Dear Madam,
By a strange concurrence of accidents I am at present attending Mr. Murden, who during many days has lain dangerously ill in a small country inn nine miles from Valmont castle. I must leave it to your prudence to acquaint Sir Thomas Barlowe (to whom I know it will be most distressing tidings) that his nephew is in danger, but it is necessary that Sir Thomas should know it immediately, for I have made preparations for bringing Mr. Murden to London, that he may have better accommodation and better advice. Though I speak of advice, I dare not encourage any hope in Sir Thomas, for I have watched the progress of his nephew's disorder, and I believe he is only lingering—abide he cannot.
Sir Thomas Barlowe loved this young man as a son; and, to receive him scarcely a shadow of his former self, will create distressing emotions. Yet, I beseech you to urge Sir Thomas carefully to avoid any strong expressions of sorrow when his nephew arrives, for I have the grief to tell you that Mr. Murden's reason is shaken: and dreadful paroxysms may follow the slightest agitation.
Nought but the power I have long laboured to obtain and have in part obtained over my sensations could have preserved any degree of fortitude in me under the most trying events of my life, events which have lately befallen Miss Valmont and Mr. Murden. On them I had bestowed the warmest tribute of my affections. In the enjoyment of their virtues and happiness, I expected daily to augment my own. But, alas! it is gone; and my wretched hopes still wear their beautiful and alluring form while sinking in disappointment.
I am aware, Madam, that Mr. Murden's misfortune cannot create more concern in your breast than the circumstance of my being with him will raise wonder and curiosity; nor have I any other than a full intention of making you acquainted with the circumstances that drew us both hither, whose sad termination has operated so fatally on Mr. Murden. But I am obliged to defer the relation till our arrival in town, both on account of its length, of the preparations I am making for Mr. Murden's ease and safety on the journey, and the continual anxiety of watchfulness which possesses me for the sake of Miss Valmont, to whom I have been unhappily the cause of evils possibly worse than that which has befallen Mr. Murden.
I cannot name the day when you and Sir Thomas may expect us, for the time consumed in the journey must be regulated by the abatement or increase of Mr. Murden's disorder. He shall travel in a litter; and I hope it is unnecessary for me to assure Sir Thomas nothing shall be wanting to his accommodation that I have means to procure.
I remain your Ladyship's well wisher and servant,
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Sir,
By the messenger of mine, who, on his search for my lost friend, came to your gates a few days since, you were informed that it was through my means Sibella escaped from your castle; and, however stern may be the anger you entertain against me, be assured, Sir, it cannot exceed the vehemence of that self-reproach and sorrow which now assail me, for having been the contriver of so unjustifiable an undertaking.
I send you, Sir, a pacquet containing all the letters I have received from Sibella, and also the letters that have passed between Mr. Murden and myself. I lay them before you, with the confidence that you will afford them a patient and temperate perusal; for I think they will serve to convince you, as they have already convinced me by the unfortunate event to which they have led, that, however plausible and even necessary in appearance, yet artifice and secresy are dangerous vicious tools.
Your secrets were the preparatory step to the errors of Clement and Sibella. Had Sibella never departed from strict truth and sincerity, she had never formed her rash engagement with Clement. Had Murden never (with his dangerous refinements of fancy) longed secretly to view this rare child of seclusion, he had not battered his life and happiness for a sigh. And lastly, had I not given way to the fatal mistake that secresy could repair the inability of reason, I had, instead of availing myself of the ruin on the rock, ere now perhaps released Sibella by convincing you. And we had all been comparatively happy.
Murden's unfinished letter from the village of Hipsley will show you his deplorable situation, and all that we know concerning the loss of our Sibella.
I have six agents employed to discover her. But they wander blindly, for I have neither trace, nor supposition, to guide them. What can I do, Sir? if you have any advice to offer, I hope you will not withhold it, from animosity to me. Excessively do I love the friend I have helped to sacrifice, yet I can readily and sincerely forgive you the errors of your conduct towards her. Oh then, Sir, pardon mine, and in pity to the anxiety of my heart aid me with your advice and assistance.
I do not even hate Mr. Montgomery; though I do despise him altogether. You suspected him of taking Sibella from the castle. I suspected him of stealing her from Mr. Murden. He was otherwise employed.
I arrived in town, with my poor patient under my protection, yesterday evening, and resigned Mr. Murden to the care of his uncle, Sir Thomas Barlowe. When I drove up to my mother's door, I found it more than usually crowded with carriages and servants; hung upon the pillars; and, when several of my mother's footmen stepped from among the crowd, I perceived they were in new liveries adorned in the highest stile of elegant expence. Though it was impossible not to notice the uncommon glare of splendor that saluted my eyes, yet our changes have always been so various and profuse, I never thought of enquiring into the cause of the present. Unfitted by my dress, but still more by weariness of limbs and depression of mind, to encounter company, I retired to my chamber and to bed.
