'Does Arabella know you intend to marry?'
'O yes.'
'Where is she? May I see her?'
'She and her child reside at the distance of three miles from this place.'
I prevailed on Mr. Davenport to ride with me to the village in which Arabella resided; and, after introducing me to her, I also prevailed on him to leave us alone.
Arabella had beside her a tambour frame, at which she worked, when her cough and cold sweats would permit her. The little girl played on the floor. She received us with that sort of composure which seemed to denote the utter sacrifice of all her hopes and wishes, and that nothing was now left to excite agitation. I said, 'I am no stranger to your misfortunes, Arabella. In what manner did you support yourself, while Mr. Davenport was abroad?'
'By fancy works,' replied she, pointing to the frame. 'I endeavoured also to teach a school; but Mr. Davenport's father had spread such reports of me, which the birth of my child but too well confirmed, that scarce any one would give me the least encouragement.'
'What were your parents?'
'Poor shopkeepers, madam, who put themselves to numberless inconveniences to qualify me for earning my subsistence in a comfortable manner. Could I regain my health, and be removed to some place where no one knew my faults, Mr. Davenport should not be burthened with either of us; he should not——'
A tear rose, but quickly withdrew itself; and the serenity of a broken heart again took possession of her features.
'Why have you not urged Mr. Davenport to engage in some trade or profession?'
'Ah, madam, he has been brought up a gentleman. Trade would appear to him an indelible disgrace. He thinks he ought to respect the honour of his family, although they will not assist him. And as to a profession he has not the means.'
'And can you consent to live in possession of his affection and endearments, when he is married?'
'No, madam, no!' replied Arabella with firmness. 'The moment he becomes a husband, he is as dead to me as if the cold grave concealed him. He loves ease; he has been used to expence and pleasure—he will enjoy it all. I cannot live long, nor do I desire to live. I know he never will desert that poor babe—Don't you, madam, allow that innocent creature fully entitled to a father's protection?'
I had just taken the child on my lap. 'Yes,' said I: 'and you Arabella must live to see her possess it. My motives are not those of curiosity. I come to do you service; and I insist that you hope for better days. It shall be my part to devise better means than marriage for Mr. Davenport. I intend shortly to visit you again.'
I could not converse with Mr. Davenport any more that day, for it was necessary I should return and prepare myself to be partaker of a very splendid entertainment given by Sir Thomas Barlowe to all the fashionable people at Bath. I therefore engaged him to visit me again the next morning, and we separated.
Making mention of the entertainment brings Mr. Murden to my remembrance; and, as he played a part that very evening which attracted much notice and gave rise to speculation, I shall here relate it before I return to the subject of Mr. Davenport.
Ever since Mr. Murden joined us at Bath I have heard from his female acquaintance perpetual complaints of him. He was, they say, seducing, irresistible. No vivacity was ever so delicate as Murden's. No flattery ever so dangerous as from him. His look, his air, his voice, his gestures, all had their own peculiar character of persuasion. Thus captivating they say he was; and they lament, with all the energy of which they are capable, that he should now have become dull, lifeless and unbearable. I too, Sibella, have found him transformed. I see him negligent and inattentive to me and others; but he is neither dull nor lifeless. Some vision of imagination seems to possess him, to infuse into him as it were a new existence. I have seen his cheek glow, his eye beam. I have heard his breathings but half uttered; and, although at such moments I have suffered inconvenience from the want of his attention and assistance, I would rather have placed my safety in hazard than have disturbed his alluring dreams of fancy. So firmly has he become inaccessible to the temptations of dissipation and sensuality, that I revere his transformation and long for his confidence; but alas, I have to regret that he is secret and mysterious, and that while at Bath he has avoided me almost as constantly as he has neglected those damsels of fashion who have been calling forth all their enchantments to attract or subdue him.
To my great surprise, and some little satisfaction, no sooner was the Nabob's ball in preparation than Mr. Murden requested to be my partner. He had never danced here, though he had been frequently at the rooms; and I did expect to be honoured on this occasion by my fair friends with some very scornful looks and important whispers.—Hear the result.
The company assembled, a numerous and brilliant party. I had caught a previous glimpse of Mr. Murden elegantly dressed, and I expected every moment his appearance in the ball-room. That I was engaged I answered to several invitations; but to whom was yet in embryo, for the first, second, third and fourth minuet had been danced, and yet no partner for me appeared.
At length he came, but not with the smile of pleasure, not with the soft tread of politeness, the complacent mien of attention. No: he actually rushed upon us, his features almost distorted with some species of passion, his hair deranged, and the powder showered on his dress as if he had been dashing his head against some hard substance in a paroxysm of rage. And in this strange manner did he, with eager long strides, cross the saloon, and throw himself into the vacant seat beside me, uttering a deep groan.
The eyes of every one were upon him; and astonishment imposed silence on every tongue. 'Miss Ashburn! Miss Ashburn!' repeated he twice very loud; then closed his teeth and murmured through them some words I could not understand, and several horrid imprecations. He sat thus a few minutes, his countenance varying from the deepest red to a most livid paleness, when Sir Thomas approached. 'Why, nephew! why Arthur! what, what, are you ill?—are you——?' and, without finishing his speech, the baronet retired abruptly; for Murden gnashing his teeth at that instant his uncle conceived he was mad; and I believe the baronet was scarce assured he had escaped the infection.
A bolder man now walked up. No less than the Earl of Ulson, of whom you have heard me speak. ''Pon my soul, Murden, this is superlatively unusual! The ladies are actually terrified. Zounds! Murden, you must——'
We had not the good fortune to hear his lordship's advice to the end: for Mr. Murden, utterly inattentive to any thing but his own agitations, now snatched a crumpled letter from his pocket; and, tearing it into a thousand pieces, dashed the fragments on the floor. He there contemplated them a moment with a malignant smile; then carefully gathered up every fragment, and darted out of the room.
The band continued playing quite composedly; but the company assembled in separate groups, to communicate their various conjectures on the very extraordinary gambol this extraordinary young man had been playing. Sir Thomas's gentleman and a valet were sent in search of him and ordered to enquire into his malady; but we were presently informed that he was writing in his own chamber, and had bitterly sworn to blow out the brains of whatever person should dare to interrupt him. Brains not being a superfluity here, we e'en resolved to resume our dancing, and leave him alone to be as mad as he thought proper.
On the succeeding morning, I met him early and alone in the breakfast room. I was agitated with the expectation of hearing something painful and astonishing. I even intreated to be admitted to his confidence. He referred me to some future period. He spoke with calmness and resolution, but he seldom looked up. When the rest of the family joined us, my mother amused herself with affecting a ridiculous pity for him, Lady Barlowe painted her astonishment, while his uncle with much more sincerity laboured to impress us with an adequate idea of the terror he had suffered the preceding evening. Every syllable sunk into the soul of Murden. He preserved an inflexible and haughty silence: but I saw, in his agitated countenance, that he was frequently on the point of bursting into rage and madness. Sir Thomas Barlowe will on many occasions wind a shapeless circumstance round and round, till he has persuaded himself he has discovered something in it really insulting and injurious to him. He now conjectured, surmised, and talked of Murden's behaviour, till he had assured himself it could have no other design than to afflict him, the most affectionate of uncles; and, having for a short time indulged in the pathos of lamentation, he began to weep. Although I could scarcely forbear smiling at Sir Thomas Barlowe's folly, yet I was considerably affected by the sudden transition the baronet's tears produced in Murden. He forgot his anger and his dejection; he pressed his uncle's hand; soothed him with kind expressions: and, suddenly assuming an air of cheerfulness, began to hand the cups and arrange the tea-table.
