Certainly, a picture is at all times a very pretty toy; and I can readily imagine, that the picture of an absent lover must be indeed a precious blessing; but you will forgive me, Sibella, if I honestly confess that I have a hundred times, since the receipt of your letter, wished Clement had not been so willing, or his artist not so ready.
Oh, that Mr. Valmont had withheld the picture but one hour longer! Then would the womanish curiosity of Caroline Ashburn have been gratified. For, trust me, Sibella, your surprise at finding your enigmatical hermit in the Armoury could not exceed my disappointment at leaving him and you there without further explanation.
I have imagined and imagined; returned to the subject; and quitted it again, more wearied than before; and, though I did, after a time, discover that I never should, by the mere aid of suppositions, find of what materials your hermit is composed, yet I have persisted in comparing accidents, and combining circumstances perhaps totally remote from each other, with the vain hope of tracing him. Knowing how much your uncle worships mystery, I sometimes think it may be one of his stratagems;—sometimes that——Psha! The folly of conjecture grows with me.
Pardon me, Sibella, you are above these things. Uniform in rectitude, you steadily pursue the path before you; nor mislead yourself to follow the swervings of others. In compassion, however, to the longings of your friend, hasten to communicate the remainder of this your adventure.
Our poor Indian is dead. She survived her reception at Barlowe Hall only about ten days; and, during the visits I made her, I never found her capable of sustaining any conversation with me. From her, as she was long a resident in the family, I hoped and expected to have been informed by what means my father amassed his fortune: for, the suspicions which I find generally attached to East Indian riches sit heavy on my mind. I do not love to encourage suspicion, for it is cowardly; nor can I indeed fairly give my opinions the name of suspicions, for I am persuaded, that in whatever clime or country it be found, the mind that grasps at such inordinate wealth must be vicious, and that there can be but little to choose among the degrees of vice wherewith it is obtained. Yet, being convinced as to that point, I still wish to know the employments of my father's life: for it is possible there may be some retribution to make to individuals. A voyage to India for such a purpose, Sibella, would be but as a pleasant summer day's excursion.
Your letter has been sent after me to Bath, for Barlowe Hall no longer retains her circle of gay visitors. The Ulson family have gone I forget where, and taken the Winderhams with them, while we, together with Sir Thomas, Lady Barlowe, and Colonel Ridson, arrived at Bath last week. The season is crowded, and my mother and the nabob think themselves fortunate in having been able to secure one large and commodious house for the reception of both families.
This arrangement Lady Barlowe and Mrs. Ashburn profess to find very pleasing. They declare a violent friendship for each other; and use it as a cloak for the workings of their secret malignities. My mother is the object of Lady Barlowe's envy: for the nabob's fears have made him covetous; he hoards his diamonds in their cases; and Lady Barlowe's glitter is out-glared by the happier uncontrouled Mrs. Ashburn.
On the other hand, Lady Barlowe has youth, and has beauty; and these attractions Mrs. Ashburn finds the lustre of the diamond will not altogether outshine, though there are many among the venal crowd, who daily offer up at the shrine of wealth the incense due to merit, wit, and beauty.
Sir Thomas, I believe, considers himself as bound to play both his own part and his nephew's; and to overwhelm us with the attentions and kindnesses, his ungracious Arthur withheld.
Did I not tell you, or rather did I not intimate, that before Mr. Murden made his appearance amongst us, the Baronet evidently bestowed him upon me? but, alas, scarcely had he arrived, when his uncle, remembering the value of a certain old proverb, left me to seek another lover; and gave or would have given his all-prized nephew to my mother.
It was highly whimsical to see the Baronet's labours to promote this end. He dared not be quite certain, that Murden, although dependent on him, would yield him an implicit obedience; and yet, according to his understanding, the scheme had so many and such important recommendations, that they were not to be hastily rejected. Fearing to be out-talked, if not convinced, should he at once resort to his nephew's opinion, the Baronet would not venture to do so; but, secure in the presence of numbers, he grew bold at hint, and soon made his plan fully comprehended by every person present; and put his nephew's ingenuity to the trial to find methods how to express his disapprobation, without being rude and offensive to the feelings of any one. I cannot say that Mrs. Ashburn appeared to think Sir Thomas very absurd in his designs.
After playing this game of hint, till the party talked of separating, the Baronet then acquired courage enough to make a direct attack on his nephew; the latter gave an explicit refusal to the proposal; and the former for some days lost his good humour and his patience.
It was, I suppose, in consequence of this marked displeasure from his uncle, that Murden thought of paying a visit to a friend at some distance from Barlowe Hall. At first, Sir Thomas opposed it not; but when Murden was actually on the point of going, the nabob relaxed his solemn displeasure, and earnestly requested Arthur not to leave him. Arthur, in his turn, became inflexible, and would not be intreated. He had written, he said to his friend, and go he must. At length, however, he condescendingly offered to hasten to join us at Bath; and, having thus accommodated their difference, the nabob and his nephew parted very good friends.
This serious altercation on the subject of Mr. Murden's quitting our party, took place in the breakfast parlour. Lady Mary Bowden invited me soon after to walk with her.
'Don't you think,' said she, putting her arm through mine, as soon as we had crossed the threshold of the Hall door, 'that Murden is very obstinately bent on making this excursion?'
'I think him determined,' answered I; 'and perhaps very properly so.'
'Thereby hangs a tale,' said Lady Mary.
'I don't love tales, Lady Mary.'
She looked at me, and smiled. 'Yet, I believe you are willing to hear this,' she said, 'and I am resolved to tell it you.'
Lady Mary certainly did not lay that to my charge, of which I was undeserving; for I quietly suffered her to proceed in her story. It was an accusation against Murden, that his pretended visit of friendship to Mr. Villier was in fact a visit of a different kind, to a female in Mr. Villier's neighbourhood, of whom Lady Mary said Murden had not been the original seducer; that she had been lured from her friends by another person, and that having preferred the attractions of Murden, she made a pretence of returning to her friends, in order to be the more conveniently under his protection.
Lady Mary added a number of little corroborating anecdotes, which gave the affair a striking appearance of matter of fact; and I was inclined to believe it, till I recollected how much my opinion had been misled by appearances in the affair of Peggy, of which I spoke to you in my last letter. Warned by that example, I began to doubt the representations of her ladyship; and begged she would join with me in having better hopes of Murden, and endeavouring to discountenance the unsupported assertions that were spread abroad concerning him. Lady Mary willingly promised, and I dare say as readily forgot it the very next instant.
As I told you, Sibella, my suspicions of Peggy, I will now tell you her history at once, without going through the round of circumstances that brought me acquainted with it.
In Murden's own words, you have learned, that the pleasant farm was his house of call in the shooting season. The farmer is an industrious and worthy man; and his daughter Peggy is, or rather was, ere disappointment fed upon her bloom, a very pretty girl. Joseph, Murden's servant, fell in love with Peggy, and Peggy with Joseph. He was sober; he had some expectations from friends; and his master thought very well of him; and all this together induced the father of Peggy to consent. The marriage was settled as a certain thing; but a delay of time was agreed on among all parties; and Joseph went to London with his master. It so happened, that at Christmas Joseph's father died; and, as he was a shopkeeper in a country town, Joseph might, if he chose, succeed him, and marry Peggy directly. He consulted Murden, who approved much of his designs, and likewise gave him thirty pound to assist in forwarding them.