This morning my maid attended me; and, with the natural hesitation of good nature in relating disagreeable tidings, she informed me—Mr. Montgomery was married to my mother.
Sir, it is the fact. Last Saturday, my mother became the bride of your son; and the parade I witnessed last night was to do honour to the first complimentors of this extraordinary hymeneal.
The tidings stunned me, for I was no way prepared from the conduct of either to expect such an event. Uninvited and assuredly unwelcome, I visited their apartment the hour of breakfast, and my mother collected the utmost of her haughtiness and Mr. Montgomery his gay indifference, to repel the reproaches they expected I should be prompted to bestow on them. But, Sir, they mistook me. I went only to deliver to them a plain history of the mischiefs I have heaped on Mr. Murden and my Sibella, to remind them how early, and, alas! how severe a punishment has followed my deviation from rectitude.
I saw Montgomery's countenance become pale and ghastly. It was, Sir, when I spoke of Miss Valmont's independent fortune. Then, I believe, all the force of his situation was present with him. May it often recur, and be the preservative against future follies.
Allow me, Sir, to say a word or two of him who most loved your niece and best deserved her. Mr. Murden intruded on your domain, and destroyed some of your unripe projects; yet I persuade myself you will feel a pity for his misfortunes. His life pays the forfeiture of his curiosity and secresy. A romantic love of Miss Valmont sapped its foundation, and his nights of watching amidst the chilling damps of the Ruin hastened the progress of its destruction. Sibella's unaccountable escape from him at a time when his high toned feelings were wrought upon, in a way that I cannot express, by thealterationin her person, drove him to madness. Then it was that I saw him who once possessed every advantage of manly grace and beauty changed to a living skeleton, whose eyes starting from their sockets glanced around with wild horror and insanity. Oh, Sir, it was indeed a scene that called forth all my fortitude!
As his delirium had no mischievous tendencies, it was judged better to remove him to London; and whether change of air and place had the salutary effect, or the delirium had exhausted its force I know not, but he became perfectly restored to reason before we reached London. That restoration was almost beyond my hopes; and there hope rests, it dares not presume further. The most certain indications of speedy dissolution now appear; and all my time must be given to the endeavour of tracing my beloved Sibella, and consoling the anxious Murden for her loss. On his own account, consolation pains him. All his wishes centre in death; and the irrevocable union will soon take place.
Will you be kind enough to inform me of the name of Sibella's other guardian?—Adieu, Sir, may that peace which is only to be purchased by rectitude become an inmate of your abode.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Faith, Walter, I have secured a rich prize, indeed. Hear but its estimate.
In the first place, a very lovely and adorable woman.
In the second, a fine estate.
In the third,——an heir (in embrio) to inherit it.
True, by the Gods!—Nevertheless, stop your rash conclusions, for I have heard her whole story, therefore I tell you that Miss Ashburn is an angel, Mr. Murden a fine fellow, Mr. Valmont an idiot, Sibella a saint, and Montgomery—a scoundrel: though on my soul she talked so movingly of hisnever fading faithI could not for my life persuade myself to tell her my true opinion of him.
From the little she knows of Murden, (her hermit and deliverer) I long to know more. I burn to tell you of her wonderful escape, of the marvellous Ruin on the rock, but I have resolved to wave explanations till I come.—I charge you, by your friendship, breathe not a whisper of the adventure till you see me. I am going to restore her to her friends; her eloquence did part, but truly her condition did more.—I never bargained to pay off such a mortgage. I could love her dearly; but then you know my name is Filmar, and as a Lord I am bound in duty to love and cherish no son but a son of my own begetting.
I have dispatched two messengers, one for carriages and another to that inn at Hipsley (which I don't love at all now) to make enquiries after Mr. Murden. I wonder how he and I shall adjust our accounts.—I fear there is a long balance in his favour.
You perceive, Walter, all my secret plottings and contrivings have brought me to a fine heritage at last! Murden cannot call me any thing less than athief, and will say I deserve a thief's punishment. Valmont too will want a peck at me, neither for the credit of love nor integrity but only because Sibella is the great great great granddaughter of some one or other of hisgreatgrandfather's. Montgomery may pretend the honour ofhis wife(her own phrase) impeached by her residence with me, and if he won't believe that until two hours since I never forced myself into her presence, why I shall be obliged by all the laws of honour and gentlemanship to prove it by the length of a sword.
Heigh ho! and this pretty wisdom-speaking mortal has actually prevailed on me to endure the brunt and carry her back to Miss Ashburn! She has offered high bribes,—solid comforts,—made up of duty and justice;—but I have a sickly palate—spoiled by other viands,—I want a modern seasoned fricassee.
