A pleasant journey be thine, Walter; but if this sudden trip be meant to evade the consequences of my wrath it was unnecessary. Truly I forgave you on the spot, in consequence of the very ridiculous situation you were in, turning with beseeching looks to me for pardon and stammering contradiction after contradiction to Montgomery, which served only to confirm the suspicions in his mind your foolish audible whisper had occasioned.
How guarded have I always been when Montgomery spoke of the Valmonts; and little did I suppose, though I knew your talent, when I urged him to show you the picture you could forget your caution. Your shrug, your leer, your whisper struck Montgomery dumb; and to my explanation he appeared no less deaf. Yesterday he did not keep his appointment with me.—We accidentally met in the evening (where it had been better we had neither been) but he was distant and embarrassed.
Scarcely had Griffiths begun the honours of my head this morning, than Montgomery was announced and condescended to amuse himself with Rosetta and Ponto in the drawing-room till the business of my sitting was at an end.
'Oh! by heaven,' he cried, as I entered the room, 'you would at this moment be irresistible!—Health, vigour, proportion, and the face of an Apollo! Luckless be ever the youth who shall presume to rival you'—I'll give you ten guineas for Rosetta, Filmar. Will you sell her?'
'No, I will not, Montgomery; though you seem so well to understand our mutual value.'
He drew from his pocket the very miniature in the shagreen case: your stumbling-block, Walter.
'Do me the honour, Filmar, to accept this from me.'
'Miss Valmont's picture!—and of your painting!—You are delirious, Montgomery!'
'Faith, not I!—never more rational in my life, as this very action evinces. Exquisitely divinely charming as she is, who would stand a competition against your person, rank, and happy influence with Mr. Valmont.'
'Influence with Mr. Valmont!'
'Inimitable!' cried he.—'You overwhelm me with your perfections this morning. How natural that start? nor do you forget the grace of the attitude, I perceive. It is too late, Filmar. Be candid. We will not quarrel; for, as you have so much the start of me in her uncle's approbation, I must resign with a good grace. Can I do more than even yield to my rival that resemblance of her enchanting face? All I ask in return is to oblige me in kind offices with Mr. Valmont.—'Tis a curst strange business to be sure, but, on my soul, Mr. Valmont sent me to town to study!—I have no time to spare, as yet.—Mum! you know, as to my employments.—I shall reform ere long.'
'Send you to London to study!—Ha! ha! ha!'
'Yes by heaven he did!—To this emporium of delight!—A strange being!'
'And so are you; for, Montgomery, if I understand your meaning concerning Mr. and Miss Valmont, may I—.'
'S'death, my Lord, Sir Walter's strange speech and your confusion kept me awake two hours! Upon my soul, you have seen her! I know you have; and I am sure Mr. Valmont wouldn't suffer any man in the kingdom to look at her, except the one whom he designs for her husband. Everything corroborates the fact. You told me the Earl knew Mr. Valmont; but did you ever hint, in the most remote way, that you had been in the castle, till Sir Walter's question obliged you to have recourse to that portrait in the drawing room, to excuse the implication?—Ah, Filmar!—A divinity is destined for your arms, whilst I must sigh in secret over the remembrance of past hopes!'
'You won't sigh alone, Montgomery. You don't profess anchorism. There are other divinities.'
He smiled one of those enchanting smiles which will probably reduce many such divinities into frail mortals. And then he enumerated, in the way of exclamation, a number of his favourite beauties.
'No wonder you want to give up Miss Valmont,' said I, 'you that are the favoured of so many.'
'Want to give up Miss Valmont! Lord God, how can you talk so ridiculously, Filmar? Want to give up an angel, with whom it were life to die, to live from whom is death! Is she not torn from my arms? Am I not interdicted, and another elected? By heavens! my Lord, your secresy was unkind, but this triumph is insulting!'
And thus, Walter, we passed away the morning:—he, affirming; I denying. I fairly overshot my mark in leading him to talk so often of Sibella; for he has tacked together such a number of scraps and ends, that, with the aid of his colouring, make proofs as strong asproofs of holy writ.—Well, and if he does speak of me in this way to Mr. Valmont? The man suspected me before, and all he can now do is to clap another padlock on his caution.
There is something unmanly in Montgomery's conduct. With studied vehemence of lamentation he recanted his many many former insinuations of his constant security in Miss Valmont's favour; and, unless it was a preconcerted plan between them, (which I do not think possible) his voluntary resignation of her picture stamps him a contemptible——. My fingers had a kind of tremulous impulse towards the picture; yet I positively refused to accept it; a double dose of prudence this morning made some amends for its total absence last evening. 'Tis too true, Walter; I left the club again without a penny. The Earl will not be in town till next week; and till I am in cash I cannot invent or contrive a probable means of saving my friend Montgomery the disgrace of being mistaken.
This youth makes a rapid progress in the sciences. He was as completely inducted last night as your humble servant. His tutor, Janetta Laundy, also is most admirably chosen; and if Valmont deems that to be a dupe with a beggared purse, and shattered constitution, is the antidote against society, Montgomery is going the high road to answer all his wishes.
Your hint, dear knight, respecting Mrs. Ashburn, was not lost upon me; but, though I would not marry for aught but money, I should like to have a wife thrown into the bargain whom I could love now and then. I acknowledge the widow is as young as any woman (of her years) I ever saw in my life; and in wealth I should be an emperor. But indeed, Walter, I could ruin myself as effectually, I feel I could, I have all the laudable inclinations necessary thereto, with a large fortune as with a moderate one; and then age will come, and gout, and bile, and ill tempers, and no sweet remembrances of smiles, of dimpling cheeks, of melting eyes, to cheer me!—Were the widow once turned of eighty, the charms of youth and beauty should not tempt me from her.—As it is, I could like her daughter better.—Ah, but Miss Ashburn's is a searching eye! She would enquire for thy passport of virtue and morality, Filmar!
You perceive plainly, don't you, Walter, that I have no alternative but taking Sibella Valmont with her 7,000l. per annum? You have now seen her picture, tell me, is she not unequalled? And may I not sometimes, without any violent effort of self-denial, condescend to toy away an hour or two with (though my own wife) a creature so perfect? Walter! Walter! Could I drench in oblivion that youth with the flowing beard, I should be proud to acknowledge how often I dream of this little seducer!—As it certainly was not Montgomery, who could it be?—and why came he there? This interrogation is constantly served up with my breakfast, it even attends my undressing, and has been, not unfrequently, my bedfellow—The very quintessence of politeness, however, it never intrudes further than the door of the tavern or gaming-house. For the former, I now leave it and thee. Thine,
FILMAR
Can you, will you, my dear friend, undertake to rescue Sibella from the tyranny at present exercised over her? If you will, write me instantly three lines to London, where I am now returning. From that place I will relate the particulars of my visit to Valmont, which will also include my reasons for this request.—Now, I only write while I change horses at B——.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Madam,
When you bid me live, and live for Sibella, I shut my ears against the voice of the syren.—Name the possibility of my rescuing Sibella, and the light and sun again becomes of value to me!