Thus, rich in pocket and in expectation, ere he commenced shopkeeper, Joseph went first to stay a week at Peggy's farm, to settle the time of marriage, &c. &c. Alas, the week began with much happiness, and laid the foundation for much sorrow. Peggy became too indulgent to her lover; and, in consequence, her lover cruelly forgot to come back, as he had promised, at six weeks end and marry her.
Peggy's father had a strong sense of honest pride; he disdained to solicit an ungenerous man. On the contrary, he exhorted Peggy to forget him, be industrious, and hereafter irreproachable. But while he was thus daily kind to Peggy, the poor old man, as he told Murden underneath my window, wept through sleepless nights for Peggy's naughtiness.
Murden knew nothing of these transactions. He had not called at the farm-house since he arrived at Barlowe Hall, when we met Peggy in the narrow lane. I can now well account for her blushes, and his surprise. He, struck with her appearance and her manner, left us to fish, and went to inform himself at the farm why Peggy was still in that part of the world. The father was absent; but the mother told him the whole story, and he promised to do all that lay within his power to restore the peace of the family.
It was Peggy's earnest longing to save herself from present pain at any future risk; and Murden thought it right to forward her wishes. He sent for Joseph, who was growing rich at five and twenty miles distance, but who not having more vices than his neighbours was willing enough to be ruled by a greater man than himself, and accordingly became either really or seemingly very penitent. The end of the whole is, that Peggy's present disgrace is salved by marriage. A foolish and impotent remedy, in my opinion; removing a partial evil, most probably to begin a lasting one.
How I misjudged Murden in this affair!—Others too may have misjudged him. I persuade myself they have.
Men, my dear Sibella, have not that enthusiasm and vigour in their friendships that we possess. I never could get Murden to talk much of Clement Montgomery, though I urged him to it repeatedly. As an incentive thereto, as well as to gratify my own feelings, I made you and your manners a perpetual theme of conversation when I held conversations with Murden. Perhaps my descriptions interested him, for he was never unwilling to listen to me, though he uniformly persisted in repressing my enquiries, if they led to the subject of his friendship for Clement, with an insuperable coldness.—Too vain, possibly, to praise the perfections of another; yet too honest, to deny their existence. Inconsistent being!
Inconsistent in all things that I know of him, except in his conduct to his uncle. There he is firm, settled and manly, respectful, but never fawning; he opposes Sir Thomas without petulance, and obeys him without humiliation. Such conduct will ever secure its proper reward. The Nabob feels his superiority, and still loves him.
Sir Thomas Barlowe rejoices, I am glad, while Mrs. Ashburn and Lady Barlowe are neither pleased nor displeased, that to-morrow is the day of Murden's arrival. The other ladies of his acquaintance here, to whom I have been introduced, are not so indifferent as the two last mentioned to Murden's appearance; for, I have already heard some praise him indiscriminately as Lady Laura Bowden would, and others comment upon his attractions and his vices with as little true feeling of either as Lady Mary did. I am glad he comes to Bath, for I shall now see him amidst a multitude, where new faces, new forms will continually present themselves; where temptations will rush in crowds, and where the sober pace of reflection is outstripped by the flying speed of pleasure. If I do not now learn to appreciate his character, it will be owing rather to the idleness of my discernment than its want of space enough to practice in.
Do not imagine, dear Sibella, that because I have run through so many lines without a word of congratulation I am insensible to the joy which swells in your bosom on the expected return of your lover. I do indeed congratulate you. Your uncle becomes reasonable. His mysteries and his contradictions vanish. Sibella expects her Clement; and the heavy gates of Valmont Castle will fly back, that peace and liberty may enter.
Nevertheless, in the prosperity of your expectations, forget not the Hermit in the armoury, and the longings of your
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Dear Arthur,
Precisely such a command to return home, so sudden, and so unexpected as you received five months past from Sir Thomas Barlowe, have I received from Mr. Valmont; but the speed of your obedience bore no proportion to mine, for hither have I come with a rapidity which scarcely yielded to rest and refreshment.
Here I am already arrived almost within sight of the castle's prison like towers, and here have I been traversing the paltry room of an inn for one hour and three quarters. How much longer I shall stay here I know not, but by heaven were I to depart with a thorough good will, it would be to take the road back to the continent.
Arthur, Arthur, what a lesson it is that I have to get by rote! 'Fully assured, Clement,' says Mr. Valmont in his letter, 'that you cannot have departed from the rule of conduct I desired you to pursue, I do not doubt but that you will joyfully quit the haunts of treacherous sordid men, to enjoy with me the pleasant solitude of Valmont castle, &c. &c.'
No one knows better than yourself, dear Murden, how closely I have pursued Mr. Valmont'srule of conduct, and I think you can guess also how greatly I shall nowenjoy the pleasant solitude of Valmont castle.
For a week, a month, perchance, the blooming Sibella will render the wilderness a world. Could I flatter myself, that Mr. Valmont recals me to give her to my arms, how I should bound over the distance which now separates us? No, Arthur, no such blessing awaits your luckless friend; I am to look on her as a sister, says Mr. Valmont. Good heaven! and he recals me to stand perpetually on the brink of a precipice! For how can I hear her, look on her, touch her, and be a brother? Nay, the very first moment of my entrance into that castle may undo me, for she will rush to my embrace, she will cover me with kisses, and his chilling eye will be on me.
Had Mr. Valmont left me with the cottagers my parents, I had never seen Sibella; then I had dreamed through a stupid existence, without knowing life and love. Had he kept me the recluse of his woods, she had by this time infused her wild untamed spirit unto me, and I should have torn her from him, imagining we could live on berries, and drink water.
No more of that, Arthur. No! no! I now see the full value of my obedience to Mr. Valmont's commands; for I would, by heaven, rather this moment endure the rack, than be blasted to a life of hateful indigence, abhorred poverty!
Ay, ay, I must obey, must obey, Murden. Must, while my heart, my desires, my wishes, are still the same, must cloak them to please Mr. Valmont's eye; to fit his fashion I must bea brotherto my charming Sibella; must abjure a world I adore, rail at men, curse women.—I invite you to the castle, Arthur, come and visit me in my disguise; come and by reminding me of times past, keep alive my hopes and expectations of times that may come.
Here, while I stay in this inn, I prepare for the first essay of my practice in the cynical science. I have been recollecting, as well as I could, the scraps and remnants of Mr. Valmont's harangue of man and womankind; and I think I have made of my memory a sort of common place book of this delectable jargon, from which I can pick and cull for all Mr. Valmont's occasions.
Half an hour or so, I stood before the looking-glass, to find what face was fittest to carry to the castle. The glances I have of late been used to, may do for the wood when Mr. Valmont is out of sight, but they will not suit the library. They speak a promptitude for pleasure. I must hide them under my cloak, and borrow something, if I can, of Mr. Valmont's sallow hues.