Alas! I have no alternative—unless I shoot her and bury her under a tree. I don't know what of that sort I may be tempted to for myself! for when I have no longer her and her concerns to think of I must turn to my own—a pretty prospect!
Do you know, Walter, any way that a Lord turned plain man can get a living? for unless Iget itheaven knows I must go without it.
You are admiring my forbearance in keeping such a distance, Walter; but the fact is, I was a coward. Daily almost hourly Miss Valmont intreated she might speak with me, and I as constantly with a great many civil excuses declined the conversation. What could I have said but what had amounted to this: 'Miss Valmont, I ran away with you, because I wanted your estate, for want of a better.—As to yourself, I know nothing about you, therefore how can I care for you?' Methought, Walter, when I had your cash in hand I should be bold. Your cash came; I pocketed it; and I proudly strutted up to Miss Valmont.——The former pages will tell you the result.
The plot thickens, and I am more of Montgomery's sort than I believed I was.—Mr. Murden is dying.—Good God, Walter! who would have thought on this?—They told my messenger that he has been raving mad! and that a lady took him away for London yesterday morning.—I dare not relate to Miss Valmont these cursed tidings.—I am impatient to yield her up.—We shall travel as fast as I think her condition may allow without danger.
FILMAR
Madam,
I am certainly obliged to you for your intentions; and though I allow you have sometimes reason on your side, I think you make too little allowance for the proper obedience due from children to parents. As a parent I certainly stood both to Clement and Sibella, and they ought implicitly to have obeyed my commands. However, she poor child suffers sufficiently, and I am willing to forgive though I can never be reconciled to her. Her pregnancy will now be known to the world; and, were I again to receive her, I should co-operate in disgracing my family. I heartily wish your search may be successful; and I am ready to reimburse your expences; and also, if you find my niece, to allow her a proper establishment.
My Lord of Elsings, joint guardian with me in the trust of Miss Valmont, resides at present in this neighbourhood. I have had an interview with him on the business; but I do not discover that either himself, or any one related to him, is any way concerned in taking Sibella.
Will you take the trouble, in my name, to wish Clement Montgomery all thefelicityhe may expect to find in his union with old age, folly, and affectation?
Madam,
Your very obedient servant,
G. VALMONT
Your Pardon, Walter, that I should pass your lodgings as I drove out of town without stopping to say a single how-do-ye. But, let pity and humanity plead their cause with ever so much eloquence, yet the prejudices of custom are so potent that a man becomes ashamed if his eyes give their tribute to the feelings of his heart. Truly, Walter, I should have blushed to-day at my insensibility if I had not wept yesterday. Yet, for weeping, I coward-like drew up the blinds of my chaise, and, to hide myself from the finger of scorn, bade the driver carry me with all expedition to my aunt's retreat at Hayley lodge.
I must suppose, for your own sake, Boyer, that when you wrote me your hasty letter to the farm, you were uninformed of Montgomery's marriage with Mrs. Ashburn. Haste could not excuse such an over-sight, as little as you knew of Miss Valmont. No! no! it was not possible you could be informed of it and not send me the tidings.
I am an ass, I have not the common discernment of a school boy, or I had never talked of accommodating her condition by tardy travelling when I was bearing Miss Valmont to her beloved though perfidious Clement. Speed, flying speed, was alone necessary to her safety. I spared neither money nor command, yet to her foundered. Not that she complained. Never! She even thanked my zeal, when her gasping sensations would give way to utterance. But I saw it, Walter, in her eyes. I saw the speed of her affections in the convulsive swells of her bosom. Do not call me ridiculous, but upon my soul there were moments of the journey that while gazing on her I was on the point of grasping her in my arms, lest her very form should dissolve into feeling and vanish from my protection.
Once I refused to proceed unless she would take refreshment. She did not plead; and taking from me a cup of chocolate, her shaking hand raised it half way to her lips then returned it untasted to the table. I drew a chair, and deliberately seated myself, as if resolved to put my threat in practice. After a short silence, 'Sir,' said she, 'have you ever known what it is to love?' I was looking on the fire; and, recollecting some odd sensations that had occasionally crept to my heart, was about to reply in the affirmative, but turning my head and meeting the full gaze of her eloquent eye, an honest and prompt reply sprang to my lips—'By my soul and salvation, never, Madam!—Griffiths, see the horses instantly put to the chaise. We alight no more, till we alight in London.'
Montgomery showed you a silly portrait that he painted. To say it was the likeness of Miss Valmont was a falsehood. 'Twas a mere passive representation of fine features. Let him paint me their energy, their force, the fulness of hope that beamed from them yesterday morning, and I will say he is worthy of Miss Valmont's love!—He cannot do it, Walter! He could as soon be a god! She never was beautiful till then. Not, in the fullest bloom of her vigour and prosperity, did she ever equal herself such as I saw her yesterday morning.