'You are in love with some creature you are ashamed of, Murden,' said my mother; 'I will swear it.'
'Do, madam,' replied he.
'Now do tell, me nephew Arthur,' said the baronet, 'why you tore it to pieces so unmercifully—tell me, dear Arthur, all about that letter.'
Why should he, Sibella, have fixed his eyes on me, while the colour rushed from his cheek, at the mention of that letter? Why did he groan? Why did he appear no more during the whole of that day? Why has he since been so uniformly pensive? Why seek me as a companion, yet reject me as a friend? Such are the enquiries constantly obtruding themselves upon me.
Adieu, dear Sibella. The remainder of Davenport's story must again be deferred till another opportunity.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Sweet enthusiast! I loveliest romancer! sustained by thee, I could boldly defy the maxims of the world, could bear unmoved its taunting scorns, its loudest reproaches. Stimulated by thy visionary precepts, I could rush alone on its host of temptations, and attempt with the giant step of fortitude to tread their legions into nothingness!
Methinks, Arthur, I see her now: and an increase of warmth glides through every vein till it reaches my heart, which glows and throbs more proudly and more proudly, that the arbitress of its every motion is Sibella Valmont. Let imagination dress up her most airy forms, let fancy exhaust the riches of her invention, the vision thus created may dazzle, may delude in the absence of perfection; but bring the all-radiant charms of Sibella in contrast, and it sinks into vapour. Painting and language are alike incompetent to represent her.—Ha! that thought again shoots across my brain—I—I was inconstant!—Oh, I would give an eye, an ear, nay a limb, that I had never known other embraces!—Then I might have been all soul too:—what she now is, what I can imagine but never shall experience.—Yes, you gave the advice, Murden; and I, deserving almost damnation for the deed, stooped to gross allurements, and obeyed the calls of appetite, and I ought to have braved death in support of my constancy. Thank God! she cannot know it! And oh, may annihilation, or the worst of curses, fall on this head, rather than I again pollute myself, or entertain one thought within my breast that may not rank with her angelic purity!
Yes, Murden, I say purity. Ay, and she is as pure as angels, notwithstanding Clement has been admitted to her embraces. For I am her husband. She never heard of ties more holy, more binding, than those of the heart. Custom has not placed its sordid restraint on her feelings. Nature forms her impulses. Oh, she is Nature's genuine child! more lovely than painting can trace: yet robust as the peasant who climbs yon hill to toil for his hourly subsistence—soft as her lover's bounding wishes can desire: yet stedfast, aspiring, brave enough to lead an army in the field. No cowardly apprehensions enter her mind. She shrinks not from the wintry blast. Let the torrent descend, the wind howl, the lowering thunder roar: it affects not her peace. No trembling nerves has she!
Methinks I see her now: I hear again the harmony of that voice; now softening into the scarcely audible adieu; now rising into firmness, to instruct her Clement how to bear his destiny.
I had just quitted Mr. Valmont's study, where I underwent another torturing repetition of all the inconsistency of his designs for us. So freezing was his language, that it appeared to chill sensation; and when he presented me the 500l, which is to open my prospects in life, I was scarcely sensible either of its value or design.—I believe I never thanked him; and though I did not take his offered hand, its touch I dreaded more than the torpedo.
Languid, sunk, and overwhelmed, I crawled with feeble steps to my Sibella.—What a change! her vigour awakened mine; and as though hope, perseverance and courage had resigned themselves to her guidance, she commanded them to possess me wholly—commanded me to receive the noble inmates, and to vow I would be bravely independent, though a bed of straw were my portion and crumbs my fare.
I write this letter at my first resting place since I quitted Valmont castle; and the benignancy of my lovely Sibella has even chased my resentment towards you, but should an hour of lassitude perchance creep on me in my banishment, I may be tempted to enquire narrowly into the nature of your very mysterious epistles.
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
Clement—my Clement is gone! All is silence around me. The trees have dropped their leafy ornaments; the wind sweeps through them in mournful cadence. Their foliage no longer intercepts my eye when it would extend itself around the vast horizon. I, now seated on the ivy-covered ruins of the hermitage, view this space; and tell myself it contains not one being to whom Sibella is the object of esteem, tenderness, or concern. Oh Caroline, Caroline! I am weary of this solitude. My mind bursts the bounds prescribed to my person, and impels itself forward to share the advantages of society. Compelled to return to its prison, it is disgusted with its own conceptions, and sinks into languor and dissatisfaction. Could it be my parents who doomed me to this slavery? Did they deem the benefits of intercourse a blessing too great for their innocent offspring? No: it must be Mr. Valmont's own plan; 'tis he alone who could wish to rob me of the faculties of my soul; and, finding I dare think, dare aim to extend them, dare seek to be happy, he shuns me with aversion or loads me with reproach.
Why, if he meant me to degenerate into the mere brute, did he not chain me in a cave, shut out the light of the glorious sun, forbid me to converse with intelligent nature? Then I might have expressed my wants in a savage way; have ravenously satisfied the calls of hunger or thirst; and, lying down to enjoy the sleep of apathy, have thought, if I could have thought at all, that this was to be happy. A being superior to this only in a little craft, did Mr. Valmont design to make me: a timid, docile slave, whose thoughts, will, passions, wishes, should have no standard of their own, but rise, change or die as the will of a master should require! Such is the height of virtues I have heard Mr. Valmont describe as my zenith of perfection.
He laments that he suffered me to share in Clement's education. Happy mistake! Then I found I was to be the friend and companion of man—Man the image of Divinity!—Where, then, are the boundaries placed that are to restrain my thought?—To be the companion, I must be equal—To be the friend, I must have comprehension and judgment: must be able to assist, or willing to be taught.
In the little intercourse I have had with Mrs. Valmont, she also has placed before me her picture of females: a picture as absurd and much more unintelligible to me than the other. She represents beauty as the supreme good; ascribes to it the most fabulous effects of power, conquest, and dominion. She represented me to myself as entering your world; and transformed me into a being so totally without description, that I ran from her to seek again my own nature: to find the friend and companion of man.
You, Caroline, are not such as either of these people describe. No: nor am I. Then shall I—but let me be content—a very short time and I shall join my Clement: shall aid his labour with my exertions. Oh, my Clement, my love, my lover, speed forward to the accomplishment of thy talk! Oh, be thy desires as bounded as my wishes! Thy Sibella covets no castles, no palaces. Seek for her but a shelter from inclemency, and take her therein to liberty, to thee!
Often, Caroline, have I imagined the useless parts of that vast building converted into little cottages such as I have seen from the top of its turrets. Fancy has instantly peopled the desert. I have believed myself surrounded by an active hardy race. I have arisen to enjoy the delights of communication: when, perchance, the rushing of a silent fawn through the thicket has awakened me from my trance; has reminded me that I too was one of the solitary herd; that the castle with its moats, walls, and battlements yet stood where gloom and silence hold their court, where Mr. Valmont presides and denies Sibella his presence, and where the inexorable key is turned on that library lest she should think too often or too well.
Andrew comes through the wood—he beckons—holds up a letter.—'Tis your's, Caroline.