Yet these prudent necessary considerations found not an entrance into my mind till I came within six miles of Valmont castle. I was engrossed by a circumstance that hastened me to fly from the scene where I had known so much of joy and pleasure.
Abandoned, artful, cursed deceiver! I speak, Arthur, of Janetta, who has plundered, duped, and jilted me. How well she feigned her passion! How artfully she drew me on continually to sacrifice to her avarice and vanity, till I was almost beggared; and with what management did she evade my first suspicions, and elude my enquiries, till at length an accident gave me proof too strong to be doubted or evaded, that she was falser than falsehood; that she was at once mine, and the mistress of her friend's husband! I would not trust myself to hear her plead in her defence; I would not stand the fascinations of her divine face; but having received Mr. Valmont's letter an hour before, I ordered my clothes to be packed up, and without taking leave of one single acquaintance, I set off post for England—Ha!
Was ever any thing more unfortunate than this. Ross, Mr. Valmont's steward, and one of the grooms from the castle have come into this inn, and know I am here. The groom I could manage, but Ross is not to be tampered with; and as sure as I live, he will inform Mr. Valmont of my passing half a day so near the castle. Had I possessed an atom of common understanding, I might have foreseen such an accident; and now, for want of this small share of foresight, I am panic struck. Ross was going from, not to the castle, therefore I will take one quarter of an hour to chill my looks into brotherhood, and then brave the worst.
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
Hail, dearest Caroline!—Yes, peace and liberty, with every blessing for which Sibella pants, will enter when the 'heavy gates of Valmont castle fly back' to receive her Clement.
I do not count the minutes, for that would be to make time more tedious, but I walk with a quicker step, with a firmer mien. I am ever seeking change of place, and sleep and I are almost unacquainted.
Yet other countenances wear the uniformity they did before. No matter!—but a short time; and, when I went to compare my own transports, I can look on the eye, or read the heart of Clement, and find them more than equalled.
My thoughts haste so pressingly to the future, that it requires an effort stronger than you can conceive, (you who expect no Clement) to turn them back to the detail you require.
I cannot be minute as to a conversation in which the hermit (as you call him) was chief speaker; for some parts of it I have forgotten, and others I did not understand.
He spoke with a rapidity which made him almost unintelligible; and his pauses seemed rather the effect of sudden anxiety, than of attention to my answers; he talked of escapes and accidents in a disjointed manner; so that, from his broken sentences, one might have supposed he meant I had placed him in hazard, and that I had conducted him to the Armoury. That which I remember most clearly was, the earnestness with which he urged me to lay no future restraint on myself. He said his interruptions were now ended—but, he added, and several times repeated, we should one day or other meet again; he then spoke something of dangers, but I know not whether they related to himself or me.
He was very pale, wildness and apprehension were marked on his features. He wore his hermit's hat and cloak, but the former was quite mis-shapen, and both disfigured by dust and cobwebs. Once, in the vehemence of his speech, he raised his arm, the folds of his cloak became loosened, and I saw a sword glitter beneath it.
I left him in the Armoury, nor have I entered it since. The wood is all my own again. No figure glides upon me but that my imagination loves to form.
On the day succeeding that in which I found the hermit in the Armoury, I saw Mrs. Valmont walking on the terrace. I went to her, and spoke of the circumstance. She appeared agitated by my words; she grasped my hand, and said the finger of heaven was in it; and she talked further in a strange way, of something that she calledit, andit. She would not be me, she said, for worlds. I do fear the disorder has affected her intellects.
But a little interval between me and perfect happiness! I cannot write. You know, Caroline, I love you, but now, indeed, I cannot write.
Dearest Caroline, adieu.
SIBELLA VALMONT
'Tis all gone, Murden. The pinnacle of my hopes and expectations is crumbled to the dust. Where shall I turn me, or what consolation shall I ask? Arthur, do not bestow on me that insolent pity which only augments misfortune.
I am not the same Clement Montgomery you formerly knew, brought up in the castle, with homage and respect, afterward introduced into the circles of fashion, as Mr. Valmont's heir, and supported with an allowance equal to that expectation; no, I am only one to whom he gave an accidental kindness, on whom he bestowed temporary favours, and whom he now condemns to the abhorred life of care, and plodding with the lower orders of mankind.
Cursed be the hour in which I entered that inn, from whence I wrote you my last letter! in that hour my misfortunes began. When I arrived at the castle, Mr. Valmont was from home. Every creature rejoiced in my arrival. Even the insensible Mrs. Valmont lavished caresses on me, and praised the improvements of my person. Ah! but how can I tell you of Sibella's joy? I know nothing that describes it: so unrestrained, so exquisitely soft and tender, exquisitely delicate in all its effusions!
She appeared to me quite a new creature. I could not but acknowledge to myself, that her charms surpassed even the faithless Janetta's charms. I loved her the first moment I beheld her better than I had ever loved her before; and I in secret cursed myself for having sacrificed my innocence, and cursed you also, Arthur, who once said,forget her in other arms.
One hour I passed in heaven, and then Mr. Valmont returned home. Ross came with him. I saw them ride over the bridge, and I trembled with apprehension. Mr. Valmont did not leave me long in doubt; for, when I would have hastened to the library, I was stopped by his gentleman who denied me admittance.
Three days Mr. Valmont preserved his inflexible resentment; and these three days were passed with Sibella. She knew not why her uncle was in anger with me, and she reviled him and cheered me with her smiles, and sweet sounds of love, that I might not droop at my reception. She bade me talk of the world. Alas, it was an alluring theme, and I talked with more ardor than discretion of its abounding delights. I did not tell her though, Arthur, of all the delights I had tasted there.
On the fourth morning, a messenger came to summon me to the library. I turned pale, I loitered. 'Go! fly, Clement!' said Sibella: 'Cast away these apprehensions. Recollect, my dear, dear Clement, that my uncle's favourite maxim is, that disappointment should be always the forerunner of pleasure. Who knows but Mr. Valmont at this moment waits to bestow happiness on us?'
I went. With very different forebodings from Sibella's I entered Mr. Valmont's presence. He received me like a stern haughty judge; I stood an abashed fearful culprit.
He bitterly inveighed against my want of duty, in resting so long in that inn so near his castle, after two years absence. He demanded the reasons of my conduct; and I stammered an incoherent something about want of horses, and having had letters to write. He saw I lied. He knew I lied.
'Well, Sir,' said he, after a pause, 'we will pass that by for the present. Now give me an account of your travels, and their effect upon your opinions.'
No matter what I said, Arthur. 'Tis enough to tell you of the manner. It seems I had not rancour enough for Mr. Valmont; I could not belie my feelings with sufficient warmth. I could not renounce enormities I had never known, and which have no existence but in his own inflated imagination.
Sensible, that the manner of my description, and Mr. Valmont's expectations, bore no sort of affinity, I became more and more confused; until one of those frowns and gestures, which at nine years old made me tremble for my life, now imposed on me a sudden silence. My sentence remained unfinished, and Mr. Valmont leaning upon the table, beat an angry tattoo with the fingers of his right hand. His eyes rolled from one object to another, without resting upon any thing.