'This, Madam is Miss Ashburn's residence,' I said as we drove to the door.
'I shall see my Caroline first then,' said Miss Valmont:—'next my Clement.'
Agitated as I was at the time by her impatience and expectations, I cannot suppose I enquired for any one else than Miss Ashburn. Whether the servant imagined she was of the party or concluded my visit must be to his mistress I know not, but he announced Lord Filmar in the drawing room; and I led in the loveliest spectre with golden threaded hair to an apartment where Montgomery lolled negligently on one sopha and his portly bride on another.
Shall I tell you how they looked? No! for their best looks are worthless! But I will tell you that Miss Valmont looked ardor love and truth.—She raised her clasped hands one instant, then rushed into the arms of Montgomery, which involuntarily opened to receive and were compelled to sustain her. A confused suspicion of something more than usually wrong in Montgomery darted upon my mind. I looked wistfully around the apartment, as it were for a relief from danger, and my heart bounded as I saw Miss Ashburn enter the room.—Charming woman! She could make astonishment yield to better feelings with admirable presence of mind, she instantly approached Miss Valmont, saying, 'Sibella, dearest Sibella, have you no tokens for your Caroline?'
'Oh yes,' replied Miss Valmont, 'many, many! Love and gratitude also for my Caroline! happy happy world! I will live with you in it for ever!'
Miss Ashburn endeavoured to retain Sibella in her embrace; and began hurryingly to enquire of her where she had been, and by what means she had got hither. But Miss Valmont knew nothing of the past. She was alive only to the present, to her own anticipation of the future. She turned back to him.
'I say for ever, Clement!'—She would have given herself a second time to his arms, but an averted look and staggering retreat forbad her.
Good God, Walter, methinks I see her now! Never shall I cease to remember the changes of her countenance—from rapture to astonishment—from dumb astonishment to doubt:—and from doubt, the quick transition, to despair!
Thus spoke to her the hesitating cold blooded villain—'Miss Valmont, you have used me very ill——once—I—I could have—it was barbarous of you who knew your uncle's severe disposition——a little longer concealment might—'
He paused. Miss Ashburn's tears began to flow for her friend, who showed no symptom of common sorrow. Miss Ashburn endeavoured to take her hands; but Sibella shrunk as if the kind emotions of her nature were congealed. A tear that had lingered on her cheek, the last of her tears of happiness, died away. Her asking eye still fixed itself on Montgomery, nor could he forbear answering to it.
'You know, Miss Valmont——'
'Hear me! listen only to me!' exclaimed Miss Ashburn. Sibella pushed her firmly aside, and bent forward to him.
'I would, Miss Valmont—'continued he in the same irresolute, cowardly, cruel tone, 'I should be glad to serve you.—It will be best that you return to your uncle. It might have been otherwise—but you were always rash and premature.—This is not time for explanations. I am sorry, but I cannot now give you any protection, for I—I am, indeed——Yes, Madam, I am married.'
'Are we not both married?' said she, with an emphasis that thrilled him.—'What is this?—speak Clement!'
'Nay, now, Miss Valmont, you are childish,' said Mrs. Ashburn coldly (Montgomery's bride I mean). 'What man of taste marries a woman after an affair with her?'
'I can bear this no longer,' cried Miss Ashburn. 'Silence, Madam!—Sibella, dear Sibella, turn your eyes on me! Let not their pure rays beam on a wretch so worthless!'
Devoured by emotions over which friendship had no control, she was still deaf to Miss Ashburn. Still those pure eyes bent their gaze on Montgomery, who now trembled, who now could not ever articulate his broken sentences, who, fainting with guilt, supported himself by leaning on the back of that couch on which he had so lately reclined in the ease of his basely purchased triumph. Suddenly starting from this posture, he rushed towards the door.
'Whither, whither, Clement!' exclaimed Miss Valmont. 'Oh, you'll take me with you, Clement!'—And while, without daring to look on her, he disengaged his hand which she had seized, she rapidly uttered in a softened tone of voice—'Clement, lover, husband, all!'
The door shut upon Montgomery, she shrieked. Miss Ashburn would have embraced her, but she would not suffer it. She sunk upon the floor. She crossed her arms upon her bosom, with a violent pressure, as if to bind the agony; her teeth grated against each other; and every limb shuddered.
I had approached her with Miss Ashburn, and, scarcely less affected than Miss Ashburn herself, I was turning away to hide my emotions when she sprang upon her feet in an instant; and, grasping my arm, 'you shall not go without me,' she said. 'Come, Sir: I have told you the way, carry me back to the castle.'
'Then you have forgotten your Caroline, forgotten the kind Murden who hazarded so much to save you?'