ARTHUR MURDEN
Inexorable as you would persuade me you are, still I hope to conquer you. Yet, it must be a future work. Sibella's release is our present employment; and, though I am not surprised at your readiness to undertake it, I am truly grateful. In this case, I know your heart and your benevolence are separated; for, determined as you are to live and die without hope, every step that carries you toward her increases your anguish.—The sacrifice is great. I wish you would trust me, that in the end it may find a reward.
The inclosed letter you must yourself give to Sibella. Mr. Valmont may lock up the doors of his castle; but your cell and pannel is not under his dominion. Your hermit's cap and gown secure your own escape. Be sure you do not escape alone. Read the inclosed, and you will find I mean to join you on the road. You will there find also my reason for not being of your party, through the subterraneous passage and into the castle.
To yourself I leave the conduct of the business. Your brain is fertile in project; and on your faith and delicacy in execution I would rely as on my own soul.
When I reached Valmont park, Mr. Valmont sent an excuse for not admitting me. Message after message flew from the moat to the castle; and I was compelled to stipulate for not seeing any one but himself, ere the word of command was given for me to pass.
He received me with a demeanour cold, formal, and haughty. I assured him that a motive equal to the pleasure I had promised myself of seeing Sibella, had induced me to take the journey.
'I perfectly understand you, madam,' said he; 'but once for all, to save you the trouble of useless discussion, I will not relax an atom of my severity, till Miss Valmont has in some measure expiated her fault.'
'What is her fault, Sir?'
'Her fault!' repeated he, starting. 'I perceive madam, you are a stranger to the cursed business; and may you remain so, for your own, for her's, and her family's sake.'
'Is Clement Montgomery concerned?'
He bit his lip, arose from his seat, stifled anger contracting his brow.
'I see he is,' said I—'and——.'
'Madam' said Mr. Valmont sternly, 'your understanding should inform you, that affairs which concern the honour of a family are only to be canvassed by the individuals immediately belonging to it.'
'You forget, Sir,' replied I, 'that I am a female; and, according to your creed, cannot possess understanding.—Is it owing to this deficiency that I am of opinion, the honour of a family, as generally understood, is a matter quite opposite to the virtue of a family.—In the present case, I think you clasp your honour and turn your virtue and justice out of doors.—If, when you use such terms, in speaking of Sibella, you allude to her contract with Clement, I acknowledge her in the wrong. To ratify that contract, Sir, would be a worse error: for he is undeserving of her. But all that, and the worst of errors she can commit, may ascribe their origin to yourself.'
'Madam, you are obliging; but you have not yet convinced me I am under any necessity of explaining myself to you.—Whatever offences Clement has committed against me, he shall not fail of his proper punishment—trust me, he shall not.—I—I—Will you take any refreshment, madam?'—rising—'I regret Mrs. Valmont is too much indisposed to receive you.—Pardon me, our conference must end.—You will excuse me, but I cannot suffer you to see Miss Valmont.—It is indeed impossible.'
I declined the refreshment, lamented for Mrs. Valmont, and objected to putting an end to the conference. And this last produced an altercation too diffuse and passionate to be related minutely. I mentioned Sibella's fortune. He almost started with surprise. He said I could not have heard it from her, for he had refused her permission to write to me.—'No,' I replied, 'I believe my informant was her's.' He called some Earl a lying scoundrel; and added, after a moment's pause, that now it was useless to keep it longer secret, that Miss Valmont was her father's heiress, since the object of its being concealed was utterly destroyed. He had planned the concealment for her benefit; and carried it into execution only to perfect her happiness. She had indeed a noble fortune, he said, ill bestowed. None of his should go the same way. And, as to the pragmatical puppy who took the pains to tell her of it, his scheme, by the disclosure, was effectually annihilated.
As you, Murden, have no striking characteristics of the puppy, I took the liberty of asking Mr. Valmont, if he knew the person to whom he alluded.
'Very well,' he replied, 'too well.' It was the son of Sibella's other guardian who wanted her wealth to amend his poverty.
'I believe not,' said I.
'Madam, I am assured of it. He bribed some of the fools of my family to admit him.'
'Did they confess the charge?'
'Not absolutely; but they prevaricated and talked backwards and forwards in such a way as confirmed their guilt.'
'Talking backwards and forwards, Sir,' said I, 'sometimes proceeds from confusion and awe. I am very much inclined to believe your servants innocent in this affair, Mr. Valmont.'
'Miss Ashburn is extremely inclined to construe all I say or do in the way that best pleases her. But Sibella herself saw this person and herself gave me the information.'
'That I know too. And——.'
'I know what you are going to advance, Madam. She might tell you as she did me, of his feigned name. He called himself some Mr. Murden; a friend of Clement's he persuaded her to believe him to be.'
'I, Sir, have a friend called Murden; and so had Clement Montgomery. Might it not be him?'
'No, Madam; it might not;' replied Mr. Valmont; 'for no person but her two guardians ever knew a whisper of Sibella's fortune. I tell you the Earl disclosed it to his son, because he wanted his son to marry her.—I refused their offer; and their residence lately in this neighbourhood confirms the rest.'
'Once more, you are mistaken, Mr. Valmont. Hear me out, Sir,' for his fiery impatience was again blazing forth. 'How the secret was first unfolded I know not; but, in the immediate agency of conveying this intelligence to Sibella, the guardian you speak of had no concern whatever. I am much better informed than you perhaps may imagine Mr. Valmont. You discharged your servants from passion not from conviction. I pledge myself to prove the truth of my affection, if you will let us make a compromise. Liberate Sibella. Give her to my care one month, and I will tell you who the person was; and, for your future security, how he gained admission into your park.'
'Cobwebs to catch eagles! I grant, madam, you are amazingly condescending; but as the days of enchantment are passed, I am as well instructed on the latter point as I wish to be. For myfuture security, I am also provided. The suspicious part of my household are gone; and I think I have secured the fidelity of the rest. Your request concerning Miss Valmont's passing from my care to your's madam, is not worthy of an answer.'
Somewhat indignantly I reminded him, that an abuse of power might be the forfeiture of power; and that the law, useless as it is for the relief of general oppression, might reach this particular instance.
'I despise your threats, madam,' said Mr. Valmont, 'as I do your intreaties. The will of the Hon. Honorius Valmont delegated to me the care of her person till the age of twenty-one. Then, whoever aspires to the protection of a disgraced dishonoured woman may claim it; but till then, madam, I swear that, in the solitude and confinement of this castle, she shall weep for her errors. Depend upon it, madam, whilst you favour us with your abode in any part of this country, the rigour of her imprisonment shall be tenfold.' And, so saying, he rang the bell furiously; and would have departed.