It might be a minute or more, perhaps, in my estimation it was an age, that we remained thus. Suddenly Sibella opened the door and entered a little way, in a light and cheerful manner; but seeing the state we were in, she hesitated, turned an enquiring look upon me, and then made a graceful bend to Mr. Valmont.
'How now, Sibella?' said he, 'who bid you come hither?'
'I came, Sir——' she replied, in a sweet but irresolute accent, and then she again looked at me.
'I say, by what authority do you come, since you have not mine?'
While Mr. Valmont sternly asked that question, she kept her eyes fixed on my pale perplexed countenance.
'Ah, Sir,' said she anxiously, 'don't you love Clement now?'
Mr. Valmont made no reply for two or three seconds. I dared not look up to see whether he was more, or less angry.
'Tell me, child,' said he presently, to Sibella, 'what has that boy said to you, since he returned soaffectionately,so dutifully,so speedily, to Valmont castle?'
Sibella paused: 'Tell me no falsehoods,' said he still more sternly.
'Falsehoods!' she repeated in a forcible tone, the colour mounting higher in her cheeks, 'Sir, I have nothing to do with falsehoods. I paused, because I thought I could not readily collect the matter of our conversations into the compass of one answer. I might, indeed have done it, for they have been uniform. We have talked, Sir, of our unchanging truth. Of times past, and times to come. Of the world, of its pleasures, and its virtues. Of——'
'Enough of it.' cried Mr. Valmont, darting on me a glance of extreme wrath; 'You talked, you say, of times that are to come. Pray, who endowed you with the gift of foretelling what times are to come?'
'Sir, our endowments are perfectly natural. We do not presume to tell of the future, except as far as it is confined to the feelings of our own hearts. We know, fully and entirely know, that our hearts must cease to throb with life, when that love is extinguished, which was born and nurtured to its growth, under the encouragement of your approbation—do not frown on me, Sir,—I—I——'
Mr. Valmont did not speak while Sibella made a faultering stop. She shortly went on again thus:
'I confess, Sir, that I do fear you. Habit is prevalent with me, and I still tremble at your frowns. I would not offend you, but I must expostulate. Oh be not, I intreat you, be not angry with Clement for loving me! He must love me. Our love is the very soul of our being. Give us then, Sir, new life! Unalloyed felicity! Say——'
She seized my hand, and leading me close up to Mr. Valmont, she added, with rapid vehemence:
'Say now, that he is mine, and I am his for ever!'
Her emphasis made me tremble. I had neither power to brave him, and speak with her, nor attempt conciliating him, by withdrawing my hand from her's.
In a much less angry tone, although she had been so much more bold, than he had used to me, Mr. Valmont said,
'You are strangely presumptuous, child. Have I not told you, I have other designs. Have I not a right over you?'
'No, you have none!' replied Sibella, abruptly: 'No right to the exercise of an unjust power over me! Why dream of impossibilities, and talk of other designs? I tell you, Sir, I have looked on every side, and I find it is your caprice, and no principle of reason in you, that forbids our union.'
Had you seen him, Arthur, you could alone judge of the rage into which this daring speech threw Mr. Valmont. He sprang up,My caprice!he vociferated, and after bestowing on Sibella an execration, he rushed past us out of the library.
Sibella, neither abashed nor terrified, would have me go with her into the park, but I dared not; fearing that Mr. Valmont might think I joined in braving him if he saw us together. I endeavoured to persuade her it was necessary I should remain in the library, and proper that she should leave me. The lovely romantic girl called me weakly timid, and left me somewhat displeased.
I sat out the time of Mr. Valmont's absence from the library, full two hours, Arthur. When he came in, he said, 'Go, Sir. I shall have occasion for you by and by.'
So much prudence had I, that I did not go near Sibella, but shut myself, for the rest of the day, in my chamber, and sent her word it was by Mr. Valmont's order. My servant found her weeping, with her little favourite Fawn in her arms.
At six o'clock in the evening, I was again commanded to appear before Mr. Valmont, which I did with the most humble and submissive deportment I could possibly assume.
Before he spoke to me, he ordered Andrew to stand without the door, to oppose Sibella, if she attempted to enter the library. Thus he began.
'Little did I expect, Clement, when I sent you from Valmont castle, guarded by the lessons of my wisdom and experience, that you would return with inclinations so different to those I would have had you possess. Your folly is excessive, and it will work its own punishment.'
And on this theme he laboured most abundantly; it would weary you were I to repeat it all. The second part of his subject commenced thus.
'You know, young man, (I am young man now, Arthur), that I have been a friend to you, a more than common friend. Such a one as you will not readily find among those people you admire, with equal mischief to yourself, and ingratitude to me. You——'
Pshaw! I have not patience to recount the dull monotony of his charges, let me at once proceed to the distracting summing up of the whole.
He told me, Arthur, that he was about to send me again from Valmont castle. Ay, but how? Not with affluence at my command, and honours in my possession, no, like a poor discarded wretch, condemned to disgrace and slavery.
Yes, by heaven! Mr. Valmont, with a brow and heart of marble, told me, he had determined, as the best means of promoting my happiness that I should go to London; and there choose for myself a profession, hereafter to live by it; and that his friendship and assistance would always be mine, according to the decency and propriety of my deportment. I thought I should have sunk upon the floor, Arthur.
The barbarian went on to torture me: In my castle you remain but one month from this day. And then I shall give you L.50 which will be sufficient for you, while you prepare your plans, and what future services you require, must be regulated by your deserts, young man.'
'I think,' continued Mr. Valmont, 'it is my lot to receive nothing but disobedience and ingratitude from those to whom I have shown most kindness. You heard the insolence with which Sibella, to-day dared to arraign my conduct. Tell her from me, Clement, that she almost urged me to counteract the great good I intend her. But I will not be rash. Tell her, that implicit obedience, and humble submission may expiate her offence. I declare solemnly, that if she dares enter into my presence to plead for you, while you stay in the castle, she shall that instant be confined close prisoner in her chamber, and shall see you no more. If she becomes modest, temperate, and submissive, and things turn out as I expect, she will live yet to be very happy with the husband I intend her.'
Much longer did he enlarge upon Sibella's offence, his anger, her expected penitence, and his future designs for her. I heard him but imperfectly. The other part of his harangue had conjured up a horrible fiend. Dead-eyed poverty glared before me.
At length, he stumbled on a supposition, that Sibella would attempt to leave the Castle with me; and I readily promised, as he desired, that I would neither make, nor assist in the attempt, but would inform him if she resolved on so dangerous and mad an enterprise.
Not one consolating hint did my ready obedience purchase. He said, indeed, that the propriety of my present deportment merited commendation. And he dismissed me. After four hours of this cruel interviews' duration, he permitted me to stagger, sick, oppressed, drooping, dying, to my chamber, and seek rest, if I could find it.
I number the moments with more exactness than the sands of an hour-glass. One month is wasted now to one fortnight, and the end of that fortnight is wretchedness certain and endless.
