SECRESY
Or
The Ruin on the Rock
by
ELIZA FENWICK
Disguise! I see thou art a Wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant Enemy does much.
_Shakespeare_
CONTENTS
Dedication xi
Volume I 1
Volume II 91
Volume III 177
TO
ELIZA B----
What does the world care about either you or me? Nothing. But we care
for each other, and I grasp at every opportunity of telling it. A
letter, they may say, would do as well for that purpose as a dedication.
I say no; for a letter is a sort of corruptible substance, and these
volumes _may_ be IMMORTAL. Beside, it is perhaps my pride to write a
dedication and your pride to receive one. I desire the world then to let
it pass; for, to tell them a truth--you have paid me for it
before-hand.
VOLUME I
LETTER I
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
THE HONOURABLE GEORGE VALMONT
SIR,
I am by no means indifferent as to the opinion you may form of me, in
consequence of my abrupt, and, in a degree, rude conduct, when you so
peremptorily denied the boon I would have begged on quitting your
castle. If the reasons which guided your refusal were such as fully
satisfied yourself, however incompetent they might be in my judgment, I
was wrong in being offended, and in showing my resentment by something
like invective. Ere we had travelled two miles I became sensible of my
pride and injustice; and it is from our first resting place I thus
present myself to acknowledge my fault, to ask other favors, and to tell
you that I have no pleasure in view equal to that I expected to enjoy in
the society of Miss Valmont.
But though you denied me the charm of associating with your niece, you
will not also refuse me her correspondence? A letter, Sir, cannot waft
down your draw-bridges; the spirit of my affection breathed therein
cannot disenchant her from the all-powerful spell of your authority. No.
And you surely will not forbid an indulgence so endearing to us, while
unimportant to yourself. Already I feel assured of your consent; and,
with my thanks, dismiss the subject.
As your seclusion of Miss Valmont from the world is not a plan of
yesterday, I imagine you are persuaded of its value and propriety, and I
therefore see nothing which should deter me from indulging the strong
propensity I feel to enquire into the nature of your system; a system so
opposite to the general practice of mankind, and which I am inclined to
think is not as perfect as you are willing to suppose. Remembering your
contempt of the female character, I am aware that you may possibly
treat this part of my letter only with neglect or disdain. Gladly would
I devise a means by which to induce you to lay aside this prejudice
against us, and in the language of reason, as from one being to another,
discuss with me the merits or defects of your plan; which from its
singularity, on the first view, excited my curiosity; and has since,
from my observation of some of its consequences, interested me by
worthier feelings than that of mere curiosity. If Miss Valmont's
education, treatment, and utter seclusion were most valuable for her,
why should she, yet so young, and removed from the common misfortunes of
life, why should she be unhappy. You, Sir, may not have perceived this
effect of your system; for, although shut within the same boundary and
resident under one roof, you seldom see her, and when you do see, you do
not study her. I believe I know more of her mental temperament in our
seven days intercourse than you have learned in seven years, and I
affirm that she is unhappy. Yet it is only from her sudden wanderings in
conversation, and that apparent restlessness of dissatisfaction in her,
which seeks change of place because of all places alike are irksome,
that I ground my opinion, for having flattered myself that you would
permit her to accompany me from your castle, I passed the days of my
abode there, in closely observing Miss Valmont, rather than in
endeavouring to gain her entire confidence; and have perhaps made but
little progress toward obtaining a friendship, to which my heart aspires
with zeal and affection.
In the hope of a speedy and candid answer from you,
I remain, Sir,
Your well wisher,
And humble servant,
CAROLINE ASHBURN
LETTER II
FROM SIBELLA VALMONT
TO
CAROLINE ASHBURN
I am come from Mr. Valmont's study.--Can it be?--Oh yes! I am come from
Mr. Valmont's presence, to write a letter--a letter to you!--Ah, Miss
Ashburn!--to write a letter to you by my uncle's----Can command ever be
indulgence?--No, no. I will not believe that:--No, not even would I
believe it, though, when my heart expands with swelling emotion, he were
then also to command me to----. Miss Ashburn, the command of Mr. Valmont
in this, as in all other instances, is stern and repulsive, but, as his
commands are odious to my acceptation, so, in equal degree, is the
action of writing a letter to you grateful, delightful, overwhelming!