'Hold, Sir, one moment,' cried I—and then, after a pause, I promised to quit the country instantly if he would suffer me to converse one quarter of an hour with Mrs. Valmont.
'O! pray show this lady to your mistress's dressing room,' said he, sneeringly, to the servant that appeared. 'It would be well in your wisdom, madam, to make Mrs. Valmont's influence of consequence before you attempt to gain Mrs. Valmont's influence.'
Mrs. Valmont, having worn out the variety of fancied indispositions, is now fairly dying of inanity. She was neither surprised at my visit, nor at all interested by that which she herself called the lamentable state of her niece.
Mrs. Valmont was attended by her confidential servant, whom I requested to remain in the apartment, for I judged I should from her gain more information than from her lady. And I judged rightly. She was not only willing, but eager, to tell me all she knew.
It seems Mr. Valmont has had two interviews with his niece. The first was on her leaving you in the Ruin, when Mr. Valmont was irritated, by her persisting to declare herself married, to strike her. She did throw herself into the moat, but she received no injury. From that time, he ordered her to be confined. In the second interview, a painful circumstance, relating to Sibella, transpired, in consequence of which her uncle abruptly commanded her from his presence. The discovery he had made wounded him almost to madness; and his first transports of rage have subsided into a constant gloomy moroseness. At times he has been seen to weep. The circumstance I speak of has been whispered from one to another throughout the family; and in this way alone travelled to Mrs. Valmont—for mortified pride would choak Mr. Valmont's attempt, were he inclined to give the secret utterance. I can trace the operations of his pride, but I am lost with respect to his tears; for Sibella never possessed any of his affection.
My tears flowed without restraint when I learned this distressing circumstance, and heard also that our Sibella droops under her uncle's cruelty. She eats little, sighs deeply, but weeps seldom. 'Twas unnecessary to enjoin silence to her domestics, for she never attempts to speak to them. They frequently hear her talk of some letter which she holds up between her clasped hands, as she traverses her apartment in extreme agitation; and then she exclaims—He never never wrote it!Once a day she is conducted to the terrace; but her wood and all her beloved haunts are forbidden.
You, Murden, could not have borne the apathy with which these and other particulars were repeated; nor could Mrs. Valmont with all my reasoning be prevailed on to suppose that she who had been so long governed should now infringe on her obedience, and endeavour to give aid and comfort to her ill treated niece.
I had quitted Mr. Valmont in anger. I quitted Mrs. Valmont in sorrow. As I crossed the square court in front of the building, I stopped and looked up with an eye of tears to Sibella's windows. No pale melancholy form appeared to my salute. 'Does Miss Valmont,' said I to the servant attending me, 'inhabit the same apartments as formerly?' The man looked round every way, and replied in the affirmative.
Scarcely was I reseated in the carriage, when I began to accuse myself as wanting friendship and humanity when I foolishly promised Mr. Valmont to quit the country; Murden would not have done this, thought I; then Murden is the fittest person to repair the error; and before I arrived at B——, I had resolved to engage you to take her from this proud this cruel uncle.
I have only now to tell you why I hastened on to London—to procure her an asylum. The very term proves to you that Mrs. Ashburn's house is out of the question. If you know Mrs. Beville, the sister of Davenport, you know a very amiable woman, who will open her arms and heart for the reception of Sibella. It is not my design to make either her retreat or the means used in her escape a secret; but, if it is possible to prevent Clement Montgomery's seeing her, that I will do. To shield her from Mr. Valmont, we must oppose authority. It was a strange over-sight in me not to learn the name of her other guardian.
Let me beseech you, my dear friend, to arm yourself with fortitude. If the circumstance to which I allude in a part of this letter betrays its own authenticity to you, I know your heart will be rent with agony. Yet, persevere!—Ah! I need not say that! in itself, it includes every incitement to her relief.
Use no speed on my account, for I shall be unknown in that obscure village seven miles the other side of B——, where you must stop for me. Let me know when I may be there; and, in waiting for you, I can have no other impatience than of being assured you are in safety.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Your Caroline Ashburn, My Sibella, your own Caroline, who loves you with her whole heart, sends Murden to your relief. Need I add a stronger recommendation? Ah, no! Thus commissioned, you will instantly assure yourself he is benevolent, noble, just, and has not one fault in his nature, that counteracts the propriety of choosing him for your protector.
I have lately been in the castle, Sibella. I have seen your cruel uncle, your insensible aunt: but she for whose sake I encountered them was secluded from my view. I know every particular of your situation. Yes, my love,every particular.—There, you have endured enough. Come away! Follow the footsteps of your guide! They will conduct you to liberty. Happiness may overtake us by and by.
My own hand should lead you to the dreary hermit's cell—My smiles should cheer you—for Murden is not apt now to smile, yet, believe me, his heart will rejoice in your deliverance, though his eye may talk of nothing but woe—But I dare not come. Your uncle has spied. Were he to find me in the neighbourhood, he would suspect a plan to relieve you; and by some new manoeuvre counteract it. We have but this one means in our power, for your uncle is irreconcileable.
When Murden gives you this letter, commit yourself wholly to his direction. He will bring you, my Sibella, with all convenient dispatch to a little village called Croom, fifteen miles from your uncle's castle. There your Caroline's arms will receive you; and my affection tells me we shall never again be separated. A short farewel, Sibella.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Sir,
On the very day I received your answer to my last letter, I discovered a circumstance which rendered that answer quite unnecessary, except to prove that you are not only a villain but a cowardly villain.
I should have given to myself the satisfaction of telling you thus much before, but I delayed for two reasons; the first, till I had completely banished every struggling effort of the affection I once had for you, almost the only affection I ever had in my life; and the second, perhaps a very consoling one to you, until I had executed the deed which comes herewith, by which under certain annexed conditions you are entitled to the possession of 200l. for life. However you may be obliged by the action, you have but little obligation to the motive.—I hate and detest you cordially; but I would not, for my honour's sake, give up to absolute beggary,my own—my only son.
Yes, sir,my son. Not legitimate, I confess, butnaturalin the strongest acceptance of the term. I cared not ten straws for your mother; yet, from your birth, I felt a strange propensity to love you. I schemed and planned for your advantage. For your sake alone, I contrived a project by which all the united wealth of the Valmont house would have been showered on your head. I intended, mark me, sir,I determinedyou should marry my niece, and take my name, burying the disgrace of your birth in the nobleness of my possessions. And, as I abhorred that a man who bore my name should abandon himself to the love of society, I sent you into the world as poor and adopted, that you might experience its disappointments and know how to value your proper happiness.—Amply have you rewarded my extreme love and constant labour!
I patiently undergo this statement, because I would have you see exactly where you might have stood, and where you stand now.—The conditions of your present independence are, that you never come into my presence: If you once intrude by letter or otherwise I wipe away the allowance and every trace of consideration for you: Also, the instant you form any species of intercourse with Miss Valmont, the deed is cancelled. Even this paltry sum, as it is mine shall not help to support infamy, ingratitude, and treachery.—Make the comparison, Sir, between 200l. and 18,000l. per annum!—Ha! does it gall you?—So may it ever! May rest fly from your pillow and contentment from your heart; and men you will know what I have experienced, since I discovered the indelible stain you have fixed on my family.
