her child fared; but what was her grief and astonishment, to find the bed cold, and her darling fled! A small sc.r.a.p of paper, containing these few distracted words, was all the information we could gain:

'My dearest father and mother, make no inquiry after the most forlorn of all wretches. I am undeserving of your least _regard_. I fear, I have forfeited _that_ of Heaven. Yet pray for me: I am myself unable, as I shall prove myself unworthy. I am in despair; what that despair may lead to, I dare not tell: I dare hardly think. Farewell. May my brothers and sisters repay you the tenderness which has been thrown away on A.

Johnson!' My wife's shrieks reached my affrighted ears; I flew to her, and felt a thousand conflicting pa.s.sions, while I read the dreadful scroll. We ran about the yard and little field, every moment terrified with the idea of seeing our beloved child's corpse; for what other interpretation could we put on the alarming notice we had received, but that to destroy herself was her intention? All our inquiry failed. I then formed the resolution of going up to London, as I heard the regiment was ordered to quarters near town, and _hoped_ there. After a fruitless search of some days, our strength, and what little money we had collected, nearly exhausted, it pleased the mercy of heaven to raise us up a friend; one, who, like an angel, bestowed every comfort upon us; in short, all comforts in one--our dear wanderer: restored her to us pure and undefiled, and obtained us the felicity of looking forward to better days. But I will pursue my long detail with some method, and follow my poor distressed daughter thro' all the sad variety of woe she was doomed to encounter. She told us, that, as soon as her mother had left her room, she rose and dressed herself, wrote the little melancholy note, then stole softly out of the house, resolving to follow the regiment, and to preserve her lover by resigning herself to the base wishes of the Colonel; that she had taken the gloomy resolution of destroying herself, as soon as his discharge was signed, as she could not support the idea of living in infamy. Without money, she followed them, at a painful distance, on foot, and sustained herself from the springs and a few berries; she arrived at the market-town where they were to take up their quarters; and the first news that struck her ear was, that a fine young fellow was just then receiving part of five hundred lashes for desertion; her trembling limbs just bore her to the dreadful scene; she saw the back of her William streaming with blood; she heard his agonizing groans! she saw--she heard no more! She sunk insensible on the ground. The compa.s.sion of the crowd around her, soon, too soon, restored her to a sense of her distress. The object of it was, at this moment, taken from the halberts, and was conveying away, to have such applications to his lacerated back as should preserve his life to a renewal of his torture. He was led by the spot where my child was supported; he instantly knew her. 'Oh! Nancy,' he cried, 'what do I see?' 'A wretch,' she exclaimed, 'but one who will do you justice.

Should my death have prevented this, freely would I have submitted to the most painful. Yes, my William, I would have died to have released you from those bonds, and the exquisite torture I have been witness to; but the cruel Colonel is deaf to intreaty; nothing but my everlasting ruin can preserve you. Yet you shall be preserved; and heaven will, I hope, have that mercy on my poor soul, which, this basest of men will not shew.' The wretches, who had the care of poor William, hurried him away, nor would suffer him to speak. Nancy strove to run after them, but fell a second time, through weakness and distress of mind. Heaven sent amongst the spectators that best of men, the n.o.ble-minded Baron. Averse to such scenes of cruel discipline, he came that way by accident; struck with the appearance of my frantic daughter, he stopped to make some inquiry. He stayed till the crowd had dispersed, and then addressed himself to this forlorn victim of woe. Despair had rendered her wholly unreserved; and she related, in few words, the unhappy resolution she was obliged to take, to secure her lover from a repet.i.tion of his sufferings. 'If I will devote myself to infamy to Colonel Montague,'

said she, 'my dear William will be released. Hard as the terms are, I cannot refuse. See, see!' she screamed out, 'how the blood runs! Oh!

stop thy barbarous hand!' She raved, and then fell into a fit again. The good Baron intreated some people, who were near, to take care of her.

They removed the distracted creature to a house in the town, where some comfortable things were given her by an apothecary, which the care of the Baron provided.