I have not told Sibella, yet she sees misery in my looks. She hears it in my sighs, and the contagion has reached her. We meet but seldom. Complaint and remonstrance have usurped the place of transport and endearment. To her I attribute my sorrows to my jealousy of this rival, to whom Mr. Valmont dooms her. Alas, my jealousy has but a small share in them. Two years back, but to have dreamed another had gained possession of her charms would have driven me mad. Now I know it an inevitable certainty, and my feeble jealousy has none of the fierce characteristics of that raging passion: no, it is just fitting the groveling lover who is condemned to earn his abject livelihood.
She has seen him too. Mr. Valmont, in his own inexplicable way, has contrived two whimsical meetings for them. She does not conjecture this. Having related the circumstance, it is removed from her thoughts, and she mourns my supposed jealousy, as a cruel misfortune.
My impending fate she must know sooner or later, and this very morning, when she quits her apartments to go to the wood, I am resolved to follow, and tell her my despair. Perhaps she will join in seeming to renounce me, and thus so far conciliate Mr. Valmont, that some pity may arise for me in his obdurate breast.
You, Arthur, may perhaps be as insensible to the calamities of your friend as you have hitherto appeared to his pleasures. I have seen some letters that speak of you, and by them, I learn you are not less inexplicable to others than to me. Who is this Miss Ashburn that Sibella rapturously speaks of? I think I should not like her. She appears to have far-fetched ideas. I wonder Mr. Valmont should have suffered her and Sibella's intercourse. Are you, Murden, in love with this lady? Answer me these questions, and above all, assure me that you will not breathe a whisper of this change in my affairs to any living creature.
Sibella this instant crosses the lawn, I depart on my desperate errand.
I have performed my task, and gained nothing by it. No nothing. She will not, cruel as she is, she will not soothe Mr. Valmont, by pretending to renounce me. By heaven, I do not believe she loves me! Scarcely did she betray a particle of surprise, not one of grief. When I declared myself disinherited, I expected to have seen her frantic.
Well, then, it is all at an end! Ay, ay, she is wise. She talks of love to amuse me, and already prepares to yield herself to the wealthy lover Mr. Valmont provides. Oh, distraction! They will live in splendor and happiness, while I, an outcast, the contemned, unpitied, and forgotten.
Farewel! Would I could say for ever!
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
Why in that moment should I turn coward, and rush from my purposes? Why did imagination cast an unusual gloom around me? Why did I sigh and tremble? Such alone ought to be the emotions of a guilty mind, and surely I am blameless.
I am about to do nothing rash, I obey no impulse of passion, I have not separated duty and pleasure. I have examined the value of the object I would obtain with calmness; and whatever view I take of the means, still duty points to the part I have chosen.
Oh, Caroline, could I once have imagined that I should require hours to deliberate whether I ought to become the bride of Clement!
No longer the animated noble Clement, whose love, the very essence of his existence, soared beyond murmurs, jealousies, and fears, whose eye ever spoke the fulness of content, he is now wan, desponding, as ardent, yet less chaste, misled by the wild creations of his distempered fancy, ashamed of poverty, brooding over imaginary evils; over doubts, fears, jealousies!
What a dark and fatal cloud must have overspread the mind of Clement, ere he could fear Sibella, for her love is not a mutable passion, it is incorporate with her nature. My love and reason have become one, my fancy only subservient to its predominant command. Clement still loves, and I know he would view the fairest beauty, the brightest grace, with an unmoved look, with an unpalpitating heart, for who that loved could be faithless!
But 'tis this cold, this cruel uncle has done it all. He heaps secret on secret, uncertainty on uncertainty, till the poor youth, bewildered, surrounded, overwhelmed, sinks the victim of conjecture.
He is no longer Mr. Valmont's heir, and he shudders at the prospect of earning his future subsistence. Mr. Valmont tells him we shall not be united, and forgetting that we are not the puppets of his power, even this useless threat, Clement loads with terror. Another separation too is about to take place, and he has not once looked forward to the hour, when we shall wash away the remembrance in tears of joy at our re-union.
And shall I be content merely to deplore my former Clement, giving nothing, to restore him? Oh, no!—I had written to him, I had even ascended the stairs to his apartment, when a sudden terror seized upon me. I hastily hid the billet from my view, and with the restlessness of an anxious mind, first sought the wood, and then my chamber.
The billet lies before me, I have examined its purport. It calls on Clement to become my husband. For ought I to withhold myself from giving him the fullest proof of my affection, from renovating him by this proof, because Mr. Valmont cruelly commands it? Surely I ought not. Mr. Valmont's presence and benediction might adorn with one more smile the nuptial hour, but 'tis our hearts alone that can bind the vow. If Clement's is not in unison with mine, if he feels the necessity of other ties, he will refuse the offer, and point out to me that I have erred.
My courage rises. The paleness of fear on my cheek gives way to the glow of hope. I shall forget that absence, misfortune, and pain, have intervened and live over again those hours of joy and peace, when our bosoms heaved no sigh, save the rich sigh of transport and confidence.
I go; and to-morrow will I, though now forbidden his presence, go to my uncle, and conjure him to convince himself that power and command are useless, when reason and conviction oppose them. Adieu.
SIBELLA VALMONT
Read the inclosed, dear Arthur, and imagine my sudden transition from despair to rapture. I was sitting, mute in anguish, when the divine form of my Sibella appeared at my chamber door. She held to me a paper, and as I took it, she turned away sighing deeply. Read, read, I say, and partake if you can my feelings. But though I tell you, I have just arisen from her arms, with your cold killing indifference it is impossible you can form the shadow of a resemblance to those transports which wrap my senses in delirium.
Did you think I had not dared to follow? O, Yes! It was not to face the stern Mr. Valmont; no, it was in secret to receive Sibella to my arms, whom I love more than life. It was to outplot Mr. Valmont. To enjoy a glorious though secret triumph over this rival, this chosen, this elected of Mr. Valmont's favour. How could I, with youth glowing in my veins, love throbbing in my heart, reject the tempting offer, though multitudes of dangers threatened at a distance.
Avaunt, ye dark forebodings! Ye gloomy horrors assail not now the enraptured Clement! The hours cannot move backwards. The deed cannot be undone.
The moon and stars shone sole witnesses of our contract! But read, Murden. Write to me instantly, and say you have for once warmed yourself into delight, to find something like the state of
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
N.B.Exquisite, but misjudging charmer! She would have told Mr. Valmont, that she had given herself to me. My arms my prayers could hardly restrain her from her wild purpose.
When I would speak, I weep. New feelings, new ideas agitate my mind. A tremor that I cannot banish gives confusion to my thoughts, and all I now wish to express should be regular, forcible.
Once, had my heart conceived the design with which it now vibrates under a weight of apprehensions, it had been uttered without preparation: but you are not the same. Mr. Valmont's mysteries have acted on you in their full effect. You teach your brow caution. You learn concealments. You fear rivals!
Rivals in Sibella's love! Oh, no! no! no! But force you say. Mr. Valmont's power—Ah, Clement, Clement, turn your thoughts back, and find its importance.
But you cannot, Dread has seized up on you, and Mr. Valmont heightens the threatened evil, till it appears already arrived: it overwhelms you with its terrors, and there is nought left to Sibella but remembrance to paint her Clement.