My equally worthless niece, perhaps, may, when she is her own mistress, be inclined to reward your conduct with her hand; for, if I may judge by her reception of your letter when I gave it her, she is not more the fool of inclination than of credulity.—Remember, she never possesses one penny of mine.
If you really have any friend of the name of Murden, pray offer him my very sincere thanks. But for his timely interference, I might have given you a part of your intended inheritance before I discovered your scoundrel-like conduct.
In the moment of acknowledging you my son, I renounce you for ever. I cast you from my affection and memory. And, should you henceforth think of me, know that you have an inveterate implacable enemy, in your father,
G. VALMONT
Madam,
I date my letter from the farm. Richardson is my confidant. He has a sincere generous mind. I stood before him confessed in all my folly. He will give me his utmost aid.
Do not again call me inexorable, dear Miss Ashburn. I have yielded greatly indeed to you. I consulted a physician at Barlowe-Hall. As we are so speedily to meet, it would be useless to conceal from you that, wherever it had its beginning, the disorder is not now confined to my mind. Youth, the physician said, was in my favour. The continent might do me service. He ordered some medicine; regulated my diet; and, when I told him of my leaving the Hall immediately, he shook my hand:—Conviction speaking from his countenance, that it was his last salute to me.
A few restorative medicines furnished me with strength to reach the farm.—Here my purpose nerves me.—But why do you bid me fortify my heart? Oh, my dear madam, it has been long since fortified! From the fatal night when she gave herself to the arms of Clement, my heart became callous, impenetrable to the dart of any new calamity.
And sometimes too I smile, Miss Ashburn. It is amazing into what familiar habits of intimacy I and the misery that abides with me have fallen.
Fear me not, madam.—In this enterprise, I have all the determination of will—all the vigour of health.—Everything is prepared—last night, accompanied by Richardson, who from his zealous apprehensions for my safety, would not suffer me to go alone, I visited the rock.—No interrupters have been there. The cell, the stone, and the passage are still at our devotion.—Richardson is too honest to make an improper use of the secret of this Ruin; nay, he was the first to remind me, it would be just when our purpose was effected to give Mr. Valmont its description.
Again I repeat, every thing is prepared—I only wait for you to inform me of the nearest connection between her apartments and the armoury. A blunder might be fatal. When you have given me this necessary information, quit London to meet us instantly; for the night succeeding the receipt of your letter Sibella shall bid adieu to her oppressor's dungeon. Direct to Richardson—Stantorfarm, W——.
A. MURDEN
N.B.You blame, with great justice, the little power I possess of detaching myself from the affairs of my heart.—Last time I wrote, it escaped me till my letter was gone, and now I have torn open the seal to tell you that Mademoiselle Laundy is an abandoned woman, Montgomery's mistress in Paris; and, though I have no positive proof, I venture to assert she holds the same station in London. If it suits you to inform Mrs. Ashburn of her companion's principles, on the authority of my name, it is wholly at your service.
I ought to reproach you; but, dear and irresistible as you are, your image, Montgomery, banishes every thing but sensations of pleasure. What can be the reason of your sudden gloom and distraction? I am sure the loss of your money cannot be all, because you know how easily you may be supplied by Mrs. Ashburn till you have further remittances. Why should you hesitate, when I assure you she would be obliged by your making the demand? Recollect her own words the evening she compelled you to use her pocket-book at the faro table; and, if you will not allow me to urge you on another point, at least be persuaded to spare yourself fruitless anxiety about your losses at play.
Still I fear there is something else; and will you not tell it to Janetta, to your own Janetta, who has sacrificed her peace to you, what it is that thus distresses you? Do you remember how you behaved last night? I was terrified to death at your appearance. I asked if you were ill. You struck your hand on your forehead, and said you were undone. 'Is the beauteous Sibella inconstant?' asked Mrs. Ashburn.—I shall never forget the manner of your answer. You spoke through your shut teeth. 'Damnation, madam! she has ruined me!' Then, whirling round, you caught my hand, and exclaimed, 'Oh Laundy! I am indeed undone!'
How I trembled!—I tremble now to think of it. For God's sake, my dear beloved Montgomery, be careful! The hated, the prying Miss Ashburn was by; and if she never suspected us before, I am sure she does now. You went up to Lady Barlowe and asked her fiercely for her nephew.
'Mr. Murden, Sir,' said Miss Ashburn looking at you with such scorn I could have killed her, 'Mr. Murden, Sir, is at present a sort of wandering knight errant. Sometime within a fortnight you will hear certain tidings of him. He may be in London.'
It seemed as if you came only to ask this question; for you went away soon after; and, though you strove to be gayer, you sighed so deeply I could scarcely contain myself. I wept all night; and now I am writing instead of dressing. How dear to me every employment that has a concern with my charming Montgomery!—I know not what excuse I shall make at dinner for my melancholy appearance; but fears for my own safety are swallowed up in my apprehensions for you.
Luckily, the Dutchess is confined with a cold.—I will visit her to-night; and, on my way, call on you. So prepare to confide all your griefs to the sympathizing bosom of your Janetta.
Miss Ashburn, two hours ago, received a letter which seemed to give her great pleasure; and, while she was reading it, Lord Filmar came in. When she had finished the letter, she turned to him. 'Didn't I hear you speak of some one being ill, my Lord?'
'Oh, yes, madam, I was enquiring whether Montgomery came here last night to seek physicians or a nurse. I called on him yesterday morning and the servant said, his master was very bad, dreadfully bad, too bad to be seen. I sent after dinner, and he was worse. I drove to his lodgings, just now, to make my adieus, before I leave town, and still he was so bad I could not be let in. Yet I met Miss Trevors, who tells me he was of the party here last evening; a little out of spirits, indeed, but quite as handsome as ever.'
'That he is bad, my Lord,' replied Miss Ashburn fixing her eyes on me, I can very well credit. And, ere long, I shall endeavour to point out some persons who have the same infectious disorders.'
Unless you had seen her look, you can't tell half the meaning this conveyed.—After reading her letter again, she told Mrs. Ashburn she was going out of town immediately; and being asked where, she said, that could not be explained till her return. Her chaise is ordered; and I am delighted to think she can't interrupt us when she is away.
Dear, too dear Montgomery, expect at nine, thy ever faithful
JANETTA LAUNDY
The long narrow passage where you met those three men you spoke of connects the tower with the south wing. There you will find a flight of stone stairs, by which she used to descend to the armoury. Those stairs will conduct you into the gallery belonging to Sibella's apartments. Her uncle, fond of magnificence, appropriated to her use solely all the suite of rooms on that floor of the wing. She may be secured by lock and key, but I do not suppose any one is permitted to sleep near her. Of that you must run the hazard.