I have pondered on the contents of your letter three days. What shall I say for myself more than you have already said for me? I feel, I confess, that in being secret I have deceived Mr. Valmont, have been guilty of vice. But how could I, tell me, Caroline; for my future benefit tell if you can, how could I devise a means by which I might have preserved my sincerity and saved my lover?—I can not. Remember it was my Clement's peace, happiness, and welfare, for which I made the sacrifice.
Yet now I feel it forcibly; for I hesitate to declare the rest; I, who knew no concealment, have by one deviation from my sincerity even become cowardly and irresolute in friendship. I fear your censures, Caroline; and dare think of eluding them, because too conscious that I cannot refute them.—I persevere in secresy, in deception! Mr. Valmont is still unacquainted with our marriage. For myself, I had not done this—for myself, I could not perceive its value or necessity. I yielded to the ardent remonstrances of Clement; and promised to conceal our union, till his independence should have placed him beyond the mischief of my uncle's resentment. Ah! let me turn, to seek solace, in the end, for the means!
Be the means what they may, the end is effected. My Clement is restored. The energies of his mind are renovated. You will see him, Caroline: but you will see no feebleness in his character. You will find his love could never bea trifling effervescence; you will discover that we mutually love, from theintimate knowledge of increasing virtues; and no fabled or real oblivion can shed its influence on a love so elevated, so entire, so utterly beyond the reach of annihilation.
I conjure you, my friend, by your own words, to watch over my Clement—to preserve him free from taint; and to restore him, just such as he so lately quitted the arms of his, and your.
MADAM
That I most ardently desire to possess your esteem is, whether you believe it or not, a fact I avow with all possible sincerity. Nor is it less a fact, that I quitted Bath so abruptly to avoid giving you my confidence: the only thing in the world by which I could be entitled to ask your esteem.
'Why do I then write to you?'—you are about to demand—Ah! madam: I have by me a long catalogue of such unanswered questions—Why do I do this?—and why do I do that? insolently treads on the heel of my almost every action.
Can you find a name more despicable than folly for the will that acts in opposition to acknowledged reason? If you can—apply that worst of names to me—to my incomprehensible conduct.
Oh, Miss Ashburn, almost without a motive have I pursued a dream, a phantasy! The offspring of my heated imagination.—Fancy lent her utmost delusions, and dressed the vision in such glowing charms that neither prudence, honour, friendship, nor aught else could stay me in my course—not even the heavenly—
Whither am I running!—I would give a world that I could tell you—When! where! why! I dreamt and was awakened—not for a world's wealth though would I tell you.
'Tis past! 'tis done! the mischief is irretrievable.—The phantom remains; but the gilded hope that illumined her path is gone—despair casts its length of shade around me; and sunshine is no more.
Let me recollect myself.—When I began to write, I meant to request you would say something conciliating for me to Sir Thomas. The letter I left for him was written in haste and from a sudden impulse, and probably expressed nothing I either meant or ought to have said—I beseech you, madam, do this for me. I know my uncle looks on me with affection; and I do not consider myself entitled to make so free with the happiness of others as I have done with my own.
If he has any expostulations to offer, any reproaches to make me, let him send them to Barlowe Hall. There I shall be some time. But let him not ask me to come to London.——No: Miss Ashburn, theignis fatuusis still in view; and, though I perfectly understand its nature and have no hope nor scarce a wish to overtake it, yet am I, lunatic-like, galloping after it over hedge, bog, and briar.
From this assurance, and from the many other things you know of me, you will believe I am in the right to subscribe myself the infatuated, miserable,
A. MURDEN
For the first time of my life, have I become the assiduous watcher of windows, the listener after footsteps; and have lived eternally in the drawing room. Yet has no Clement Montgomery appeared; and I have just now recollected that my desire of knowing him will not accelerate his approach, that so much time given to expectation is so much thrown away, and that to employ the same quantity of time in endeavouring to amuse you would be more friendly and of course more laudable.
Once more then, Sibella, we are in London, this great metropolis, alike the resort of him who possesses wealth and him who seeks to attain it. Here merit comes, hoping in the vast concourse to find the protector of talent; and hither the deliberating villain hastens, expecting the crowd will be at once favourable to the practice of his crimes, and the means of escaping their punishment. What a field here is opened for the speculator, and the moralist! And often, Sibella, do I anticipate the time when we shall look on the chequered scenes of life together. When—but let me give you the remainder of Davenport's history while is is yet fresh in my memory.
Punctual to the minute I had named, Davenport entered my apartment. The same species of settled gloom I observed the preceding day in Arabella, marked his voice and gesture. He looked so familiarized, so wedded to sadness and misfortune that, desirous of expressing in my demeanour the kindness my heart felt for him, I approached and held out my hand to receive his. He lightly pressed it; and coldly bowing, retreated to a seat on the other side of the room. From that motion, I perceived he now viewed me as one who had saved him from the commission of an action which, although of evil and dangerous tendency, would have produced to him a benefit he knew not how, in any other way to procure; and that after rendering it impossible for him to marry, I was about to leave him with some general advice to the horrors of his situation. This he imagined was the utmost of my ability; he had convinced himself of the goodness of my intentions, and could not altogether call me his enemy; but he was now looking round, hopeless and despairing, for the almost supernatural means which could extricate him from his poverty and distress.
The power was mine; and I hastened to relieve him from the anguish he endured. I told him, he should render himself independent and happy; that my pecuniary assistance should go hand and hand with his endeavours; and enquired if he had any friends who could advise him in the choice of a profession.
'Not a creature in the world who would not rather advise him to end his miseries and disgrace with a pistol.' This was Davenport's answer.
I recollected that I had noticed some little intimacy between him and Mr. Murden; and, supposing the precariousness of dependence must have occasionally led Murden's thoughts to the same views, I concluded his judgment would be useful. 'Let us consult Mr. Murden,' said I.
'No: Miss Ashburn!' cried Davenport, reddening violently. 'Contrive it all yourself; I will obey you wherever I can; but do not command me to the revolting task of declaring to all the world that I am—a beggar. When Murden and I first knew each other, I was the expected heir to a good fortune; and, as I was descended from some of the first families in the kingdom, Murden moved in a sphere below me. He stands where he did; but I alas am fallen.—Yet I won't hear him exult and triumph in affected pity.—No: no! I could tell him that even a nabob's wealth cannot blazen him with the honours that cling to the name of Davenport.'
He spoke this with surprising bitterness.
'For pity's sake, Mr. Davenport,' said I, 'do not lay on high birth more infirmities than, from its nature, it unavoidably possesses. Were you ten times more honourably descended it could not alter Murden's ability to advise you, it could not degrade him or exalt you. I have seen you court his conversation: and did you imagine your poverty was then a secret? Oh, no! who could mistake the cause of your seeking to become Mrs. Ashburn's husband? In defiance of his uncle's displeasure, Murden refused this very marriage. At the same time, I must acknowledge, his firmness has not undergone the trial you have suffered; for he had no Arabella, I believe.'
Davenport threw his arms across upon the table by which he sat, laying his head upon them. The attitude prevented my seeing his face; but I thought he wept. A half supressed sob rose at intervals.
Thus he remained; for unwilling to press too hard on his prejudices, I relinquished the idea of consulting any other person, and sat silently examining plans for his future service. His age, his quickness of apprehension, and his manners which are pleasing to persons of every station, inclined me to think the study of physic would be well adapted to his capacity and talents. I made the proposal; named the sum I would give him yearly till he should be qualified to provide for himself; and his gratitude was expressed with the same vehemence which alike attends him on trivial or important occasions.