Let Mr. Valmont dismiss you; that bears not the semblance of misfortune. But you shall not go to have your efforts chained down by despair, your vigour shall not be impaired by corroding doubts. When you seek delight, you shall remember your love, and the present short absence shall be the only pang her idea can inflict.
Come to my apartments. With pure hearts and hands, we will plight our fervent unspotted faith. Say I am your's, and you are mine, and sorrow and jealousy will vanish as a mist. You shall go the transported confiding husband.
SIR
Your letters, one and all, I suppose, have come in safety to my hands. In your last you are urgent for my answer. It is this. Although you, Mr. Montgomery, amuse your spleen or your fancy, by talking of mycold killing indifference, I have suchfeelingsas tell me your conduct is neither that of a lover nor a man.
Farewel, Sir. I renounce your friendship. I desire only to remain a stranger to your name and remembrance.
ARTHUR MURDEN
Montgomery
Call me mad, possessed. Curse me, reproach me, do anything, only that when you have had your revenge, forget such a letter as I wrote you last ever had existence.
Say it was strange, I say so too. Call it insolent, I will confess it; unaccountable, I still join with you. It was one of the sudden whirls of this vertigo brain of mine, almost as incomprehensible to myself as to you.
I have no excuses to offer, for the fit may come again upon me. Promise has no power with me, I am the creature of impulse. Alas! Alas! that reason and consistency should thus become the shuttlecocks of fancy!
Now taking it for granted, that I gain your pardon, next have I a long account to settle with myself. I would not partake of happiness of a common mould; lay it before me, and I disdained the petty prize, stalked proudly over it, and stalked on, prying, and watching, to seize hold on some hidden blessing, that reserved itself to be the reward of a deserving venturous hero like myself—Oh! I have embraced a cloud, and the tormenting wheel rolls round with a rapid motion!
I know I am talking algebra to you, and if you take me for a companion, you must even be content to travel on in the dark. It is so, but why it is, I think your best discernment will not aid you to discover. Enquiry is useless, expostulation, a farce. Be patient, and forgive me this, and other transgressions, for I tell you, Montgomery, you have a potent revenge.
There is little probability that you and I should meet each other, as London will be the scene of your action, while I condemn myself to wander north and south, in search of a few grains of that content I so wantonly gave the winds to scatter. I must have room to vent my suffocating thoughts. I cannot be pinioned in the crowd; and I would rather seek converse with myself in a charnel house, than enter the brightest circles of fashion. I hate to be the wonder of fools. Already is my reputation raised, and I have now just sense enough in madness to play my antics alone.
Driven by winds and storms, I may seek an occasional shelter at Barlowe Hall. Whither, if you are so disposed, you may direct to
ARTHUR MURDEN
I believe, Montgomery, it is necessary that I say something more to you. The above conclusion is abrupt and harsh. That I feel inclined to treat you thus is the consequence of my own folly, rather than your deservings of me. Let it pass then. I wish you no ill, but as I told you before, I am become the tool of every changing impulse.
I sympathize in your change of fortune; or rather, I feel a concern that you should colour with such darkened hues, so unimportant a circumstance.
I too have counted upon heirship. But let my uncle the nabob put five hundred pound in my pocket, and set me down in London, Petersburg, or Pekin, and if I did not walk my own pace through the world, let me die like a dog, and have no better burial.
Five hundred pound! 'Tis a mine. Ah, sigh not to be foremost of the throng! Independence, peace, and self approving reflection may be, if you will, the companions of your new destiny.
Certainly Mr. Valmont managed his plan of making you a Hermit with wonderful ingenuity, to send you forth from your cave at that very age when the fancy runs gadding after novelty, and shadow passes for substance. He decked you too with the trappings of wealth, and expected every man to appear before you, with a label written on his forehead, of his souls most secret vice.—He had better have driven you out to beg with an empty wallet, and then perhaps when one had said—Go work—another had hinted—Go steal—and a third had passed you and said nothing, you might possibly have returned to a leopard's skin, and a hut of branches, the man after Mr. Valmont's own heart.
Be wiser and happier, Montgomery, than this man has been; shun his weaknesses and your own; you also have your portion of weaknesses follies, vices. Yes Montgomery the latter word is not too harsh, or I should not have had now to pity you for being duped by the contemptible Janetta L——. Other instances there are for me to cite: They press upon my feelings—they wound—they torture me!
Judge for yourself, Montgomery, upon the right and wrong of your conduct and intentions. I am ill fitted to become your adviser.
How could you so far mistake my character as to suppose I was the seducer of Seymour's mistress: I think one of your letters asserted so much. If to persuade a deceived girl to quit her profligate companion (I will not say lover, I should disgrace the name) and return to console the latter days of an aged grandmother be seduction, I am guilty. This I did to Seymour, and his invectives or the rumours he may spread are as unimportant and as little troublesome to my repose as the insects that are buzzing around me.
Montgomery, no more of your phrases, nor his accusations. Be assured I am neither yoursoul-lessmarble, nor Seymour'slibertine.
At a boyish age from boyish vanity I aimed to be called a man of pleasure. It was easy to imitate the air and manners of such a man, and not less by such imitation alone to arrive at the contemptible fame among persons equally ready to encourage the practice and accuse the practitioner.
I renounce the loathsome labours of the flatterers, the despicable renown of the libertine. Miss Ashburn is my monitress, she began her lessons at Barlowe Hall, and now continues the instruction at Bath.
Do not imagine it was done in devout lectures or pious declamations. No, it was the stedfast modesty of her eye, her intelligent condemning mien, which said, here shall thy proud boast be stayed.
She was the finest woman of our party; and all the rest prepared to meet me with the glance of approbations and the smile of encouragement; yet she having been forewarned of my renown preferred the hand or arm or speech of a silly old colonel of sixty.—Now she knows me better. No, she does not, I evade, I fly her penetration.
Montgomery, the worthiest feeling I know of you is, that you lament your having made your truth and innocence a sacrifice.
I am not in love with Miss Ashburn. I would give an ear, an eye, any thing I have on earth, except the full confidence of my heart, to call her my sister, my friend. I admire, seek, venerate her; but, Montgomery, I am not in love with Miss Ashburn.
I have not answered your letter, my dear Sibella, as soon as you perhaps may have expected, because I was willing to dwell on the circumstances it contained, till the minutest shade was present with me, and till I discovered exactly wherein to praise, or wherein to blame. The time I have taken to deliberate has not been thrown away, for it has excited ideas in my mind that may prove of infinite service to us both: and should I in future find aught to add or diminish from my sentiments, I shall offer it as frankly as I now do my present decision.
Sibella, well might you, even at the door of Clement's apartment, retreat from your enterprise: for then, at that moment, you wandered the first step from your rectitude; and had you, instead of sitting down to detail your reasons to me, enquired narrowly into the cause of your sensations, you must have discovered that error was creeping in upon you, and that your native frankness and stedfast sincerity were making a vigorous effort to repelsecresy, that canker-worm of virtue.
Have you forgotten, my Sibella, when you said—'I am not weak enough to descend to artifice. Did I believe it right to go, I should go openly. Then might he try his opposing strength: but he would find that I could leap, swim or dive, and that walls or moats are feeble barriers to a determined will.'