Do not wonder my lines are uneven, for I actually tremble while I follow you in imagination to that gallery. Were I writing to any one but yourself I should bid you blend boldness and caution. You have done it already.
Ah, my sweet friend, my Sibella!—but I forgot that you are a stranger, my Sibella, to nervous apprehension.—The first word of his errand will bless you!
No, Murden, mere assertion though aided by the authority of your name, will not convince Mrs. Ashburn of her companion's proflicacy. If I cannot fairly and fully detect her practices, I can never remove her. The affair must rest till my return; and then I will try my utmost. I thank you for your information, and I have this morning given Miss Laundy an information that I understand her. A surprising alteration is displayed in Montgomery. Mr. Valmont, I conclude, has begun his discipline.—Explanation is approaching; and do you, my friend, school yourself, before you and he meet, and then you will not cease to befriend him though he may cease to befriend himself.
Adieu! ere this arrives at the farm, I shall be at my station.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
And is it come to this? You urged the secret from me I would fain have withheld; and now do you also give me up to despair? Oh Janetta! Janetta! have I deserved it of you? What was there in that cruel letter of Mr. Valmont's which should chill the ardour of love? His anger has blasted all the fair promises of my life; but it could not transform me into age or ugliness. Still am I, though wretched and desperate, thy Montgomery; still adoring thy beauty, panting for thy charms.
Forgive me if these reproaches are injurious to your tenderness. If you yet love me, forgive me. Alas! you love me not! You turn from me with an averted eye. You repulse my caresses! You give me up to misery and despair; and the wretched Montgomery dies under your neglect.
Farewel, my Janetta! Oh farewel, farewel, then, to all the blooming pleasures which I gathered with an eager hand! My sentence is without appeal. Mr. Valmont—that a father should be so cruel! dooms me to poverty and disgrace. Can I exist in poverty? No, by heaven! Shall I languish in a sordid dwelling, with there food and covering, and sicken over the remembrance of past enjoyments? Shall I live to crawl along with steps enfeebled by misfortune, and view the splendid equipages of those who were once my associates pass me unheeded? No, I cannot endure it. Some way or other I must end it. All the means of making life desirable are denied me. I blush at my unmerited disgrace. I would hide myself from every eye save your's, Janetta; and, when the fatal tidings are divulged abroad, I shall surely expire with torture.
Yet, be once more kind, my charmer:—if thou hast no kindness for the unfortunate Montgomery, this once, at least affect it. Thou hast known misfortune. Have pity on me! Come and listen to my sighs: let me breathe a sorrowful farewel on thy bosom. I shall not ask this indulgence a second time. I will fly, to bury in solitude the short remnant of a miserable existence.—Then come, and once more bid my heart throb with rapturous sensations! Bid me for a moment forget my doom, remembering only what I have been!—The blissful moment ended, farewel, Janetta! farewel to all!
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
It is very strange I should express myself so ill as to have my emotions of sorrow and regret mistaken, by you, for coldness and aversion. It is cruel, Montgomery, thus to accuse your Janetta. Could I but describe the anguish I suffered both on your account and my own, you would pity me. Yes, Montgomery; 'tis I should ask for pity. I, who never till now knew how strong are the ties by which my rival held you. Barbarous as she is, I fear you still love her. She thinks only how she can most effectually work your ruin; while you charge with neglect and unkindness the faithful Janetta, who is labouring to redress your misfortunes.
Montgomery, there is but one way. To talk of dying is absurd. You may feel a temporary languor, the effect of vapour and indigestion; but the bloom and vigour of a constitution like your's is not so easily undermined. Trust me, you will live to a good old age, even with the despicable 200l. per annum your hard hearted father bestows on you. But it is in your power, Montgomery, to live surrounded by riches and splendor, to command the perpetual succession of pleasures which riches and splendor can procure.
Remember the proposal I made you one day, half in earnest half in jest. Think of it. Embrace it. And send Mr. Valmont back his paltry annuity in disdain. You cannot be so blind, so mad as to reject this only means of your happiness. Renounce it, and I shall believe you reserve yourself for my rival, the faithless and barbarous Sibella. Accept it, and all the delights which Janetta's love can bestow are your's for ever.
Why should you hide yourself? That form and face were given for better purposes. Bloom in success and victory! And leave to those who possess not your advantages to mope in dull obscurity! You owe to yourself this triumph over the malice of Mr. Valmont and the cruelty of her who has so wantonly betrayed you to his wrath. Throw off your foibles and your sorrow; and call up those alluring graces of your mien which are so irresistible. Exchange your sighs for smiles; and, aided by the advantages of dress you well know how to choose, come here to dinner. I have contrived that we shall dine alone. Weigh well what I advise and its motives; and then ask yourself, if I deserve to be accused of unkindness—Ask yourself what that love must be which can content itself with secret confessions, and can yield its open triumph to another in order to secure your advantage. Consider these things with attention, dearest Montgomery: and convince me that you deserve all I am willing to do for you by your instant compliance. I cannot, do not, doubt you. Be here by six.
Ever your's,if you wish me to be so,
JANETTA LAUNDY
Scoundrel,
By means I cannot divine, Sibella has escaped me. I have no doubt you or some of your diabolical agents are concerned in the business.—The deed, Sir, I have burned.—Your draught of it must help to amuse you.
It delights me to think she is not yet nineteen, and that you are pennyless. Beg at my gates if you dare!—The worst of indignities are better than your deservings.—You seal your union under happy auspices.—I give you joy.—Would I could give you destruction!
GEORGE VALMONT
Since, Sir, you have extended my punishment to the utmost, I can incur no heavier penalty by thus intruding myself before you.
I could offer many excuses, Sir, for my first fault; but it is now too late. Only, I must say your harshness and severity drove us to that measure, which, in justice to myself, I must also inform you Miss Valmont proposed, and with which I but reluctantly complied.
But, Sir, your further charge is without foundation. I have neither any concern in, nor any knowledge of Miss Valmont's flight; and, further to prove that I would have obeyed you if I could, I shall refuse to protect her.—Indeed, Sir, your last letter has driven me immediately to ratify an engagement that precludes the possibility of any further intercourse with Miss Valmont.
I remain, Sir,
Your unhappy and repentant son,
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
There she is, Madam!—She walks and sighs:—and one little room, a small circumference, containsonlyMurden and Sibella. When the waiter shut the door and withdrew, I would have given an eye to have detained him.—She knows not I am writing to you; for she would have taken the office on herself, and that would not satisfy me.—It is a relief, madam, to write—tho' any thing upon earth would be preferable to hearing—I mean,seeing her.
Miss Ashburn, till I saw her, I did not understand you.—Well might you warn me!
It will be three hours before we reach you.—I send this letter by a man and horse; because, in knowing that we are safe, you will have at least half an hour of less anxiety.