You will perhaps wonder, Sibella, that is, if the value of money is at all known to you, and if its importance ever occupies your thoughts, how am I enabled to make so lavish a use of it.
On our first arrival in England, my mother assigned me an annual income proportioned to the splendour of her appearance, and the immense fortune that I am destined to possess when her advantages in it shall be eternally proscribed.
That I do not employ this allowance in keeping pace with her elegance, that I do not blaze in jewels, and riot in the luxury of dress, displeases my mother; yet she continues me the stated income, flattering herself daily though daily disappointed that I will secure my own indulgencies by overlooking the errors reason tells me I am to condemn in her.
But to return to Davenport: on the subsequent morning, I ordered my horse very early intending to pass an hour with Arabella, when a servant informed me Mr. Davenport and a lady requested to see me. I hurried down stairs, to chide Mr. Davenport for suffering Arabella (supposing it must be her) to hazard an increase of her disorder, by coming out while the air was raw and cold, and the morning fog not yet dispelled. I opened the parlour door with the reproof almost ready on my lips, when Davenport, with his eyes glistening, his cheeks glowing, seized my hand and placed it within that of a young lady, who kissed it, and with mingled ardour and pleasure pressed it to her bosom. Surprised, I stepped back; and, looking alternately at her and at Davenport, a strong resemblance anticipated his introduction of a sister.
This sister, whom Davenport had forgotten in his misfortunes, was newly married; and had arrived at Bath the preceding evening, with her husband, a merchant of the name of Beville. Davenport had related the scenes he had passed through in those glowing colours whose use is so familiar to him; and the whole family were disposed to think I had rendered them an important service. Accepting Mrs. Beville's invitation to dinner, I was that day introduced also to Mr. Beville and Miss Harriot Davenport.
Davenport's feelings are ever alive to extremes. He was now in the bosom of his family. He saw his sister no longer the humble dependent of a proud relation, but the wife of an affectionate opulent husband, sharing her advantages too with his other sister. Then, how could Davenport look at them and remember either what he had been or might yet be. He was extravagant; sometimes brilliant, but always fanciful; and the incoherencies of his conversation formed an amusing contrast with the steady uniform bluntness of Mr. Beville. He was even too gay to be grateful; for, instead of thanking his brother-in-law for an offer of taking him into immediate partnership, in preference to the plan I had proposed, on terms so liberal as brought tears from his sister's eyes, Davenport began to ridicule and burlesque trade. He was determined for this afternoon at least to enjoy his mirth in defiance of the checks, instigations, or reproaches of the better inmates sincerity and common sense.
Poor fellow! The grimace, the laugh, the jest reign no longer; for Arabella cannot live! Perfectly satisfied with the prospects of her Henry, with his affection for her child, and the present attentions of his family to her, she calmly looks forward to that abode where thewicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest; while he suffers ten thousand agonies in anticipating their eternal separation.
With Mrs. Beville and Harriot Davenport the remembrance of Arabella's former transgression now lies dormant, their former affection revives, gains new strength from the aid of pity, and instigates them to attend the dying Arabella as a sister. But I suspect from accidental hints they are yet infected with the worldly maxim that the guilt of such a sailing remains wholly with the female, from whom in every other instance of life we look for nothing but weakness and defect. Love more perhaps than reason has taught Davenport a better lesson; he would certainly have married Arabella, and Mr. Beville would have supported him in the resolution, knowing it to be now as much his duty as it was before their mutual duty to abstain from the transgression.
Thus have I saved Davenport. But not my mother. No—she will assuredly marry to prove to me her power and pre-eminence. She will pique herself also on choosing a husband, as handsome as engaging as the fugitive Davenport.
In the mean time flattery is flattery; and the dose being doubled from a female tongue approaches so near to an equivalent that the immediate necessity of a lover becomes less urgent. The happy Mrs. Ashburn—happy in her acquisitions—has lately gained a companion who can treble the quantity on occasion. In good English language, with the animation of French vivacity and French action, Mademoiselle Laundy deals out her bursts of admiration and exstacies of rapture from one of the prettiest mouths in the world. Shaping herself, most Proteus-like, to the whim of the moment, my mother sees not that she is young and handsome; and, could a painting be shown to Mrs. Ashburn the exact but silent representation of Mademoiselle Laundy, unless previously instructed to look for the likeness, I am positive she would not recognize one feature of her companion.
This young person was born of English parents who were settled in France. Her father, being deprived of an enormous pension, by the change of government, chose rather to break his heart than live upon a contracted income, which could only furnish him with the necessaries of life; and such worthless accommodations as are beneath the enjoyment of a courtier.
After his decease, a ci-devant Dutchess brought Mademoiselle Laundy to England, to try her fortune; and, most opportunely, chance threw her in our way at the very same time when my mother was seized with the rage of entertaining a companion. Money was an object with Mademoiselle Laundy, but none to Mrs. Ashburn; and the former knew how to hold off from the bargain till the latter's wishes and expectations were wound up to the highest. The pride also of enabling her companion to outdress half the fashionable young women about town was doubtless an additional motive with Mrs. Ashburn; and the enormous salary demanded was to me the first unfavourable specimen of Mademoiselle Laundy's principles.
Nor has the young lady improved on farther acquaintance. Supple as she is, she cannot accommodate the feigned artlessness of her countenance to the examination of my eye. Native simplicity would neither court nor retire; but Mademoiselle Laundy invites my favour, while she evades my scrutiny.
Resigning her personal pretensions to charm, and labouring incessantly to acknowledge the already inflated superiority of the people around her, she becomes the universal favourite; and 'tis hard to say whether thedear, unfortunate, amiable, Mademoiselle Laundy is more necessary to Mrs. Ashburn or to Mrs. Ashburn's acquaintance.
To her establishment here, however, I cannot object, because I should not be understood. Picking and stealing to be sure are very atrocious things; but who ever thought of calling selfishness, art, and insincerity by the name of vice?—Oh no! garret-lodgings philosophers may speculate, and dream over their airy systems; but we people of fashion know better things. We know self-love and insincerity to be useful and important qualities, the grand cement which binds our intercourse with each other. Born a superior race, we can bid truth and plain honesty depart; and, having dressed falsehood and guile in all the fascination of the senses, can bow down before the idol of our own creation.
'Tis all true, Sibella: although, in rambling about your woods, and looking into your own heart, and arranging the matter of your former studies, you may find what ought to be, you cannot discover one trait of what really exists.
Sir Thomas Barlowe is ill of the gout, and almost pines in his confinement for the society of his nephew; while the whimsical Murden, in defiance of command or intreaty, is capering about the country nobody knows why, nor nobody knows where.
Murden! Why cannot I name Murden without feeling a portion of that anxiety which so visibly preys on the happiness, and throws a veil of mystery over the actions of that inconsistent young man?
Various have been the endeavours I have used to understand the nature of his mind's disease; but he has wrapped an impenetrable fold of secresy around his heart. At times, I imagined that acknowledgment was ready to burst from his lips; nay I even imagined at times I had caught some remote allusions that I thought I understood; yet in attempting to trace them to a source, I lost their original form, and became more and more entangled in the labyrinths of surmise.