How came it?--How have you prevailed?--Oh teach me your art to soften
his power, to unloose the grasp of his authority, and I will love you
as----I believe I cannot love you better than I do; for have you not
cast a ray of cheering light upon my dungeon?--Have you not bestowed
upon me the only charm of existence that I have known for many and many
a tedious day?
But why did you do so? Do you love me as I love you? You never told me
so. Seven days and seven nights you lived in our castle; and you walked
with me by day, you wandered with me by night. I talked to you almost
without ceasing.--You spoke infinitely less than I did.--You pressed my
hand as it held yours: but you never said, _I love you!--I love you,
Sibella, with all my soul._--Nor did you ever quit your rest, amidst the
darkness of the night, to hover near my chamber, as I have done near
yours.--Yes, Miss Ashburn, when at night you had retired from me, I
beheld only solitude and imprisonment; and I have waited hours in that
forlorn gallery, that I might catch the whisper of your breathings,
that the consciousness of being near a friend might restore me to hope,
to hilarity, to confidence.
Yet now I recollect it, and you do love me; for you asked the imperious,
the denying Mr. Valmont, to let you take me from the castle. Oh, you did
urge--you did intreat.--You do love me.--I am writing a letter to you;
and perhaps, one day, I shall have all my happiness.
* * * * *
I wish Mr. Valmont would show me the letter you wrote to him. He has
charged me to answer it, and I have been obliged to walk a great while,
and to think a great deal, before I could remember a word of what he
said I was to repeat to you; and now I do not think I recollect the
whole. I would return to his study and ask him to tell it me again; but
he has an aversion to trouble, and perhaps, irritated by my
forgetfulness, might say, I should not write to you at all.--Ah, if he
were to say that, Miss Ashburn, and if it were possible for me to send a
letter out of the castle in defiance of his commands, do you think I
would obey him?--No, no.
Andrew came to me in the wood, to bid me attend my uncle in his library;
and I went thither immediately. He was but just risen; and a letter,
which I suppose was your letter, and which must have arrived yesterday,
was laying open on the table beside him; and when he spoke to me he laid
his right hand upon the letter.
'Numberless are the hours, child,' Mr. Valmont said to me soon after I
entered, 'that I have employed in pondering on your welfare:--yet you
are not the docile and grateful creature I expected to find you.'
'Sir,' I said, 'if in all those hours of pondering you never thought of
the only means by which my welfare can be effected, am I therefore
forbidden to be happy?--Am I to be unhappy, because I and not you
discovered how I might be very, very happy?'
Mr. Valmont raised himself more erect on his chair; and he frowned too.
'Always reasoning,' he said: 'I tell you, child, you cannot, you shall
not reason. Repine in secret as much as you please, but no reasonings.
No matter how sullen the submission, if it is submission.'
I replied, 'I do not think as you do.'
'Child, you are not born to think; you were not made to think.' He
turned the letter on the table, as he spoke, and took a leaning
attitude.
'But I cannot----.'
'Silence, Sibella!' cried my uncle. He fiercely recovered his upright
posture; and then, for I was effectually silenced, he gradually and
slowly fell back into his reclining station. Indeed, Miss Ashburn, I am
in some instances still a mere child, as Mr. Valmont calls me; and yet,
I wish you would account for it, for I do not know how, I feel every day
bolder and bolder. I can speak to him when I first meet him, as calmly
as I can to Andrew; and I can oppose him a little. And when I have not
opposed him as much as I wish to do, and have ran away from the fight of
his face, and the sound of his voice, I take myself to talk, and say,
foolish Sibella! Can a frown kill you?--Can your uncle, though he should
be tenfold angry with you, do more to you than he has already done? And,
when my throbbing heart denies the possibility of that, I resolve the
next time to tell him every thing I feel: and then I wait, and long, and
wish that the next time would arrive. When it does arrive, I begin
without fear; or, at least, I have only a weak trembling, which I should
soon lose, if he did not call up one of those frowns which infallibly
condemn me to silence and to terror. But I know, and he knows too if he
would but own it, that I do think; that I was born to think:--and I will
think.