'By his indefatigable industry, the Baron discovered the basest collusion between the Colonel and serjeant; that, by the instigation of the former, the latter had been tampering with the young recruit, about procuring his discharge for a sum of money, which he being at that time unable to advance, the serjeant was to connive at his escape, and receive the stipulated reward by instalments. This infamous league was contrived to have a plea for tormenting poor William, hoping, by that means, to effect the ruin of Nancy. The whole of this black transaction being unravelled, the Baron went to Colonel Montague, to whom he talked in pretty severe terms. The Colonel, at first, was very warm, and wanted much to decide the affair, as he said, in an honourable way. The Baron replied, 'it was too _dishonourable_ a piece of business to be thus decided; that he went on sure grounds; that he would prosecute the serjeant for wilful and corrupt perjury; and how honourably it would sound, that the Colonel of the regiment had conspired with such a fellow to procure an innocent man so ignominious a punishment.' As this was not an affair of common gallantry, the Colonel was fearful of the exposure of it; therefore, to hush it up, signed the discharge, remitted the remaining infliction of discipline, and gave a note of two hundred pounds for the young people to begin the world with. The Baron generously added the same sum. I had heard my daughter was near town; the circ.u.mstances of her distress were aggravated in the accounts I had received. Providence, in pity to my age and infirmities, at last brought us together. I advertised her in the papers: and our guardian angel used such means to discover my lodgings, as had the desired effect. My children are now happy; they were married last week. Our generous protector gave Nancy to her faithful William. We propose leaving this place soon; and shall finish our days in praying for the happiness of our benefactor.'

"You will suppose," continued Miss Finch, "my dear Lady Stanley, how much I was affected with this little narrative. I left the good folks with my heart filled with resentment against Montague, and complacency towards Ton-hausen. You will believe I did not hesitate long about the dismission of the former; and my frequent conversations on this head with the latter has made him a very favourable interest in my bosom. Not that I have the vanity to think he possesses any predilection in my favour; but, till I see a man I like as well as him, I will not receive the addresses of any one."

We joined in our commendation of the generous Baron. The manner in which he disclaimed all praise, Miss Finch said, served only to render him still more praise-worthy. He begged her to keep this little affair a secret, and particularly from me. I asked Miss Finch, why he should make that request? "I know not indeed," she answered, "except that, knowing I was more intimate with you than any one beside, he might mention your name by way of enforcing the restriction." Soon after this, Miss Finch took leave.

Oh, Louisa! dare I, even to your indulgent bosom, confide my secret thoughts? How did I lament not being in the Park the day of this adventure. _I_ might then have been the envied _confidante_ of the amiable Ton-hausen. They have had frequent conversations in consequence.

The softness which the melancholy detail gave to Miss Finch's looks and expressions, have deeply impressed the mind of the Baron. Should I have shewn less sensibility? I have, indeed, rather sought to conceal the tenderness of my soul. I have been constrained to do so. Miss Finch has given her's full scope, and has riveted the chain which her beauty and accomplishments first forged. But what am I doing? Oh! my sister, chide me for thus giving loose to such expressions. How much am I to blame!

How infinitely more prudent is the Baron! He begged that _I_, of all persons, should not know his generosity. Heavens! what an idea does that give birth to! He has seen--Oh! Louisa, what will become of me, if he should have discovered the struggles of my soul? If he should have searched into the recesses of my heart, and developed the thin veil I spread over the feelings I have laboured incessantly to overcome! He then, perhaps, wished to conceal his excellencies from me, lest I should be too partial to them. I ought then to copy his discretion. I will do so; Yes, Louisa, I will drive his image from my bosom! I ought--I know it would be my interest to wish him married to Miss Finch, or any one that would make him happy. I am culpable in harbouring the remotest desire of his preserving his attachment to me. He has had virtue enough.

to conquer so _improper_ an attachment; and, if improper in him, how infinitely more so in me! But I will dwell no longer on this forbidden subject; let me set bounds to my pen, as an earnest that I most truly mean to do so to my thoughts.

Think what an enormous packet I shall send you. Preserve your affection for me, my dearest sister; and, trust to my a.s.severations, you shall have no cause to blush for

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER XXVIII.

TO Miss GRENVILLE.

This morning I dispatched to Anderton's Coffee-house the most elegant locket in hair that you ever saw. May I be permitted to say thus much, when the design was all my own? Yet, why not give myself praise when I can? The locket is in the form and size of that bracelet I sent you; the device, an altar, on which is inscribed these words, _To Grat.i.tude_, an elegant figure of a woman making an offering on her knees, and a winged cherub bearing the incense to heaven. A narrow plait of hair, about the breadth of penny ribbon, is fastened on each side the locket, near the top, by three diamonds, and united with a bow of diamonds, by which it may hang to a ribbon. I a.s.sure you, it is exceedingly pretty. I hope the Sylph will approve of it. I forget to tell you, as the hair was taken from my head by your dear hand before I married, I took the fancy of putting the initials J. G. instead of J. S. It was a whim that seized me, because the hair did never belong to J.S.

Adieu!

JULIA.

LETTER XXIX.

From the SYLPH to Lady STANLEY.