'No,' replied Miss Valmont, 'I never forgot any one.'
She took her hand from my arm, and lifted both hands to her forehead. She stood immoveable in deep musing for some time. 'Take me to the castle!' at length she exclaimed, without changing her posture or looking at any person. 'Bid Mr. Valmont provide a dungeon where I can die. I will not go to the wood! Oh, no! nor to my chamber!' She groaned and started.—'For whom is it that you weep, thus?' she asked, abruptly turning round to Miss Ashburn.
'For my Sibella.'
She bent forward; and gazed intently in Miss Ashburn's face, as if in search of something.
'It is Caroline!' said she, drawing back. Spreading her arms wide, she looked down upon herself: 'Sibella!'—then, every muscle of her face convulsed with anguish, she bent her eyes upon the door—'and that was Clement!—Oh!'
In short, Walter, a thousand tender touches followed which wrung my heart to pity—while that——woman had the insolence and brutality to call herself Montgomery's wife. But Sibella did not understand her, or if she did, 'twas nothing. His look, his tones had completed the work, and her mind could feel nothing beyond. Other dreadful agonies followed, but under the suffering of those she was patience itself. She was conveyed to her friend's chamber; and in three hours delivered of a dead child.
I waited the result alone in Miss Ashburn's library, canvassing over all the exquisite concern I had in producing such misery to this injured Sibella. Had I been buried in a quick sand on the road to Hipsley, her noble minded Caroline and the tender Murden might by due preparation have robbed Clement's perfidy of half its sting. But to come upon her thus, to hurl her down such a precipice from the felicity of her expectations—Oh, no wonder her life should be in danger! And think, Walter, what I must have felt when they came to tell me so.
In such a moment, who could palliate? Not, I indeed! I did not conceal from Miss Ashburn an atom of the truth; and she talked like an angel, for she not only told me I should amend but taught me how to amend.
One little satisfaction, indeed, visited me under that roof. I saw Janetta Laundy disgracefully dismissed. She it was, I doubt not, that made this match to satisfy her own grasping avarice by Montgomery's folly. Would you believe that she had so far imposed on the credulity of Mrs. Ashburn that she dared sneer at my assertions? Luckily, I had some letters in my pocket-book lately written by her to me, and such proofs could neither be denied nor parried. As the letters pretty fully displayed the commerce with Montgomery, Mrs. Ashburn poured on her a torrent of abuses; but scarcely had Janetta withdrawn when she complained that her daughter had made her house odious to her, had brought a rival to insult her; and finally she ordered a servant to enquire if Mr. Montgomery would attend her to the opera. Mr. Montgomery was no where to be found.
And, next, Miss Ashburn gave me a commission. No less, Walter, than to relate my worthy exploits to Mr. Murden. By the interest of Miss Ashburn's name, I was admitted to his chamber. When I saw the wasted form and heard the hollow voice of Murden, and knew, for Miss Ashburn had told me, that love of Miss Valmont had brought him thus near the grave, I shuddered at the idea of my commission. He heard me with a composure which shocked while it astonished me, till I mentioned our entering Mrs. Ashburn's drawing room. 'Hold Sir,' cried he, 'has she then seen him?' I replied, 'she has indeed.'
'Enough, Sir,' said he, 'I know all that remains already.'
Not another syllable passed between us, till I rose to go. He then offered me his hand, and said if I would promise not to pity him he would ask to see me again.
And so he shall. I will, if possible, see him before he dies. My messenger, who brings you this letter, travels for tidings respecting Miss Valmont. Adieu,
FILMAR
Sir,
Our Sibella is found.—I write at her bed-side; and, if after one hour's cool investigation of the past, you can lay your hand on your heart and say,though Sibella offended me I was ever just to her, I will yield up the earnest wish I have, that you should come to London to extend the forgiveness you have already granted, to see, to bless her, e'er she dies. Those convulsive starts tell me nature cannot long support the struggle.
She was the only child of your brother, Sir, and one among the fairest among the daughters of men.
You complain, Sir, that my opinions pay too little deference to the obedience due from children to parents, and in answer to that I must observe, I know not of any opposing duties, and wherever the commands of parents are contrary to the justice due from being to being, I hold obedience to be vice. The perpetual hue and cry after obedience and obedience has almost driven virtue out of the world, for be it unlimited unexamined obedience to a sovereign, to a parent, or husband, the mind, yielding itself to implicit unexamined obedience, loses its individual dignity, and you can expect no more of a man than of a brute. What is to become of the child who is taught never to think or act for himself? Can a creature thus formed ever arrive at the maturity of wisdom? How is he who has never reasoned to be enabled in his turn to train his offspring otherwise than he himself was trained. Proud of sway and dominion, he gratifies every impulse of caprice, blindly commands while they blindly obey; and thus from one generation to another the world is peopled with slaves, and the human mind degraded from the station which God had given to it.