Oh dear, dear Miss Ashburn, I am writing a letter to you! And what was
it but my power of thought, which gave birth to that affection which
would impel me on with a rapidity that my pen cannot follow? It seems to
me that my thought dictates volumes in an instant; and that, in an
instant, I have said volumes. Yet I have only a few pages of paper under
my eye and my hand. If Mr. Valmont tells me, I cannot cut the air with
wings, I will answer--'Tis true: but in imagination, I can encompass the
vast globe in a second. Hail thought! Thought the soul of
existence!--Not think!--why do not all forms in which the pulse of life
vibrates, possess the power of thought?--Have I not seen the worm,
crawling from his earthy bed to drink the new-fallen dew from the grass,
swiftly shrink back to his shelter, his attentive ear alarmed by my
approach?--The very insect, while sporting in the rapture of a sun-beam
on my habit, is yet wary and vigilant, and will rather leave his
half-tasted enjoyment, if apprehension seize him, than hazard the
possibility of my inflicting injury upon him. And what but thought,
imperceptible yet mighty thought, could make a creature so infinitely
diminutive in its proportions, so apparently valueless in the creation,
shun the hand of power, and seek for itself sources of enjoyment?--I
could tell you, Miss Ashburn, how I have imagined I met sympathy and
reflection in that flower which enamoured of the sun mourns throughout
the term of his absence, droops on her stalk, and shuts her bosom to the
gloom and darkness which succeeds, nor bursts again into vigour and
beauty till cheered by his all inspiring return. It is not for you,
happy you, who live with liberty, live as free to indulge as to form
your wishes, I say it is not for you to find tongues in the wind. It is
for the imprisoned Sibella to feed on such illusions, to waft herself on
the pinions of fancy beyond Mr. Valmont's barriers, within which, for
the two last years, her fetters have been insupportable:--for two years,
except when she saw you, has she been joyless. I could talk of those two
years: but then I should want also to tell you, Miss Ashburn, of the
previous hours, the days, the months, the years that came, that smiled,
and passed away.
I wonder if I should tire you? Surely I think not: yet I have already
written much, and I have also my uncle's words to deliver.----Ah! to
quit such a theme for my uncle!
I told you, Mr. Valmont silenced me by his frowns. He was some time
silent himself. He took the letter from off the table, and appeared to
read parts of it at length he said, 'Miss Ashburn has very properly
apologized for her behaviour to me the morning she went hence.
Doubtless, child, you also were much disappointed, that I did not
consent to your going with her and her mother.'
'No, sir.'
'No!' my uncle said, seemingly surprised; 'and why not?'
'Because I did not expect you would suffer me to go.'
'Methinks it was a mighty natural expectation.' My uncle looked angry.
He presently added. 'Did you wish to go with them, child?'
'O yes, sir, I did indeed wish!'
'It was natural enough, Sibella, that you should wish for such an
indulgence;' and he said this very mildly: 'but I alone am capable of
judging of its propriety. Miss Ashburn, I believe, has been little used
to disappointment. I pity her. Perhaps a miserable old age is in store
for her.'
'Impossible!' I exclaimed; but the exclamation was swift and low; and my
uncle, absorbed in contemplating his own designs, did not hear me.
And at last he told me, after many pauses, many slow speeches, that you
may write letters to me, and that I shall write letters to you.
I would have kissed him, for I had seized his hand, but his eye spoke no
encouragement; and I sat down again to glow, and to tremble.
Part of what followed has escaped me, as I feared it would. I remember
that my uncle said, 'Tell Miss Ashburn from me, Sibella, that, like all
other females, she has decided with more haste than judgment.'
Thus much for Mr. Valmont. And now for myself, Miss Ashburn;--no, dear
Caroline, adieu!
SIBELLA VALMONT
LETTER III
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
SIBELLA VALMONT
Thankful to Mr. Valmont for his consent to my request, and more and more
endeared to you, my Sibella, by the joy with which you receive his
consent, I am impatient till I have explained the motives that withheld
me, while in the woods of Valmont, from saying--'_I love you:--I love
you, Sibella, with all my soul._' To have these motives fully understood
by you, it is necessary I should made a sketch of my education, the
incidents of my life, and their consequent effect upon my character. Yet
I know you will continue to read with avidity. Ask yourself if the ear
of affection is easily satiated with the communications of a friend, and
wonder that you should have repressed your wishes, when they incited you
to unfold to me, with minute attention, the feelings of your heart. The
breaks, the allusions in your letter, led me for a time into the
tormenting and silly practice of forming conjectures. Now I have ceased
to conjecture; but I have not ceased to be desirous of being admitted to
your utmost confidence, to the full participation of your remembrances,
whether of joy or of sorrow.