Will my amiable charge be ever thus encreasing my veneration, my almost adoration of her perfections? Yes, Julia; still pursue these methods, and my whole life will be too confined a period to render you my acknowledgments. Its best services have, and ever shall be, devoted to your advantage. I have no other business, and, I am sure, no other pleasure, in this world, than to watch over your interest; and, if I should at any time be so fortunate as to have procured you the smallest share of felicity, or saved you from the minutest inquietude, I shall feel myself amply repaid; repaid! Where have I learnt so cold an expression? from the earth-born sons of clay? I shall feel a bliss beyond the sensation of a mortal!

None but a mind delicate as your own can form an idea of the sentimental joy I experienced on seeing the letters J.G. on the most elegant of devices, an emblem of the lovely giver! There was a purity, a chasteness of thought, in the design, which can only be conceived; all expression would be faint; even my Julia can hardly define it. Wonder not at my boundless partiality to you. You know not, you see not, yourself, as I _know_ and _see_ you. I pierce through the recesses of your soul; each fold expands itself to my eye; the struggles of your mind are open to my view; I see how n.o.bly your virtue towers over the involuntary tribute you pay to concealed merit. But be not uneasy. Feel not humiliated, that the secret of your mind is discovered to me. Heaven sees our thoughts, and reads our hearts; we know it; but feel no restraint therefrom.

Consider me as Heaven's agent, and be not dismayed at the idea of having a window in your breast, when only the sincerest, the most disinterested of your friends, is allowed the privilege of looking through it. Adieu! May the blest above (thy only superiors), guard you from ill! So prays your

SYLPH.

LETTER x.x.x.

To the SYLPH.

Though encouraged by the commendations of my Sylph, I tremble when you tell me the most retired secrets of my soul are open to your view. You say you have seen its struggles. Oh! that you alone have seen them!

Could I be a.s.sured, that one _other_ is yet a stranger to those struggles, I should feel no more humiliated (though that word is not sufficiently strong to express my meaning), than I do in my confessions to Heaven; because I am taught to believe, that our thoughts are involuntary, and that we are not answerable for them, unless they tend to excite us to evil actions. Mine, thank G.o.d! have done me no other mischief, than robbing me of that _repose_, which, perhaps, had I been blest with insensibility, might have been my portion. But a very large share of insensibility must have been dealt out to me, to have guarded me from my sense of merit in one person, and my feeling no affliction at the want of it in another, that _other_ too, with whose fate mine is unavoidably connected. I must do myself that justice to say, my heart would have remained fixed with my hand, had my husband remained the same. Had _he_ known no change, my affections would have centered in him; that is, I should have pa.s.sed through life a duteous and observant partner of his cares and pleasures. When I married, I had never loved any but my own relations; indeed I had seen no _one_ to love. The language, and its emotions, were equally strangers to my ears or heart.

Sir William Stanley was the first man who used the one, and consequently, in a bosom so young and inexperienced as mine, created the other. He told me, he loved. I blushed, and felt confused; unhappily, I construed these indications of self-love into an attachment for him.

Although this bore but a small relation to love, yet, in a breast where virtue and a natural tenderness resided, it would have been sufficient to have guarded my heart from receiving any other impression. He did so, till repeated slights and irregularities on one hand, and on the other all the virtues and graces that can adorn and beautify the mind, raised a conflict in my bosom, that has destroyed my peace, and hurt my const.i.tution. I have a beloved sister, who deserves all the affection I bear her; from her I have concealed nothing. She has read every secret of my heart; for, when I wrote to her, reserve was banished from my pen.

This unfortunate predilection, which, believe me, I have from the first combated with all my force, has given my Louisa, who has the tenderest soul, the utmost uneasiness. I have very lately a.s.sured her, my resolves to conquer this fatal attachment are fixed and permanent. I doubt (and she thinks perhaps) I have too often indulged myself in dwelling upon the dangerous subject in my frequent letters. I have given my word I will mention him no more. Oh! my Sylph! how has he risen in my esteem from a recent story I have heard of him! How hard is my fate (you can read my thoughts, so that to endeavour to soften the expression would be needless), that I am constrained to obey the man I can neither love nor honour! and, alas! love the man, who is not, nor can be, any thing to me.