As Sir Thomas and Lady Barlowe regulate all their jaunts and expeditions by ours, and as we have together made one household at Bath, it was natural enough that we should journey together to London. Mr. Murden of course was included in the arrangements; and he neither breathed a syllable of doubt or objection to the plan. The evening before we quitted Bath, our party included only four or five visitors, but had there been twenty I must have directed all my attention towards Murden. The preceding day I had seen him petulant; and the preceding part of that day, I had observed him to be more than commonly pensive and absent. He did not appear at dinner; but joined us early in the evening, with smiles and gaiety. So sudden and so singular a change excited my wonder and curiosity! I perceived it was not the gaiety of force; yet it had a tinge of complacent melancholy; and, from his subsequent conduct, I am convinced it had its origin in some determination he had taken, whether for himself, fortunate or unfortunate, the sequel alone can explain.
He shook my hand affectionately, when he bade us good night; and, at breakfast the following morning, we learned that he had galloped away at day break. He had left a letter for his uncle, not filled with flattering apologies, never fear it, but containing a short harangue on the impossibility of his going at present to London, and a few cold wishes for the general safety of the party at large.
Since that time, I also have been favoured with a letter from him which, although it is not intended to elucidate any part of his conduct, has brought back to my mind, with additional force, a surmise I formerly dismissed as too improbable.
What a length of letter! You see, Sibella, how closely I consider our feelings as united; for, while I endure no weariness myself, I fear not the chance of inflicting it upon you. Adieu, my sweet friend: may principle alone, not personal fatal experience, teach you, that your present system of secresy is erroneous.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
What a life have I led these three days! An old house my habitation, built according to old customs, with its casements staring at one another across a narrow court, and the very offices turning their backs on noble prospects; two old men and one ugly old woman my companions. No young nor pretty face abides within these walls, for thy poor friend's amusement.
Called up at nine! and, what is still worse, sent to bed at eleven! Did you ever go to bed at eleven, Boyer?—There I wake, and dose, and dream—dream I hear the inspiring rattle of dice boxes—wake, and curse myself for ever having known their enticements, and then curse them for not being now beside me.
What, in the name of wonder, could have become of you the day I left London! Your valet was drunk when I stopped full of intelligence at your lodgings. Uc—and Hic—was all I could get from the fellow for a time—and then followed 'Yes, Sir,—to be sure, my Lord—I'll tell you at once—my Lord is gone, Sir,—in a post-chaise and four, my Lord.'—
'Where is Sir Walter gone, puppy?'
'Sir Walter, my Lord!—Oh yes—Sir Walter is gone—I don't know where he is gone, Sir Walter.'
Drive on, cried I; and home I went, to step from my carriage to the travelling chaise, in which with my dear father I was gently whirled down to Monkton Hall.
What a life have I led these three days!—A pestilence on your throat, I say!—There he sits, Walter, the bird of night and wisdom; and, with his quavering Hoo——oo——oo, calls on me to be solemn if I can't be wise. I hate wisdom; and, had I not a story to tell you, would sit down and rail at it.
Every clock from every steeple last Wednesday morning sounded seven as I with pledged honour and empty pockets drove home from ——. The memento was insolent; and I was splenetic. I longed to throw stones at the steeples; and to knock down each sturdy porter who looked into the chariot, to inform me by his clear eye and vigorous step that he has passed the night in rest, and had arisen poor indeed but happy. Impudent scoundrel! He, a porter! I, a viscount!
I undressed and went to bed; where I had the felicity of ruminating till ten o'clock upon the vast increase of my knowledge and happiness since I became so intimately connected with Spellman and his associates. At which hour of ten, the Earl sent a servant to request I would breakfast with him. Qualms of apprehension stole upon me. I foreboded strange discoveries and severe remonstrances; and, as I felt too humbled in my own opinion to be insolent even to my father, I considered how to avoid the interview, till I had mechanically staggered into the Earl's dressing-room, where I was received with 'good morning to your lordship.'
'I hope you are well, my Lord,' said I; and throwing myself across the sopha we sipped a cup of chocolate in silence.
'I enquired for you last evening,' said the Earl. 'I believe, Lord Filmar, it was extremely late ere you came home.'
'It was extremely late my Lord,' replied I. As I so readily agreed in his opinion, the Earl was at a loss how to proceed. Twice he removed his chair, played with a tea-spoon, and we finished our chocolate.
After the breakfast things were removed, the Earl turned his chair more toward me. 'Hem,' said he,—'Hem!' I arose and wished his lordship a good morning.
'Stay, Lord Filmar, a moment—pray sit down. Hem! I understand but too well—that is I suspect—I am fearful, the company you keep will do you harm.'
Now, Walter, this man, the Earl of Elsings! a peer of the realm of Great Britain! had not courage to say to his own son—'Dick, thou art a fool, and wilt be a beggar. Thy companions are gamblers, sharpers, and knaves; and henceforward I command thee to abstain from their society.'
'You astonish me, my Lord,' answered I, with great apparent simplicity; 'I could not suppose I should displease you by associating with men of rank.'
'Oh certainly, not! By no means! Only I would insinuate that play is dangerous, and your income small.'
Small indeed, thought I. A considerable pause succeeded; and then my father's countenance brightened. 'I purpose going down this day to Sir Gilbert Monkton's,' said he. I wished him an agreeable journey. 'You must go with me, Lord Filmar.'
'Nay, pray excuse me, Sir. Consider the season, the place, and the society. How can your lordship plan such an expedition at this part of the year? You will inevitably bring on an ague, or a nervous fever. Dear, my Lord, don't think of it!'
'Indeed,' replied the Earl, 'nothing but a view to your interest could have determined me to make Sir Gilbert a visit now. Your interest, Lord Filmar, has strong claims upon me. Your present income scarcely exceeds 1000l. a-year; and you well know that, with all my care and prudence, I have not so far recovered former encumbrances as to be able to leave with the title of Elsings more than a clear 5,000l. per annum.'—The Earl paused, hemmed, picked up a scrap of paper, then hemmed again, and proceeded.
'You know, I think you know, Mr. Valmont.' I bowed assent; and the Earl looked as if he wished I had spoken; but I was resolved to hear him to the end.
'Yes, you do know, Mr. Valmont: a very singular man. He has strange ideas of education. In all our conversations on the topic, I never could be brought to coincide with him. Yet he is a worthy man too. He has a prodigious fine estate at Moor Down; and that estate round the castle is in excellent order. A strange Gothic dismal place that castle of his to be sure. I cannot remember how long it is since it was built; but it was a Valmont built it I know. It has never been out of the family. Yet I wonder he should choose always to reside in it; and to keep his niece in it also. His niece—Hem!—You know, Lord Filmar, I am one of Miss Valmont's guardians.' I bowed again. 'I am told she is very handsome. She was a beautiful child. I have not seen her these ten years. It was very singular, indeed, I think to guard her so closely from every one's observation. Yes, Lord Filmar, Mr. Valmont's mode of thinking is certainly very singular. Miss Valmont's father was a most accomplished man; and one of my most intimate friends. He built a seat after the Italian manner, tasty and elegant as you can possibly suppose. He was very fond of Italy. Poor man, he died there. I wish I could have prevailed on Mr. Valmont to allow his niece a more enlarged education; her manners, I think, must be constrained and ungraceful: but certainly, as her father's brother, Mr. Valmont had a right to claim the sole protection of her person, and to bring her up as he thought proper.'
My father paused; and, though I could not immediately perceive the tendency of this ratiocination, I was resolved not to assist him, and remained silent.
'I was telling you, Lord Filmar, how much care and pains I have taken to redeem the Elsing estate. Let me advise you to leave off play, and to think of settling yourself advantageously. Would not a beautiful bride adorn the title of Lady Filmar?'