You sent Clement into the world and you commanded him to hate it, but you never told him why it merited this abhorrence, only he was to hate because it pleased you that he should hate the world. Clement Montgomery saw every thing new, every thing fascinating; and the more he remembered he was to hate, the more he loved the world. Then you bid him make himself independent, and you had not given him one lesson of independence of mind, without which he must ever be a tool and dependent. Indeed, Sir, you have no right to withhold from him your forgiveness, for you taught him by your own example to say one thing and intend another; in your own mistakes, you may trace the foundation of his vices.
Mr. Montgomery has, indeed, heaped upon himself an infinite load of mischiefs; and you, Sir, in the bitterness of your resentment, could not wish him a severer punishment than, I believe, he at present endures. My beloved and sacrificed friend was unhappily led into his presence on the first moment of her arrival. She claimed him as her own; and, he must have been marble itself, had not that interview and its sad consequences to the deceived injured Sibella stung him with remorse. Yet his repentance has more of frenzy than feeling. Several times he attempted to force his way into Sibella's chamber; and, finding me immoveable resolved that he should not see her, he gave way to the most violent bursts of indignation and invective, whose chief object was my mother. At length he quitted the house; and it is said that, in grief and distraction, he also quitted the kingdom. But I understand his feeble and wavering character; his sorrow will abate; he will be again reconciled to himself, and live abounding in all things but esteem.
In consequence of Mr. Montgomery's departure, my mother has vowed an everlasting enmity to me. She has chosen another abode, and forbidden me her presence. It is, Sir, no uncommon case for persons who would fly from the consciousness of their follies to shelter themselves under resentment, and accuse others of malignantly creating those misfortunes for them which were the unavoidable consequences of their own errors. How vain and futile are such endeavours; and how strongly do they help to prove the value of rectitude, which brings its own consolation under every afflicting circumstance of life.
To press you further on the subject of your coming to London, or to relate the particulars which have befallen Sibella, would be only to give you unnecessary pain. Suffer me, however, to remind you once more that the moment approaches rapidly upon us when resentment cannot agitate nor forgiveness soothe her.
I remain, Sir, your sincere well wisher,
CAROLINE ASHBURN
My Lord,
I scarcely recollect the verbal message I sent in answer to your letter of yesterday; for I was then under the dominion of feelings more powerful than reason—yet not more powerful; it was reason had yielded for a time her place.
I will fortify myself for the relation of the events of yesterday, because I think it will do you a service. I am sure you are not incorrigible; and one example of the wretched consequences of error has often more power than a volume of precepts.
It was half past eleven yesterday morning when an attendant silently beckoned me from Sibella's bed. In the antichamber, Sir Thomas Barlowe's gentleman waited to inform me that Mr. Murden was in my study. I could scarcely believe I was awake; it seemed so impossible that he should be there. 'Alas, Madam,' said the young man, 'every persuasion has been used to prevent his rash design. And since Sir Thomas Barlowe, by the advice of the physicians, positively refused his coming to visit Miss Valmont, he has neither taken rest nor sustenance. What could we do, Madam, but indulge him?'
How indeed could they act otherwise! He was brought, my Lord, in a chair; and had fainted once by the way.
Much affected by the nature of his enterprise, and by the resolution with which he persisted in accomplishing his design, I could not restrain my tears when I joined him in the study. He was gasping for breath; and seemed ready to drop from the arms of the servant who supported him.
As I approached him, and took his hand, he turned his head away from me; an increase of anxiety and something of ill nature contracted his brow, for he expected a decided opposition on my part to the design which he had resolved never to relinquish.
'Murden, my dear Murden,' I said, 'I——'
He interrupted me in a peevish tone. He came, he said, to see Sibella—Hemustsee her. And, if I refused to let him see her, he would crawl to her chamber door, and live there whilst he did live.
I would have spoken again, but he waved his hand to express that he would not hear me; and rested his head on the servant's shoulder. The hand which I still held, though he had twice attempted to draw it from mine, began to endure a consuming heat. A deep hectic colouring overspread his cheek; and I imagined disappointment was committing more ravages on him, in one way, than indulgence could, in another.
Strongly incited to lead Murden instantly to my friend's chamber, yet unwilling to hazard so much merely on my own judgment, I retired to consult with Mrs. Beville, who has kindly given me her society and assistance since my mother quitted the house. Mrs. Beville suggested to me an idea which determined me to permit the interview, unless Sibella herself should object to seeing Murden.