I have vowed to my sister, myself, and now to you, that, however hardly treated, yet virtue and rect.i.tude shall be my guide. I arrogate no great merit to myself in still preserving myself untainted in this vortex of folly and vice. No one falls all at once; and I have no temptation to do so. The man I esteem above all others is superior to all others. His manners refined, generous, virtuous, humane; oh! when shall I fill the catalogue of his excellent qualities? He pays a deference to me, at least used to do, because I was not tinctured with the licentious fas.h.i.+on of the times; he would lose that esteem for me, were I to act without decency and discretion; and I hope I know enough of my heart, to say, I should no longer feel an attachment for him, did he countenance vice. Alas! what is to be inferred from this, but that I shall carry this fatal preference with me to the grave! Let me, however, descend to _it_, without bringing disgrace on myself, sorrow on my beloved relations, and repentance on my Sylph, for having thrown away his counsels on an ingrate; and I will peacefully retire from a world for whose pleasures I have very little taste. Adieu.

JULIA STANLEY.

LETTER x.x.xI.

TO Lady STANLEY.

My dearest Sister,

It is with infinite pleasure I receive your promise, of no longer indulging your pen with a subject which has too much engaged your thoughts of late; a pleasure, heightened by the a.s.surance, that your silence in future shall be an earnest of banis.h.i.+ng an image from your idea, which I cannot but own, from the picture you have drawn, is very amiable, and, for that reason, very dangerous. I will, my Julia, emulate your example; this shall be the last letter that treats on this to-be-forbidden theme. Permit me, therefore, to make some comment on your long letter. Sure never two people were more strongly contrasted than the Baron and the Colonel. The one seems the kindly sun, cheris.h.i.+ng the tender herbage of the field; the other, the blasting mildew, breathing its pestiferous venom over every beautiful plant and flower.

However, do you, my love, only regard them as virtue and vice personified; look on them as patterns and examples; view them in no other light; for in _no other_ can they be of any advantage to you. You are extremely reprehensible (I hope, and believe, I shall never have occasion to use such harsh language again) in your strictures on the supposed change in the Baron's sentiments. You absolutely seem to regret, if not express anger, that _he_ has had virtue sufficient to resist the violence of an improper attachment. The efforts he has made, and my partiality for you supposes them not to have been easily made, ought to convince you, the conquest over ourselves is possible, though oftentimes difficult. It is, I believe, (and I may say I am certain from my own experience) a very mistaken notion, that we nourish our afflictions, by keeping them to ourselves. I said, I know so experimentally. While I indulged myself, and your tenderness induced you to do the same, in lamenting in the most pathetic language the perfidy of Mr. Montgomery and Emily Wingrove, I increased the wounds which that _perfidy_ occasioned; but, when I took the resolution of never mentioning their names, or ever suffering myself to dwell on former scenes, burning every letter I had received from either; though these efforts cost me floods of tears, and many sleepless nights, yet, in time, my reflections lost much of their poignancy; and I chiefly attribute it to my steady adherence to my laudable resolution. He deserved not my tenderness, even if only because he was married to another. This is the first time I have suffered my pen to write his name since that determination; nor does he now ever mix with my thoughts unless by chance, and then quite as an indifferent person. I have recalled his idea for no other reason, than to convince you, that, although painful, yet self-conquest is attainable. You will not think I am endued with less sensibility than you are; and I had long been authorized to indulge my attachment to this ingrate, and had long been cruelly deceived into a belief, that his regard was equal to mine; while, from the first, _you_ could have no _hope_ to lead you on by flowery footsteps to the confines of _disappointment_ and _despair_; for to those goals does that fallacious phantom too frequently lead. You envy Miss Finch the distinction which accident induced the Baron to pay her, by making her his _confidante_. Had you been on the spot, it is possible you might have shared his confidence; but, believe me, I am thankful to Heaven, that chance threw you not in his way; with your natural tenderness, and your unhappy predilection, I tremble for what might have been the consequence of frequent conversations, in which pity and compa.s.sion bore so large a share, as perhaps might have superseded every other consideration. I wish from my soul, and hope my Julia will soon join my wish, that the Baron may be in earnest in his attention to Miss Finch. I wish to have him married, that his engagements may increase, and prevent your seeing him so often, as you now do, for undoubtedly your difficulty will be greater; but consider, my dear Julia, your triumph will be _greater_ likewise. It is sometimes harder to turn one's eyes from a pleasing object than one's thoughts; yet there is nothing which may not be achieved by resolution and perseverance; both of which, I question not, my beloved will exert, if it be but to lighten the oppressed mind of her faithful

LOUISA GRENVILLE.

LETTER x.x.xII.

To the SYLPH.

Will my kind guardian candidly inform me if he thinks I may comply with the desire of Sir William, in going next Thursday to the masquerade at the Pantheon? Without your previous advice, I would not willingly consent. Is it a diversion of which I may partic.i.p.ate without danger?