'I do not perceive,' answered I, 'that the title of Filmar wants any other ornament than it already possesses. Remember, dear Sir, I am scarcely two and twenty.'
Now, Walter, the Earl was not content with the simple recollections I had urged to him, but he began also to remember my profusion, my—my follies, (if you please) and my inadequate provision for them.
'Stop, my Lord,' cried I; 'and pray inform me what fortune my poor lordship has a right to expect as an antidote for matrimonial poison?'
'I think,' replied my father, 'that a lady of honourable descent, of good expectations, and possessing an unentailed six or seven thousand a year would be a very proper match for you.'
'And that lady is Miss Valmont.'
'No such thing! no such thing!' cried the Earl almost starting from his seat.—'Will you dare, Lord Filmar, to assert that I said so?'
'Indeed will I not, my Lord. So far from it, I have heard you repeatedly declare she was left wholly dependent on her uncle. But why you should then be involved in the cares of guardianship, or why you should be inclined to saddle my encumbered estate with a wife without a fortune, I own appears a little mysterious.'
Be the true state of the case what it may (and we will talk of that hereafter) 'tis certain that every working muscle of the Earl's countenance betrayed the insincerity of his assertions, while he point blank denied that he had any reference to Valmont's niece when he proposed giving me a bride. I affected to be convinced; and, with a kind of lazy curiosity, played with my dog and asked questions about Miss Valmont, and wound my father round and round this dependent orphan, till I was nearly as assured as though it were on lawyer's deeds before me that six or seven thousand pounds a year is the lady's marriage portion.
A saucy triumphant smile at length betrayed me. The Earl reddened violently; and degenerated into such hints about certain affairs of mine that I suddenly jumped up, said I would attend him wherever he pleased, wished his lordship a hasty good morning, and drove away to deposit my burthen of confidence with you.
Well then, Walter; here we are at Monkton Hall, and Valmont's frowning fortress stands only at three miles distance; but still I am not one foot forwarder in the direct road of knowing why we came hither. In the bye-paths of windings and inuendo, indeed, I have made a little progress. I have discovered, Walter, that the Earl has a secret; but have not discovered the actual secret: only I can surmise a great deal. I surmise that the Earl and Mr. Valmont have laid a trap for me: and I surmise that I shall tumble into the trap, and be almost smothered with gold: and I further surmise that the gold will infallibly find its way out of the trap, and leave poor me behind it.
I am resolved to be perfectly obedient and resigned to my fate, and you may, if you please, wish me joy: for if the dear creature is but any thing like what her uncle intended to make her, with his wire-drawn principles about female weakness and female obedience, I shall be the least noosed of any married man in England. She will want no more than a cage, and a closet, and one smile a month from her sovereign Lord and master. Gloomy Hall, or gloomy Castle—some such name, I formerly gave that turret-crowned building.—Oh, the profaner! Why it is paradise! the court of Cytherea! where loves and graces sport on sideboards of massive plate, and intrigue with wanton zephyrs upon every acre of Valmont's rich domain!
We are invited to dinner, Walter. This is Saturday. On Tuesday down go the draw bridges to admit me: me, me. The 'Squire and Earl settle preliminaries. The wood-nymph is introduced. She gazes with awe and astonishment, on her polished lover: while I forget her, to remember her fortune. At some future period, I shall subscribe myself your very rich and happy humble servant,
FILMAR
Imagine me, Dear Caroline, sitting down to write to you in the dead of night, by an almost extinguished taper: Somewhat chilled with cold; yet that sensation overpowered by the tremor of surprise, of curiosity, of emotions, in fine, which I cannot describe or explain.
And shall I boast of my strength, yet suffer my heart to palpitate, the colour to vary on my cheek, because an incident appears extraordinary?—Why did I not go back? Perhaps imagination was on the stretch, and I am self-deceived. Yet this writing! There must—but who would or could sigh with or for me, save one?—Foolish, weak Sibella! Art thou turned coward then? How can'st thou brave dangers, who hast fled from a sound? Perchance a fancied sound too!—Yes, I will return. I will not wait till day-light renews my courage; but go now to the wood, and examine this—Hark!—I hear a noise!—Good God!—Is it?—If it should be my Clem——
Oh no! that is impossible!—It was only the sweeping of the wind through that long gallery. But I won't go to the wood to-night, Caroline. I tremble more, and the cold increases. My taper too diminishes fast; but, while its light allows me, I will go over the events of the day and night, to discover if distinct recollection gives them a different appearance from what they now wear in the confusion of my ideas.
To begin, then, with the morning. While yet at breakfast, Andrew entered my room and intimated it was my uncle's orders that I should remain in my own appartments all day.—Strange as appeared the command, I sought no explanation from Andrew; but chose rather to submit to it in its present form, than encounter the teazing unintelligible signs of this silent old man. An hour had hardly passed, when I heard Mr. Valmont's footstep in the gallery; and as he approached nearer my door, I called up a firmness in my mien: for methought his visit to my chamber (a circumstance I never remembered to have taken place) foreboded something uncouth and unpleasant.
'So, Sibella,' said he, entering in a cheerful manner, 'you look quite well. You will oblige me particularly by not going into the park to-day. There's the armoury if you want exercise only be sure you go and return by the narrow stair-case. I would not have you seen for a moment in any other part of the castle. Perhaps I may bring a friend to visit you. A friend of your father's, child. You'll obey me, Sibella. And Andrew can inform you when you are at liberty to pursue your rambles.'
He withdrew. An address so familiar, with a voice and countenance so complacent, from Mr. Valmont to me, was food for reflection. The friend too! The friend of my father!—I felt not the necessity of exercise. I approached not the narrow stair-case. I thought not of the armoury. I remained in one posture; and Andrew's entrance, with my dinner, first broke in upon my reverie.
The meal ended and Andrew gone, it was resumed; and as long thinking will ever bring something home to the affections, I had left Mr. Valmont, his smiles, and his friend, to dwell on the image of my Clement—when my uncle led into the room a man somewhat older in appearance than himself, of an unmeaning countenance, whose profusion of dress sat heavy on an insignificant form. I turned away scornfully; for I thought it a profanation of the term to call this beingthe friend of my father.
How long he staid I cannot exactly tell—too long I thought then. He seemed to talk of me to Mr. Valmont; but to me he said little; and, owing perhaps to my dislike of the man, that little I did not rightly understand, and never attempted to answer.
When I saw Andrew in the evening, I ventured a few questions; and, with difficulty, learned there was company in the castle who were not expected to go away till late. I desired him to inform me as soon as they had departed; and, accordingly, a little, before twelve, Andrew opened my door, gave three distinct nods, shut it after him, and departed.
I understood his signal. Never had I passed a day in the house before; and I almost panted for the enjoyment of fresh air. The night was calm and serene; and the moon shone with a frosty brightness in a clear unclouded sky.
Wrapping myself in a cloak, I descended with a quick and joyful step. Neither light nor sound existed in the castle; and, unbarring the heavy doors, I sallied out in defiance of cold, to enjoy the lightness I then felt at my heart. The moonbeam directed my course; and I turned up the hill at the back part of the castle where no trees intercepted the partial light.
Standing on the summit, I looked around and my eye caught the glittering surface (made resplendent by the moon's reflection) of that small and beautiful lake which you may remember rises on the skirts of my wood. Thither I hastened; and, seated on the bank, I became enraptured with the scene. All seemed in union with my mind; only, that an undisturbed serenity reigned through nature; and, with the peace in my breast, a tumult of delight claimed its share.