This was noble; and I promised myself that, in you, I should find the one rare instance wherein no temptation could incline, or terror affright, into any species of concealment. I grant nothing could bring the temptation more strongly forward than the state into which Clement and you were forced: but still you should have resisted. Your every thought should still have flown to your lips. Your every intention should have been as public to those by whom you were surrounded as to yourself. No matter though it should dash aside a present project. Be openly firm in the resolution to do right, and, my life for it, the opposition of mistake and prejudice will bear no proportion in strength to your perseverance.
It is evident that this plain and necessary truth mixed itself with your ideas, although the tumults of hope and fear, and the crowd of images that were then rushing on your mind, dazzled your perception; for you saw it in part, when you resolved to declare to Mr. Valmont in the morning all that you had done. Would you had previously declared it! I know how useless it is to wish over the past: yet I must again say—would you had previously declared it!
You pause, Sibella—you are convinced: but you instantaneously quit the regret of that error for selfcongratulation. I can enter into all your feelings; and I find you now dwelling with pleasure on the supposition that I condemn only the concealment, that I look on the contract itself as an act of justice, and that I am about to applaud you for the fulfillment of a duty. And herein it is that I have doubted. To this one point have I called every present and remote circumstance; and it is from the combination of circumstances alone that I have been able to decide. The distinction becomes nice between praise and blame, for I have both to offer: yet, if I judge aright, some praise belongs to you—to the blame Mr. Valmont has an incontestible title.
With such an education as he has given you, unless you had been a mere block without ideas, it was impossible you should not become a romantic enthusiast in whatever species of passion first engaged your feelings: and Mr. Valmont took care to make that first passionLove. Whatever cause can have led him to his present inconsistency, it is as evident to me as light and sensation—that it was his settled plan to render love for each other the ruling feature of your's and Clement's character. The contrivance was worthless; but the performance was admirable. Thus you and Clement loved from habit.
Youth is always ardent and lively; it inclines to fondness; and you had none of the constraints which society lays on the first expansions of tenderness. You had no claimants, from kindred or family, on your affections: for the forbidding Mr. Valmont excited only fear; and you sought shelter in each other's arms, from the terrors of his frown. It was not more natural to breathe, than to love—it was not more natural to love, than to obey its dictates. Thus you and Clement, secluded from the world with your every pleasure arising only from mutual efforts to please, could not fail to love from habit. Had Clement and you been educated in the world, Clement would still have loved from habit: because I suspect he possesses more of softness than of strength. He would have loved often; and it would have been a trivial love: neither arising to any height, nor directed by any excellence.
You, Sibella, would have loved from reflection, from a more intimate knowledge of increasing virtues, from the intercourse of mind: then call it friendship, or call it love, it would indeed possess those predominant and absorbing qualities you describe, and which you now feel. But, Sibella, depend on it Clement had never been the object.
Pardon me, I do not mean to wound you. I know you will not shrink from truth; and I must therefore tell you, that the alteration in Clement which you ascribe wholly to Mr. Valmont's mysteries I ascribe to feebleness of character. Wherever your's rises to superiority his sinks. Had he been equal, and had there been no secresy in the case, I would have hailed yourmarriage. I well know, my friend, that you did not mean to separate duty and pleasure. Motives the most chaste and holy guided you. No forms or ceremonies could add an atom to your purity, or make your's in the sight of heaven more a marriage—yet do I wish, with all the fervency of my soul, this marriage had been deferred—that you had previously informed Mr. Valmont.
'Tis past: and repentance is only of value as it guides us in our future actions. We must endeavour to rouse Clement from his inactivity. I do believe he is not vicious, though your uncle's conduct respecting him has the worst of tendencies: my Sibella's excellence must have placed a talisman around him from which vice retires hopeless of influence. This is one great step: and, as I understand from Mr. Murden he is to be in London, I will seek his friendship; give a spur to every lurking talent; endeavour to preserve him free from taint; and if I had judged too hastily, if he is beyond what I expect, with what delight shall I contemplate the merits of him whose fate you have interwoven with your own!—Ah, how close is the texture—with what firmness can you think—to what excess can you love!
The dark season of the year is arrived. The fashionable world haste to the capital. We are never hindmost of the throng; yet this once have I urged forward our removal to London with all my influence; for I apprehend the succession of its gay diversions, and the multiplicity of varied engagements which must then occupy my mother, will remove from her mind any inclination towards a second marriage. Here, opportunity is always at hand for that despicable race of young men who are ever on the watch to sell their persons and liberty to the highest bidder; and, as Mrs. Ashburn's immensity of wealth is the general topic, her splendor the general gaze, and her vanity not a whit more concealed from observation, the fortune hunters crowd around her. At first the love of flattery appeared wholly to engage her and each was acceptable in his turn; till, at length, the elegant person of one youth became distinguished in a manner that alarmed me. Not but I should rejoice to see my mother yield herself to the guardianship of some good man, who had sense enough to advise, and resolution to restrain her lavish follies. Of such an union I have not any hope; and I must, if possible, prevent her being the dupe and victim of a misguided choice.
This young man possessed in a very emminent degree the advantages of person, air, and address; yet, when he directed his attentions wholly towards Mrs. Ashburn, there was such evident constraint in his manner, and his professions were so laboured, that almost any other woman would have condemned him. Mrs. Ashburn did not. She received, she encouraged him, she led him into every circle in open triumph, as her devoted lover: while his forced levity, at one time, and at another, his pale cheek, absence of mind, and half uttered sighs, told to every observer that he was a sacrifice but not a lover. I could not believe that the affair would ever be brought to so absurd a conclusion, till I found that the day of marriage was actually fixed on. I ought to have interfered before; for my interference has now saved them from the commission of such a folly.
I must, Sibella, reserve the history of this young man till another letter. I am called from the pleasing occupation of writing to you, by an engagement with a being more variable, more inexplicable, than any being within my knowledge, yet to me not less interesting than any. I mean Mr. Murden.
Never need I be wearied with the sameness of my thoughts, while I reside under one roof with Murden; for, let me turn them on the caprices of his conduct, and I shall find puzzling varieties without end.
Ever your's
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Henry Davenport is the young man of whom I am to speak. It was publicly mentioned here that he was related to several noble families; and at the same time was always hinted that he possessed no fortune. This I was ready to believe, from his addressing my mother.
Constantly surrounded with parties, and studious to avoid me, it was useless to attempt reasoning with my mother. I therefore wrote a card to Mr. Davenport, requesting an hour's conversation with him the succeeding morning.
He came. He was light and gay in his habit and address. His voice possessed an unusual softness; and his cheek was flushed with an hectic colour, equally proceeding, I thought, from want of rest and intemperance.
'Mr. Davenport,' said I, interrupting his compliments, 'you will convince me most that you are pleased with this interview by answering the questions I shall propose with seriousness and sincerity.'
He folded his hands and ludicrously lengthened his visage; but of this I took no notice. 'Tell me,' continued I, 'frankly and truly, what is your opinion of my mother?'
His levity instantly disappeared; and he replied in a hurrying manner—'I think Mrs. Ashburn a very charming—a very fine woman indeed.'