I must tell you, my Lord, that from the fatal day when you was a feeling witness of her agonies, Sibella has been perfectly or rather horridly calm. Never has she named Clement; nor has she ever wept. She insisted on having the corpse of her infant brought to her before its burial; and, while she pressed it to her burning bosom, she said—'Poor senseless earth! In quitting life so soon, thou hast not lost but gained! What art thou? nothing! thy members will not swell into strength and proportion. Life will not inform them. Thy heart will never beat, and it shall not feel.——Babe, thou art gone for ever! None laments for thee. She who should have been thy mother weeps not for thee.—Go, babe! go to thy cold shelter! soon will that shelter be mine. But I cannot afford thee warmth: for I shall be cold, senseless, dead, as thou art!'
As she spoke her eye had no moisture; and she delivered up the infant without shedding one tear; but the oppression she endured for want of this salutary relief was dreadful to behold. Mrs. Beville was of opinion that the altered and pity-moving countenance of Murden, the recollection of his kindness, and his sufferings for her would surprise, affect her, turn her consideration from herself to him, and call forth a sympathy which must produce tears.
I had less hope of the success of the experiment in this way to Sibella than Mrs. Beville entertained; yet, I had hope and I also persuaded myself that a kind word from her would give to Murden a renewal of vigour, and prove the chearing companion of his few remaining days.
Sibella was at this time more composed than usual; and, on being informed of Mr. Murden's desire, she expressed an earnest wish to see him.
I returned to the study. 'You are come to lead me to her,' said Murden, impatiently. 'Yes,' I replied, 'I am. Sibella herself desires it.'
'Give me—give me——' said he, stretching forth his hand, and his servant presented some liquid he held in a glass; but Murden pushed it from him. 'Carry me there,' said he, 'all my strength is gone.'
I saw that he trembled excessively, and gladly would I have retracted my consent; but it was too late. I could nothing more than hasten the interview, that the expectation of it might not prey on him thus dreadfully. We prevailed on him to taste the liquid; and then his attendants carried him in their arms to the chamber door, where at his own desire they stood still for a moment or two.
When he was borne into the room, he suddenly assumed a strength which had before totally failed him, and tottered to the seat beside her.—Neither spoke.——He gazed, till he could gaze no longer; and, leaning back his head, burst into a violent flood of tears. Sibella was not moved. She put out her hand towards his; I lifted his, and gave it her.
'Mr. Murden,' said she, as she pressed his hand, 'you have been very kind to me—tell me how I can thank you?'
'You were once unkind to me,' replied Murden, sobbing,—'you hated me! you shunned me!'
'True, for I did not know you.——Yet, I fancied myself infallibly discerning.' She turned her head away.
'Oh do not, do not turn from me!—Miss Valmont, I once talked with you in the Ruin—Do you remember it?'
'Yes.—You were not so ill then, as you are now.'
'And you, Miss Valmont, was well.'
'I did think so,' she said, and sighed.
Murden comprehended the fullest force of her meaning. He looked wildly around the apartment. 'Let me go, let me go,' said he eagerly, withdrawing his hand from Sibella and attempting to rise. I beckoned in his two attendants, who lifted him from his seat.
'Will you go, and not bid me farewel, Murden?' asked Sibella.
He started at the plaintive tone.—'Stand off!' cried he, 'would ye dare take me from her ere my errand is completed?'
'It is completed, my dear Murden.' said I. 'You have seen Sibella. Bid her farewel, and part.'
'Yes! yes!' said he, sitting down again beside her. 'We shall part—we are now on the very verge of parting.—Oh dear, good Miss Ashburn, bless you for ever!' As he spoke, he pressed each of my hands alternately to his lips.—'Dear dear Miss Ashburn, fare you well!'
'Indeed, Murden, you must go,' said I. 'Must,' repeated he—'must! why I know I must.—I have no choice, Miss Ashburn. But allow me a little longer:—won't you,'—turning to Sibella—'allow me a very little longer?'
'Certainly, I will,' replied Sibella; 'if it will give you satisfaction.'
'Satisfaction!' said he.
After a pause, during which he gazed intently on Sibella, his countenance underwent a striking alteration. He made a motion for something to be given to him; but, when the servant approached, he put him aside. His head dropped against the side of the chair; and the hand he had just lifted to his forehead fell upon the bed. Sibella placed it between both of her's.
He drew his breath slowly and heavily. Once I thought he had fainted, and offered to support him. 'No! no! no!' he said; and shortly after, I believe he slept.
At that time all who were in the apartment observed a profound silence. Sibella in deep thought continued to hold his hand. Sometimes she looked upon Murden; and, in those expressive looks, I read the anguish of her heart. She could not, as Mrs. Beville had supposed, separate his sufferings from her own. I perceived that her emotions were kindling into agony; and I arose from my seat, undetermined which way I could relieve her, when a loud and dreadful groan from Sibella roused Murden from his short interval of forgetfulness.