The place where we are now is only a village, five miles out of the road to Valmont.—Richardson advised me to make this sweep for fear of a pursuit.—He brought us here through cross roads on his own horses. I have sent him back; and the only chaise this little inn maintains is engaged for a two hours airing for some invalid in the village.—Have patience, madam.—Your friend is safe.
Richardson and myself possessed ourselves of the cell at half past nine last night.—Then in our disguises we prowled around the castle till about eleven, and heard the locking of doors, and saw in the upper windows light after light die away as their possessors yielded themselves to rest.
We would not venture too early. I believe it was past two before we left the armoury.—All was hushed.—The stairs!—the gallery!—her apartments!—I seized Richardson by the arm, as he attempted to turn the lock.—It seemed profanation. I feared every thing!—I would have gone back.—Richardson forbade me.
We entered the antichamber. We crossed two others. The door of a third stood open.—In that there was a fire, a candle, and a bed.—The curtains were undrawn; and I caught a glimpse of her face. Instantly, I drew the door so close as only to admit my hand, holding out your letter.—I gasped.—'Speak for me,' I said to Richardson; 'Say, Miss Ashburn.'
'Rise, dear Miss Valmont,' said he, 'Miss Ashburn sends you this.'
I heard her start from the bed.—'Who?—What?'
'Miss Ashburn,' repeated Richardson, 'Miss Ashburn, it is a letter from Miss Ashburn.'
She took or rather snatched the letter; and, as I withdrew my hand, she shut the door hastily.
I heard her utter an exclamation—I could hear her too burst into sobs and bless you.—I heard her also name another.
At length she asked, without opening the door, if I was indeed Mr. Murden, and if I could take her from the castle.
'O yes, yes,' said I, 'Come away.'
'Stay,' she replied.
She was dressed in an instant. She opened the door. She came out to us.—'Ah! what, what is the matter?' cried she, extending her arms as if to save me from falling.—Why were you not more explicit in your letter, Miss Ashburn?—I recoiledfrom her, from the remembrance of her Clement—and, as I leaned on Richardson's shoulder, I closed my dim eyes, and wished they might never more open upon recollection.
'Shame!' whispered Richardson, 'you are unmanned!'
And so I am, Miss Ashburn. I think too, I should love revenge. I feel a rankling glow of satisfaction, as she walks past my chair, that I have so placed it I cannot look up and behold her.
I recovered strength and courage while my horror remained unabated.—She saw I could hear, and she began to pour forth the effusions of her gratitude upon you and us.—She knew you had been in the castle. Her cruel uncle had informed her of it.—'And then,' said she, 'I fancied I must die without seeing any one that ever loved me.'—As she spoke, I turned my eyes from her now haggard and jaundiced face to my own, reflected in the mirror by which I was standing. 'Moving corpses!' said I to myself—'Why encumber ye the fair earth?'
'He showed me a letter too,' added she. 'He said Clement had renounced me.—Ah, Mr. Valmont! deceiving Mr. Valmont!'—and she waved her hand gracefully—'had you known Sibella's heart as she knows Clement's, you——.'
'Come away!' said I.
'Have you no other preparation to make, madam?' asked Richardson; 'the night is very cold.'
This reminded her of a cloak.—She enquired if she must swim across the moat; and said she was sure she could swim;—for she knew why she had failed before.—I bade Richardson lead her.
I expected to have seen her much more surprised at the strange path through which she had to go.—From the armoury to the cell she never spoke. Her mind was overcharged with swelling emotions.—At times we were obliged to stand still. She even panted for freer respiration. The——
I heard wheels.—I expected our chaise.—It is some travellers who have stopped to bait.
After we had safely crossed the moat, she alternately grasped our hands in a tumult of joy; named you, named me, buttalkedon the never-failing theme ofherClement.
She rode behind Richardson.—I see she is much worse for the journey; yet her burning eye and vehement spirits would persuade me otherwise.
She kindly ceased her torturing questions concerning Clement, imagining, by my abrupt answers, I was too ill to talk.—She says you will heal me—for you have healed her.—Miss Ashburn, how ardently she loves you!
I find you will receive this letter an hour before we come.—Won't you thank, and praise me?—It is written with a shaking hand, and throbbing temples. I know it would be difficult to keep Sibella from mounting the same horse, if she were informed of the messenger. When we enter the chaise, I will tell her what I have done.
A. MURDEN
Why should I have the rage of distraction without the phrenzy? Dare they tell me I am a lunatic?—She is gone, Miss Ashburn? I have lost your treasure!—Some villain, lured by the vestiges of her transcendent beauty, has taken her from me.—They have forced me into a bed!—The barbarians confine me here.—Won't you order me to be released?—Oh sweet Miss Ashburn, won't you tell them I must be released?
Now I recollect I wanted to tell you all the particulars.——Ha! they fade from me, and I dream again!——
Madam,
I keep the Blue Boar at Hipsley; and the poor unhappy gentleman who wrote the above came to my house with his lady yesterday morning. As long as ever I live, I shan't forget the poor gentleman's ravings, when he discovered that his lady had ran away from him, and he only came to his senses about an hour ago, when he ordered us to send for you, and he wrote till his raving fit returned; and it would melt your heart, madam, to hear how he is bemoaning himself and calling by the kindest names the ungrateful wicked lady who served him so badly.—I saw her jump into the chaise myself; and she went willingly enough, though he won't believe it. My son brings you this, madam; and I hope you will tell us what we must do for the poor gentleman. From
Your ladyship's humble servant,
MARY HOLMES
Ah my friend, my beloved Murden, if an interval of memory, happily, now is thine, read these lines which thy friend pens to thee in agony.—She follows on the instant. You once demanded my consolations and friendship, as a reparation for the mischievous error into which I had led you.—Will you receive them now as such, against the manifold mischiefs I have brought upon you?
Ah! what, what had I to do with secret escapes!—I, who exclaimed from the beginning against Valmont's secresy, and prophesied its fatal consequences!—Must I too conspire to make Sibella the victim of secresy?—Unhappy sufferer! Yet more unhappy Caroline! She, debarred the use of her judgment, erred only from mistake; I, alas! have sinned against reason and conviction!
Clement, I suspect, has watched our footsteps. I fear he has secured her.—Ah, miserable fate!
Console yourself, my dearest friend. It will please you to know that, even before I come to you, I am going to B——, to send messengers in search of Sibella. And if money and vigilance can bring us tidings of our lost friend, I have the power of employing both.—Prepare to receive me with calmness.—Already, I have the aggravated distress of your and Sibella's feelings to endure.—I am pained beyond description.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
I can truly say, I neither sit, stand, walk, nor lie:—that is, the completeI, body and soul together; for, let the former attempt its mechanical motions as it will, the other in a quite opposite direction is striking, curvetting, capering, twisting, tumbling, and playing more tricks than any fantastical ape in nature.
Therefore, dear Walter, you must send me instantly a hundred guineas. Yes really, if you want to quiet my conscience, you must send me a hundred guineas.