'What are your motives, sir, for marrying her?'
'Miss Ashburn,' said he, with great quickness and removing from the opposite side of the room to a chair next me, 'I do respect and admire you as much or perhaps more than any woman on the face of the earth. I would eat my flesh rather than injure you; and if Mrs. Ashburn give me her hand, I swear your interest in her fortune shall not be affected. I do not wish to be master of the principal. I only want to share some of that income which is lavished on superfluities.—O God! O God! how happy would the uncontrouled, independent, present possession of some of those hundreds make me!'
You cannot conceive the force with which he uttered this; and it seemed to recal a world of pressing ideas to his mind: for I found it necessary to wait till his attention returned of itself.
'And the enjoyment of this income in marriage will make you happy, year after year, all your life, Mr. Davenport?'
'Surely, Miss Ashburn,' and he looked at me stedfastly, 'you cannot think I would ever use your mother ill.'
'Do you love her, sir?'
'I have told you, Miss Ashburn, I admire her—I think her a fine spirited woman.'
'Do you love her, sir?' rejoined I with more emphasis.
'Love! why yes—no!—I have a great friendship for her, madam.—But as to love 'tis out of fashion—it is exploded.' He rose; and walked towards the window. 'Love is a romance; a cant; a whine; a delirium; a poison; a rankling wound that festers here, here!' he laid his hand on his heart, and leaned against the wainscot.
I sighed too: for the under tone of voice in which he pronounced the last few words was in scribably affecting. He quickly started from this posture, and threw himself on his knees before me.
'I confess it all,' said he, 'I am not more wretched than desperate. This marriage is my resource from worse evils. Oh, Miss Ashburn! by that benignity which irradiates your every action I conjure you suffer it to proceed!—I will be grateful.—I will honor and revere your mother.—More I cannot promise—I cannot. Allow me to depart, madam, I cannot endure to be questioned.'
And thus saying, he would have quitted the room, had I not held him by the arm, and with difficulty prevailed on him again to take his seat, and to listen to me patiently while I pourtrayed the evils of such a marriage, and the cruel injustice he was guilty of towards a woman so chosen.
'I know all that,' replied Davenport. 'I have foreseen it a thousand and a thousand times. I know I am a villain; but Mrs. Ashburn shall never suspect me. I will be the obedient slave of her will. She shall mould me to whatever shape her pleasure inclines. I will be more docile than infancy. I will forego my very nature, at her command.'
'But you have not foreseen, Mr. Davenport, that the time must arrive when her volatility and incessant eagerness after pleasure will cease to relieve you. It is in the hours of age and infirmity that she will call on you for aid, will seek in your soothing voice, in your cheering smile a relief from pain: and how will you perform your task in those multiplied moments? My mother does not want discernment: and what will be your torture to see her dying perhaps under the agonizing reflection that the man on whose honour she relied, on whose faith and sincerity her hopes had towered to felicity, that, her husband had deceived her, perhaps had loved another.'
He became pale as death. I continued. 'But you shall not hasten to this destruction. I will prevent this marriage.'
'Miss Ashburn, for heaven's sake!' cried he: 'I have no other means—I must—marry.'
I took hold of his hand, for he trembled. 'I wish to be your friend, Mr. Davenport; indeed I am your friend, at this moment; it is far from my intention to tear from you this fallacious hope, without placing some certain and honourable advantage in its stead. Let me know your history. Neither conceal from me your wants nor your feelings, nor the situations they have throw you into; and I will undertake to do you every service that reason and humanity suggest.'
He attempted in vain to answer. Throwing himself back in the chair, he covered his face with an handkerchief, and shed tears.
I believe it was near a quarter of an hour ere he recovered from his agitation, and was able to speak as follows.
'My father was himself so enamoured of pomp that, although he allowed me, an only son, to share the magnificence of his town residence, yet he confined my sisters with their governess and two servants to a small house he possessed in a cheap country. I saw them only once a year; and the solitude of their abode was so irksome to me, that I was always eager to quit and unwilling to return at the usual period. However, about the time I was to set out on my travels, it was judged decent and necessary that I should pay them a visit of unusual length, as they were now almost women; and to my great surprise I found their old governess removed, and a young person with them as companion whom alas I did love to distraction.
'Weeks only were allotted to my stay, but I staid months. My father's mandates for my return were no sooner read than forgotten. All was enchantment and happiness. My sisters loved Arabella affectionately; and had so little knowledge of the world as to imagine our union altogether proper and probable.
At length, either surprised or alarmed at my continuance in the country, or having certain intelligence of my engagements, my father arrived one evening secretly and altogether unexpectedly. And, while we imagined our joys secure from interruption, he listened behind the little summer-house in which Arabella and I were interchanging vows of eternal constancy, till rage would not permit him to hear us longer. Then he burst upon us; and, as I defended my love with vehemence, he deprived me of present sensation by a blow.
'When I recovered I was confined to one room, and could obtain no tidings of Arabella, no intercourse with my sisters nor any intermission of the rigours of my imprisonment: although I obstinately refused all sustenance beyond the small quantity which irresistible hunger compelled me to eat against my will. In three weeks, one of my sisters found an expedient to let me know Arabella had been turned out of the house, and had taken shelter at the farm-house of a relation about five and twenty miles distance; that my father gave her the character of an abandoned strumpet, and vowed I should die in prison if I did not swear to renounce her for ever.
'From this time, I laboured night and day in contriving my escape till I effected it; and travelled the five and twenty miles with such speed in my emaciated state that I had no sooner thrown myself into Arabella's arms than I fell into fits. A fever succeeded; and, during this period, the people of the house, though excessively poor, strove with all their might to add comforts and conveniences to my situation. Arabella was my nurse. To them I was bound by gratitude—to her my ties became strengthened till they excluded reason, reflection, and prudence. The moments of returning health were devoted to my affection. Our days were passed alone. Our former distresses and future prospects were alike forgotten; and we became as guilty as happy.
'Scarcely had we begun to repent our error, when my father discovered my retreat; and once more tore me from my love. Guarded, fettered, and enduring every species of brutal usage from those employed about me, I was conveyed first to London, and then sent abroad, where I remained above two years—refusing to give her up, and refused upon any other terms to be allowed to return. My father's death gave me liberty. I flew to England; and found my Arabella pining under the accumulated distresses of extreme poverty, destroyed reputation, and a consumptive habit: all which miseries were rendered doubly poignant by the possession of an infant.
'I will not attempt, madam, to describe to you what I endured when I saw her and my child wanting absolute necessaries. All I could call my own was employed to procure medical advice for Arabella; and that all was a trifle. My father, to the astonishment of every one, had died insolvent. My sisters were taken into dependence by different relations; and I was turned adrift on the world without knowledge or means to procure myself one penny. To assist those who have no power to assist themselves, who have no claims but on me, me the author of their calamity, I have plunged myself into debt. The man of whom I have borrowed money pointed out to me the plan of marrying your mother; and, when I revolted at the dishonourable action, he showed me the opposite picture—a jail.—What can I do, Miss Ashburn? Can I see them die—and consent to linger out my wretched existence in a prison? No! I am driven by extremity of distress; and must go on, or perish.'