'Oh! have pity!' said Murden.
Sibella uttered a second groan.
'Miss Valmont!' exclaimed Murden.
'Give me not a name'—cried Sibella. 'I own none! What am I? a shadow! A dream!—Will you oblige me?' added she, vehemently grasping Murden's hand—'Carry to him the name you used to me. Bid him murder that also.—Oh! your touch is ice!'—she exclaimed, throwing his hand suddenly from her; 'you have chilled my blood!'
A moment after, she recollected herself. 'Poor Murden!' said she, 'Warm! warm yourself! Why are you so cold?'
'Because I too am but a shadow,' replied Murden. 'Hear me, Miss Valmont. I must call you so.—It was when you came to seek your fawn in the Ruin, that you talked with me there. Do you remember it?'
'I do.'
'Oh, Miss Valmont, Miss Valmont, methought you never looked so lovely, never was so gentle as while you spake two words—Only two. And can you not remember that I said to you—When remembrances of love shall be no longer remembrances of happiness, then—Die also.'
'Great God! Do you reproach me with living!' cried Sibella, starting up in the bed in a phrenzy. 'Know you not I expired when—Oh! Am I not dead dead already?'
'Then, let the same grave receive us!' Bending forward, he locked her in his arms, and sunk upon her pillow, never to rise again.
It is easier, my Lord, for you to imagine than for me to describe the consequence of yesterday's event to my beloved and dying friend. Her convulsions become each hour more and more rapid and exhausting. Yet she has intervals of composure and even of rest, and these serve to detain a little longer her bursting spirit within the fading form. Oh, cruel those who have been the means of thus early separating a mind and form so worthy of happiness, so mated to each other! As for myself, I have endured much, and have much yet to endure, for remembrances of Murden and Sibella, of their virtues and misfortunes will live with me, will be the cherished, tender companions of many hours; nor shall that which the world calls pleasure, ever buy me from one of those hours with the richest of her temptations.
Last night, while Sibella slept, I would have slept also, but the scene of yesterday lay a cumbrous load upon my heart. I rose and passed to the chamber where the corpse of Murden is deposited. His faults fled from me. I saw only Murden, I remembered him living, and now I looked on him dead.—My Lord, my Lord, what a contrast!—What a pang!
A smile of something more than peace illumines even now the face from whence animation is gone for ever. It was his last smile, the smile he had so dearly purchased. His heart indeed dictated that smile, for it expanded with joy when he felt he should die with her for whom he died. Fatal end of an ungoverned passion—virtuous in its object, but vicious in its excess!
The corpse still remains in the house. Why should I part with it? None loved him better.
A sleep almost like death still locks up the faculties of Sibella. During her last interval from pain and convulsions, she gave her final directions, and you my Lord are concerned therein.
Mr. Valmont is sick, sick at heart. He could not come to London; but he sent his steward with forgiveness, blessings, and an earnest request that Sibella would make her own disposition of her fortune, by which he has resolved most faithfully to abide. There is a sum in hand of near a hundred thousand pounds, out of which she has desired that your debts may be discharged, my Lord. Her request to you is, that you will in future refrain from the pernicious practice by which they were incurred. I have no doubt but you will; and certain am I, my Lord, that you may find means of disposing of your time, that in real pleasure will beggar all comparison with those to which you have been accustomed.
I am summoned to Sibella's chamber.
Again Sibella doses.—Her fits have ceased, and death becomes gentle in its preparation. 'Now, my Caroline,' said she as I approached her bed, 'Come and let me bid you farewel. I find there is something yet for me to feel in leaving you.—Methought—' she added after a pause—'sensation had been dead in me—I have had strange feelings, Caroline. And now I seem awakening from a fearful dream. I have lost the raging fire which consumed me—early scenes recur—and here,' laying her hand on her bosom, 'something swells as if—as if I yet had—affections!'
So saying, the melting sufferer burst into tears; and my fond hopes would have persuaded me, that these tears were the beginning of her restoration. No, my Lord, it is only fondness that could for one moment entertain the supposition.
'Do not let us weep,' said she, 'Caroline, there is a person—'tis, I desire it, Caroline—whom you must forgive, pity, and befriend. When you meet him—Clement'—the name hung upon her quivering lips—'tell him to be sincere. Tell all the world so, Caroline.—My uncle's secrets could have done me but temporary harm, it was mine own secrets destroyed me—Oh that fatal contract!'
A long pause succeeded; but she neither wept not sighed. She had folded her hands upon her bosom, and she looked intently upward.
Again raising herself, she embraced me; and then she said, 'Poor Murden! he had his secrets too, and he has died for them!'
My Lord—it is over.—She expired in my arms.
Yes, they shall be entombed together—the dearer parts of my existence.—I loved them both as I never loved man nor woman beside.