Nothing will quiet my conscience but matrimony.
I cannot marry without a hundred guineas.—Ergo, if you don't send me a hundred guineas, and I should die, and be ——, the sin will lay at your door, and you will die and be —— likewise.
As I have much consideration for you, my dear Walter, and as I know that people who have very weak heads, have sometimes also very weak nerves, I would advise you to lay down my letter, unless you are seated in some safe place, for, should your situation be dangerous, and should the surprise I am preparing for you rob you of apprehension, down you drop and leave me in utter despair—lest your executors should refuse me the hundred guineas.
Well—are you settled to your satisfaction?—Here it comes like a thunderbolt!
Miss Valmont is mine, and I am her's—your hundred guineas will buy a parson and a prayer book; and then theL.7000a year is mine also.
You know, dear Walter, that resolved to obtain the heiress of Valmont castle, I left London to return to Monkton Hall, with a heart full of promise, and a head full of stratagem. Fortune, that dear blind inconstant goddess, who formerly was almost within my grasp, now dashes the projects of others to the ground, to give my wishes their triumph. Some Merlin, with more potent spells than mine, broke the enchanted castle, bore off the damsel, and, directed by fate and fortune, brought her on the road, to meet me, to the very spot where it was decreed his success should end, that mine might begin. And begun it has.
Last night, I slept at B——; and intended breakfasting with Sir Gilbert Monkton: this morning I ordered the driver to leave the high road, and cross the country, by which means I should save six miles of the journey. Griffiths had been unwell some days; and he now appeared so cold, and so much indisposed, I thought it prudent to give him a breakfast on the road. The postilion, by the luckiest of all chances, drove up to a pretty little white-washed inn, that I shall love dearly for six months to come.
The landlady, a curtsying civil woman, was mighty sorry she had not a better room to receive my honour in; but her best parlour, she said, was already taken up with a lady and gentleman, who had arrived at seven o'clock in the morning. And she showed me into a little place, which had two excellent properties, namely, perfect cleanliness, and a good fire.
By this good fire I had sat five or perhaps ten minutes, when Griffiths entered. 'My Lord! my Lord!' said he, and turned back to shut the door; 'I have seen the strangest sight, my Lord! I have seen a gentleman——' At that moment a tea-kettle was brought into the room; and Griffiths grew downright pettish with the damsel who bore the kettle, because she did not quit the room with sufficient speed.
His information, Walter, amounted to thus much—that in the passage he had seen the gentleman who occupied the land-lady's best parlour; and that this gentleman, of whom Griffiths had had a very distinct view, certainly was, or Griffiths was much deceived, the very identical spright who reminded some of us of our devotions in the narrow passage of the west tower at Valmont castle. ''Tis impossible!' said I.
'My Lord, 'tis true,' said Griffiths. I should know him among a thousand. I know his eyes and nose as well as I know your's, my Lord.'
This you will allow, Walter, was but a very vague sort of a supposition to ground any belief upon; for, as eyes and noses are the common lot of all mankind, it may happen now and then that two or more may be greatly alike. Yet, so diligent is hope and imagination, I could not persuade myself these eyes and this nose had any owner but the spright of the castle.—It was Miss Valmont and her hermit, my fancy said. I blessed my stars. I cursed my stars. I wondered how and why they should come hither. Then, I remembered, that fancy, though sometimes a prophetess, is rarely an oracle, and I thought it might not be Miss Valmont and her hermit.—I consulted much with Griffiths; and, at length, had recourse to the waiter, a dapper shabby-coated fellow with a wooden leg.
They came, he said, on horseback before seven o'clock. A man, who conducted them, did not alight. They were impatient to be gone. They waited for a chaise. They had ordered a breakfast which neither of them had tasted. The lady did not appear, he thought, equipped for travelling. The gentleman was melancholy, and the lady restless and agitated.
Miss Valmont: whispered I to myself.
'They are a fine couple,' said the waiter.
I asked if he thought they were a married pair. He answered, he was sure she must be a married lady. I enquired if the gentleman seemed to be very fond of her.
'Not at all,' replied the waiter. 'The gentleman sits writing, Sir, with his back to her. She walks about the room, muttering to herself. When I carried in the breakfast, he leaned his head against the wall, and groaned with his eyes shut.'
It cannot be Miss Valmont and her hermit, thought I.
'Is the lady handsome?' I asked.
The waiter thought she was too pale to be very handsome; but he added that in all his born days he never beheld such a head of hair.
'Of what colour is it?' I asked.
It was neither black, nor brown, nor as red as Jenny's;—he thought it was not any colour, but it shone as if gold threads were among it.
Miss Valmont: whispered my forward heart. I rose and walked hastily across the room.
'What did they talk about?' said I.
'They don't talk at all, Sir. The poor gentleman seems very bad; and as I told your honor before, she walks about muttering. When they first came, as I was lighting a fire for them, the lady pulled off her hat just as if she was in a passion, and then she shook her fine waving locks, as though she was wond'rous proud of them. And she said her head ached with that—cumbrance; and she said something more about customs and cumbrances, but I forget what, your honor. While she talked, the gentleman looked so kind and pretty at her it did my heart good to see him; but he is either very ill or very whimmy, for, immediately, while she took off her cloak, he laid his head on the table with his face downward and sighed as if his heart was breaking.'
I asked if he had heard her call him by any name, and the waiter replied he had heard her twice name somebody as she walked about the room; but to my great disappointment at that moment, his memory had not retained the name.
At this part of our conference, the parlour bell rang, and the waiter disappeared; not, though, till I had sealed him mine by a bribe, and given him orders to return instantly. However, Griffiths, who was most zealous on this occasion, thought proper to follow him. Fortunate was it that he did; for, my waiter, dull at a hint, had received a letter from the guest in the parlour, which, without consulting my will and pleasure, he was quietly bearing to a courier ready mounted and waiting for it at the inn door. Griffiths with a careless air took the letter from his hand. It was addressed, Walter, to—Miss Ashburn.
I began to stalk, to exclaim, to ejaculate. Go on, Filmar, cried I, and prosper! Henceforward be plot and stratagem sanctified! for Miss Ashburn deigns to plot.
Griffiths prudently reminded me that it would be quite as well at present to think of Miss Valmont, and leave Miss Ashburn alone till another opportunity.
'Right,' said I.
''Tis folly! 'Tis madness, but to think for a moment of such a project!', said I, ten minutes after, and turning myself half round in my chair, throwing one arm across its back and one leg over the other. No! no! I'll have nothing to do with it!' and I fell to shaking the uppermost leg furiously. 'It might be very easily managed though,' said Griffiths; 'and then your Lordship——'
'Would have nothing to do but to digest Montgomery's bullets and Miss Ashburn's harder words.—Oh that Miss Ashburn can find words to lash like scorpion's stings! Say no more of it, Griffiths, I have given her up.'