I sang. I gave vent to my pleasure in words; in exclamations!—till at length the sound of two, from some very distant bell, floated through the air, and I rose to regain the castle.
Never in day time did I quit the park without visiting our oak; and now, when my heart bounded high with hope and pleasure, it would have been impious thus to have departed.
As I passed the rock, its dark shade, with the gloom in which the tall trees inclosed me, gave a new colour to my emotions. A pensive, but not a painful, tenderness stole on me. My breast began to heave, my lip to tremble: and, having reached the oak, I threw myself on the ground and sobbed. Still I felt no unhappiness. An impressive kind of awe took place of my former rapture, and dictated that I should dry my tears, and offer up a prayer for Clement.
At the foot of our oak, I knelt and audibly prayed. Still was I kneeling: still were my clasped hands raised: I uttered a deep sigh: and, close behind me, reverberated a prolonged sigh, if possible more deep, more forcible.
My taper emits its last rays. The moon is withdrawn; and total darkness compels me to seek rest—Adieu!
The sigh was distinct. It struck upon my ear. It almost reached my heart, Caroline. Dizzy, benumbed, I could scarcely rise; and, as I walked slowly along the open path from the monument, I really tottered. I believe I had proceeded fifty yards, and I began to tread with firmness and to consider if the sound could be real, when something whizzed past me and I perceived a little white ball fall to the ground and roll back as it was on the descent till it stopped at my feet. Equally surprised, but less affected, I turned quickly round. I looked every way: but the rock, the trees, the monument, and their respective yet mingling shadows, were the only objects I could discern.
I do not remember stooping for the ball; yet I felt it in my hand as I returned to the castle. I had left my light burning in the hall; but did not attempt to examine my possession, till I had shut myself in my own chamber.
The ball consisted of several folds of paper, with a small pebble in the middle, to give it weight I suppose. The inner fold contained lines, written with a pencil: the character neat, but uneven; and, in places, scarcely legible. These were the contents.
'Art thou instructed, beauteous nymph, that those planets to which thou now liftest thine eyes contain worlds whose myriads of inhabitants differ in their degrees of perfection according to the orb to which they belong? Some approach to immortality. Others are, as yet, farther removed: but all are in a progressive state toward the angelic nature. Even the lowest orb ranks above thy world.'
'From one of these latter planets, I descend—part mortal and part etherial. The former subjects me to pain and grief; but the latter can exalt me to bliss too ecstatic for the confined sense of mere mortality.—My spiritual nature places few bounds to my wishes, gives me invisibility, and brings the world before me at a view. I can see into the human bosom; and art cannot baffle me. In this world, I am permitted to seek a friend: and thee, hallowed inhabitant of this lower orb, I claim.'
'Set thy desires before thee. If they be many, chose the essential: if they be few, name all. To-morrow, after sunset, place the paper wherein thou hast written thy wishes on the tomb, and retire. If another mortal claim a share of those wishes, my power ceases; but if they relate only to thyself, fair creature, some one I may gratify. Thus may we communicate. To approach is forbidden. To be visible to thy eyes is denied me. Fly not then from the spirit, whichwillprotect, but cannot harm, thee.'
Whither does recollection bear you, Caroline?—To the hermit of the wood and armoury, doubtless. The mysterious and whimsical stile of this written paper corresponds with the first address of that hermit. I wonder I did not remember it last night: but Clement's fears, and the mode to overcome them, have been objects of such magnitude in the heart of Sibella that curiosity has ceased to intrude its train of remembrances and suppositions.
Clement was right. Who, but through my uncle's means, could find entrance into this region of caution and confinement? Yes; Clement judged rightly! It is the man to whom Mr. Valmont says I must be united.
Will you, Caroline, give the inclosed to my Clement? Read it also; and judge with him for me. I wait your decision—but I wait unwillingly.
SIBELLA
Do we not create our own misery, my Clement, by this submission?—Mr. Valmont separates our persons, because he cannot separate our hearts. Oh! your reasonings were false, my love; and I was only misled when I thought I was convinced!—'But a short time,' you said, 'and Mr. Valmont shall know it all, and we will be again united.'—Why not now? I cannot feel, I cannot understand these effects of his displeasure on which you dwell. Why do you dream of future benefits, when he tells you, that you are to have none of them? when he declares to you his wealth shall not be your's? And what of that! Will joy and felicity be less ours, because we are not rich?—We know it cannot. Did you possess wealth beyond what I can name, I should share its advantages; then if poverty or disgrace be your's, I demand to participate therein. It is my right; and twenty Mr. Valmonts shall not deprive of the inestimable privilege. Let me prove by actions the boundless love I bear you. Words are feeble. Where is the language that has energy enough to describe the crowd of pleasures which rush upon my mind, while I am retracing our past scenes of happiness; or that can give its true colouring to my regret, when I call up the present separation, which bids them depart for a season?
Clement, you are dismissed that another may be introduced. The man of mystery, he whom my uncle has chosen, appears again. Say, my love! shall I tell them how useless are all their preparations?—that you and I have formed the indissoluble band? I am ready to do this. I wait but your consent. And then, if Mr. Valmont resents our conduct and will not yield me to you and your freedom, I must and shall find means to show him he has no more power over my person than my mind. I will escape him, and fly to thee.
Ever, ever, thy
SIBELLA
Peaceful slumbers attend thee, Wat! The richer promising waking visions of expectation be mine!—A very pretty apostrophe that for a young viscount! I wonder if my father ever forgot to go to sleep when in bed, and sprang up again to write to some contemporary in same of his stratagems, intrigues, and toils?—Dear honest soul, no:—his sonorous breathings from the next chamber salute my ears in answer.—I certainly never was intended for the elder son of an Earl. Oh, I cry you mercy, Dame Nature! I read, I bow my head in obedience. A little twinkling star, Boyer, darting his ray throw the window, traces my destiny on this paper.'When the heyday of the blood is past,' says the oracle, 'thou art to be a statesman.' So I will. Yes, a prime minister of Great Britain: and the more mischief I do before-hand, the better shall I be qualified for the duties of that high and important station.
The project I talked of in my last, have you not admired its tendency? Have you not rejoiced that the honours of the Elsing title is to have a fresh gilding from the Valmont coffers. If you have not already done this, I charge you neglect not a moment the duties of congratulation; for your friend, your happy friend Filmar, is assuredly, mind meassuredly, to be the husband of Miss Valmont. Therefore I will read you a letter, or at least a part of a letter, which came from her uncle to my father.
'Indeed, my Lord, to pursue this subject a little farther, it is only with a man who is prepared by such opinions as I have laid down to keep his wife in seclusion, that Sibella Valmont can be happy. I have purposely educated her to be the tractable and obedient companion of a husband, who from early disappointment and a just detestation of the miserable state of society is willing to abandon the world entirely. And, not to mislead you in any way, such a one I hold in view.''You, my Lord, have acted with consistent delicacy throughout our guardianship. You readily yielded to my plans, when our trust commenced; and you have never attempted to counteract them by any ill-judged interference; and I am therefore beholden to your prudence and politeness. Of your Lordship's understanding I have so good an opinion, that I cannot apprehend any offence will be taken on your part for my declining the proposed alliance of Lord Filmar for my niece. You must be aware, my Lord, how very unfit her education has rendered her to be the wife of any person who does not in all respects think as I do.You must also suffer me to decline, for very good reasons, your request that Lord Filmar may see her. The child has beauty; and the interview for his sake is much better avoided. You, my Lord, have a title to see her whenever you are so disposed; and I hope as a proof that we understand each other, that Lord Filmar will accompany you when you honour Valmont castle with your visits. FromYour friend and servant,'G. VALMONT'
'Indeed, my Lord, to pursue this subject a little farther, it is only with a man who is prepared by such opinions as I have laid down to keep his wife in seclusion, that Sibella Valmont can be happy. I have purposely educated her to be the tractable and obedient companion of a husband, who from early disappointment and a just detestation of the miserable state of society is willing to abandon the world entirely. And, not to mislead you in any way, such a one I hold in view.'