'As you please, my Lord.'
'Ay! ay!' muttered I to myself. 'Let her go to her Montgomery! There are men who perhaps are worthy of being loved as himself, and might perhaps be more capable of constancy. There are other women too in the world, thank heaven!—Strange,' continued I, 'that Miss Ashburn with her understanding, and who must know the imbecility of Montgomery's love, could dream of joining in any plot whose object was to bear Miss Valmont to Montgomery!' For, Walter, I had by this time concluded that the quondam hermit was some righteous go-between of Miss Valmont and her lover; and I felt inclined to be mortally offended with her, because Montgomery had so well concealed from my penetration their mutual intelligence. I shifted to the other side of my seat; and I did not sigh; but I blew my breath from me with much more force than usual.
I mused during the greater part of an hour. 'Your chaise is waiting, my Lord,' said Griffiths; 'and, as you have quite done with this affair, if your Lordship thinks proper it is as well not to keep the horses in the cold.—Well, I must say 'twas a fine opportunity!'
'Do you think so, Griffiths?' said I mildly.
The rogue exultingly smiled; and, to change my wavering into downright resolution, he recapitulated all the probabilities that awaited my attempt, and noticed the trifling hazard that would accrue (provided I adopted his plan for the purpose), should the attempt fail: nor did he forget an oblique glance or two at certain prospects which he knew put no inconsiderable weight into the balance.
'Away! away!' I cried, 'give the driver his directions; let him draw up close to the door, before the other chaise; and let him be sure to keep his chaise door open, but not the step down.'
Signifies it to thee, Walter, of what Griffiths' plan consisted? Surely not. Nothing could be more easy than, at the instant of their departure, to request a moment's conversation with the gentleman; nothing more simple than to invent a tale of a pursuit, to be delivered into the attentive ear of Miss Valmont's guide: nothing could promise fairer, and surely never did fulment better follow promise.
Our casement looked upon a garden, and there the melancholy conductor of Miss Valmont came to walk for a few minutes. There needed no screen to hide us from his glance. His arms were folded, and his eyes intensely fixed on the earth. His hat shaded the upper part of his face, so that I could see no part of his said resemblance to the bearded youth of the armoury; but I observed with pleasure and thrilling expectation that he and I were nearly of one stature, both booted, and both wearing dark blue great coats. This only difference existed, one of his capes he had drawn round his chin, all mine lay on my shoulders.—Walter, I could button mine up on occasion.
George had ridden my grey mare from town. I felt no way inclined to make him a party in the transaction; and I also wanted the mare for Griffiths. I therefore ordered him to return to B——, and take a stage for London, waiting there my further orders. Griffiths saw him mount a post horse, and led the grey mare round the house, and fastened her to some rails in readiness.
It was exactly two hours and one quarter from the time of our arrival, before their chaise came to the door. The horses were to have a feed in their harness; the guests were impatient to be gone. I shuddered: and, as I traversed our little room, the echo of my footsteps seemed to be blabbing tell tales. I shall never, Walter, know such another minute as that. All in future will be the dull uniformity of peace and plenty.
It was done. The waiter delivered Griffiths' message in the best parlour. I, from a distant peeping station, saw the gentleman walk to our room. I heard the door shut—the waiter stump away. Thrilling, throbbing with hope and fear, I walked up the passage to their parlour. Wrapped in her cloak, the hood drawn over her head, her hat in her hand, stood the fair expectant. 'O come,' said she, 'do let us hasten!' The day was gloomy, the passage was dark, I had drawn up my cape and drawn down my hat. My hand took her's. She tripped along. No creature was in sight. I caught her up in my arms, lifted her into the chaise, and we whirled off, just as the landlady came bustling up to the door.
I had my cue of silence and reserve in the intelligence I had received from the waiter. During the first three miles, I neither spoke nor looked up. She, the while, clasping her hands andmuttering, as the waiter called it. I heard her pronounce the names of Miss Ashburn, of Montgomery, and of some one else. For three miles, I say, we interchanged not one word: then, Walter, the first word betrayed me.
And now what a list of sobs, tears, screams, prayers, and lamentations you expect! I have not one for you. She sighed, indeed, and a few drops forced a reluctant way; but she neither prayed, threatened, nor lamented. She demanded her liberty. She reasoned for her liberty; reasoned with a firmness collected, vigilant, manly, let me say. She remembers seeing me in the castle, and takes me for her uncle's agent. In truth, Walter, I suffer her to think it still; for I do not find, when carefully examined, that my own character and motives in this business possess much to recommend them.
In a little glen, between two hills of which the barrenness of one frowns on the cultivation of the other, stands a farm, embosomed hid in secresy and solitude. No traveller eyes it from the distant heath. No horses, save its own, leave the print of their hoofs at its entrance. But even more than usual gloom and dulness now reigns around it. The lively whistle of the ploughman and hind no longer chear the echoes of the hill. The farm yard is emptied of its gabbling tenants. The master is dead, the stock sold, the tenants discharged, and one solitary daughter, with one solitary female domestic alone, remains to guard the house till quarter day shall yield it to a new tenant.
'Tis neither fit employment for my time to relate, nor for your's to read, the trifling adventures by which Griffiths became acquainted with this fair daughter, her circumstances and abode; nor how he wooed and won her love during our residence at Monkton Hall. At Griffiths' instigation, hither I brought Miss Valmont; and here, till your cash arrives, as in a place of trust and safety, do I mean to keep my treasure, although I am little more than three leagues distant from Monkton Hall, and scarcely four from Valmont castle.
A less ready imagination than even thine, Walter, might picture to itself the manner in which Griffiths deluded Miss Valmont's knight-errant with a tale of pursuit and discovery. The youth checked his surprise, and renewed his vigour. He hastened to secure his lovely ward; and Griffiths, mean while, stole round the inn, mounted the grey mare, and was out of sight and sound of the consequences.
I hear her walking. A slight partition divides her chamber from mine. No more of those deep-drawn sighs, my fair one! I thank heaven I am not an agent of Valmont's neither. He must have used her cruelly. She is excessively pale; and strangely altered.
I stand, Walter, the watchful sentinel of her chamber door, which I presume not to enter. Till I had her in my possession, my thoughts, in gadding after the enterprise, possessed all the saucy gaiety which youth and untamed spirits could impart. Nay, when I began to write this letter, they wore their natural character. I must shift my station from this room. Those deep deep sighs will undo me! Hasten, dear Walter, make the wings of speed thy messengers to bear to me a hundred guineas, that we may fly to the land of blessings ere I forgot that her cupids have golden headed arrows.—Hem!—Seven thousand per annum—O 'tis an elixir to chear the fainting spirits!
And now, as sure as I have possession of the rich and beauteous prize after which I have so long yearned, so sure will I recompense her present uneasiness by a life of tenderness, attention, and, to the best of my present belief, of unabated constancy.
But marry me she must and shall, by G—d!
FILMAR