'You, my Lord, have acted with consistent delicacy throughout our guardianship. You readily yielded to my plans, when our trust commenced; and you have never attempted to counteract them by any ill-judged interference; and I am therefore beholden to your prudence and politeness. Of your Lordship's understanding I have so good an opinion, that I cannot apprehend any offence will be taken on your part for my declining the proposed alliance of Lord Filmar for my niece. You must be aware, my Lord, how very unfit her education has rendered her to be the wife of any person who does not in all respects think as I do.
You must also suffer me to decline, for very good reasons, your request that Lord Filmar may see her. The child has beauty; and the interview for his sake is much better avoided. You, my Lord, have a title to see her whenever you are so disposed; and I hope as a proof that we understand each other, that Lord Filmar will accompany you when you honour Valmont castle with your visits. From
Your friend and servant,
'G. VALMONT'
This letter, Walter, the Earl called me back to give me at his own chamber door, after I had bade him good night. Do you not observe how artfully Valmont had arranged the manner of his refusal; or are you, as I was on its first perusal, a little chilled by the contents? I perceive, by the Earl's delivering the letter to me at a time which precluded all conversation on the subject, that he feels Valmont's refusal to be unchangeable; now I dare not tell him that I have boldly resolved to take the niece of Valmont whether her uncle pleases or not, because what he calls his honour would stand between me and my project. Honour will not pay my debts, Walter. So,honour, here you and I part. Good by to you!—There: we have shaken hands: and the musty fellow has marched off on yon straight road, while I turn aside into this. Invention aid me! Stratagem be my guide! And do thou, Walter, plot, contrive, and assist to make me matter of this prize.
Assuredly I will be the husband of Miss Valmont. This have I sworn to myself: and this have I repeated to you. I read Valmont's freezing epistle and I went to bed. Darkness and silence are admirable auxiliaries to reflection. First, past in array before me my mortgages, my debts, and the diabolical stake I lost to Spellman for which I have given notes that extend to the uttermost penny I can raise. Then, how gaily danced before me the visions I had indulged while I sounded my father about this hidden fortune of Miss Valmont, and while I reflected on the well-known wealth of her uncle. 'Ah but,' said I, 'her uncle has refused me, has already selected a husband for her!' And I shut my eyes; and sighed, Walter. That sigh proved my salvation: for it exhaled the dim vapour that had obstructed the operations of my confidence, my invention!
Then, how rapidly did my fancy teem with plan and project! How did I reject one, choose another! Till, at length, I called for light and paper, that I might cool the fever of my hopes, by laying them bare to your inspection.
I well know what you are, Walter: a compound of contradictions. When you should believe, you are sceptical; where you should doubt, your faith is unshaken; and I expect when I tell you I am more and more convinced, by the recollection of many circumstances and by the Earl's awkward evasions, that Miss Valmont is her father's heiress—I expect, I say, that you will assure me I am deceived: and, as to my resolution of stealing her, you will assert that it is a project idle, vain, and impracticable. Yet, were I now to abandon the enterprise, you would wonder at my stupidity, would declare nothing could appear so certain as her fortune, and nothing so easy as its attainment. Therefore, dear Walter, I do not ask your advice; I only ask your attention. Six or seven thousand a year! The lady a minor too from the age of six, and no expences incurred upon her education!—Think of these circumstances, Walter; and, if you love arithmetic, cast up the accumulations of all these years; and to make the sum total of my future possessions, add the 10,000l. per ann. of her uncle who never had any other heir than this untutored Sibella! Would not such a sum convert even deformity into grace? But they say too she has beauty. Her ignorance and barbarism I will forgive; for I can at all times escape from a wife, though I cannot escape from the debts which are hourly accumulating to my destruction.
Marry a fortune or fly my country: there's the alternative. I choose the former. As to flying one's country, I know of no country in which a man may drink, game, &c. &c. and spend his own and other people's money so easily as in that where, being born rather of one parent than another, the delightful privilege becomes as it were part of his legal inheritance.
It must be done too, if possible, time enough to prevent the necessity of a last mortgage to pay the notes I gave to Spellman. I was bubbled out of that money, but I was heated and the rascal so cool, I was unable to detect him; it becomes therefore a debt of honour and someway or other pay I must——Pshaw! Walter, thou wert always a dunce at school and at college. Now art thou turning over the page to seek the parting scene 'twixt me and honour. Foolish fellow! Didst thou never hear there are two sorts of honour? Honour of principle, and honour of fashion. Honour of principle says—'Do not steal Miss Valmont out of her uncle's castle; and pay thy poor tradesmen before thou payest the gambler Spellman.'—Here advances honour of fashion. What grace, what ease in her attitudes? How unlike is she to the awkward fellow who has just spoken, and who, without one bow, one smile, stood as upright as if he dared show his face to the gods. But hark her mellifluous accents steal upon mine ear. 'Be,' says she, 'the accomplished nobleman for which nature in her happiest mood designed you. Exercise the elegance of your taste in the disposal of Miss Valmont's wealth. Above all, pay Spellman; or you forego, among the higher circles, the rapture of staking thousands on the cast of a die.'
It would be strange if a young man of my accomplishments did not know how much more useful and endearing a companion is honour of fashion than honour of principle! I will go and drink one bumper to the little solitary; then, I'll go dream. Aye: I'll dream that we are married; for I am upon honour there too. Adieu!
FILMAR
P.S.Since I wrote the above I have given four hours to deliberation on the chances for and against my design; nor have I found any obstacle which may not be overcome, though I have not yet discovered the means. Do not laugh at me, for I think it no inconsiderable step toward success to have divined all the probabilities which may oppose my success.
To-morrow, I go to the castle. Griffiths shall attend me. He was once your valet too. Need I a more skilful engineer think you? Who knows what opportunities may occur to-morrow? A sigh, a glance, a word—Oh, but I forget! I am not even to look at her, says Don Distance. Well! well! we will talk of that hereafter. Twice have I perambulated around the park; but it is so walled and wooded and moated that the great Mogul's army and elephants might be there invisible.
A propos, in the second of these circuits, which was on yesterday evening, as I was leading my horse down a hill at the bottom of which Valmont's moat forms a sudden angle, I perceived a young man walking hastily up the narrow lane towards the moat. Hearing my horse's feet, he turned towards me; then, wheeling round, he fled out of sight in a moment. In one hand he held a long pole; and in the other a small basket. His figure was uncommonly elegant; and I imagined I had some knowledge of him, but there are no gentlemen's houses in this quarter, except the castle and Monckton Hall. The little valley where I saw him is unfrequented; and scarcely passable, it is so encumbered with brambles and underwood. Woods rise immediately on the other side of the moat, whose shade, with that of the high barren and black, which shows its rugged side to the valley, spreads forbidding gloom over the whole. Who could this youth be, I wonder; and where could he be going?
Adieu, Walter! Think of to-morrow.