You have seen my mother, Sibella, but people of a superior class must
have superior forms; and the endearing name of mother is banished for
the cold title of ceremony. Mrs. Ashburn, as I am now tutored to call
her, was the very fashionable daughter of very fashionable parents, who
died when she had attained the age of twenty-three, and left her in
possession of the most aspiring longings after splendor and dissipation,
but destitute of every means for their gratification. Among the many
friends who came to pity or advise, one offered her his assistance. His
proposal was abrupt and disgusting, but there was no alternative. He
would equip her to go in search of a wealthy marriage among the
luxurious inhabitants of India; or, with her other professing friends,
he would leave her to the poverty which lay immediately before her. The
offer, after little deliberation, was accepted. Rather than be poor, she
humbled the pride of her birth and pretensions; she strengthened her
nerves for the voyage; and, having safely arrived in India, her
recommendations, but above all her personal charms, secured her the
addresses of Mr. Ashburn, who, though he was neither young nor
attractive, had gold and diamonds in abundance. A very short interval
elapsed between the commencement of their acquaintance with each other,
and the celebration of their marriage.
After my birth my father bowed to no other idol than me; for, although
my father had gained a very handsome wife, and my mother almost the
wealthiest of husbands, yet happiness was still at a distance from them.
Indolent in the extreme, he abhorred every species of pleasure which
required a portion of activity in its pursuit: he equally abhorred
solitude; and expected to find, in his wife, a lounging companion; a
partaker of his habits; something little differing from a mere
automaton. She, on the contrary, was laborious in the pursuits of
pleasure and dissipation. She had pride and spirit to maintain her
resolution of gratifying her own wishes. He was too idle to remonstrate:
and theirs was an union as widely removed from the interruptions of
bickerings and jealousies, as from the confidence, esteem, and
endearments of affection.
From me then my father expected to gain the satisfaction his marriage
had failed to afford; nor were his hopes better founded than heretofore.
Admired, adored by him, flattered by his slaves, incited by indulgencies
showered upon me without distinction to make demands the most
extravagant and unattainable, I oftener tormented my father by my
caprice than delighted him by my fondness. But still every species of
advice or of restraint was withheld; and I continued fruitful in
expedients for the exercise of my power, continued the discontented
slave of my own tyranny. Happily for me, I met with an adventure when I
was little more than thirteen years of age that wrought miracles upon
me.
Near to a seat of my father's, as near as the cottage of poverty dare
rise to the palace of opulence, lived the wife and family of a poor
industrious European. The blue eyes of one of their children had spoken
so submissively once or twice, as she viewed me passing, that I became
enamoured of her interesting countenance, and demanded to have her for
a playmate. Day after day Nancy came, and my fondness for her increased
daily. If the turbulence of my temper sometimes broke loose in the
course of our amusements, I afterward endeavoured, by increased efforts
of condescension, to relieve Nancy from the terror my pride or violence
had excited; and, to impress her with a strong sense of my attachment to
herself, in her presence I affected to be more than commonly overbearing
and insolent to those around us, while to her I was attentive and
obliging. At length I became resolved to have her wholly at my command;
and, without troubling myself to enquire whether or not my father would
object to my plan, I rose earlier than usual one morning, and dispatched
a messenger for Nancy; and, while he was absent, pleased myself with
anticipating what answers she would make, and what joy she would evince,
when I should tell her that henceforward she should live with me, and
should have as fine clothes, as fine apartments, and as many slaves to
obey her as I myself possessed. My messenger returned alone. He told me
Nancy was ill. What a disappointment! How insolent, methought, to be
ill, when I wanted her more than I had ever wanted her before. And so
much did she appear to merit my resentment, that I gave orders she
should be forbidden to see me again, and that all the valuable trinkets
I had heaped upon her should be taken from her by force, if she would
not yield them when demanded. But no sooner were the toys brought into
my presence than I relented, sent them back with many additions, and
wept while I delivered messages, intreating--that she would be well by
the next day. On the morrow, still no Nancy came; and I passed the day
in alternate paroxysms of rage and sorrow. The third morning I hastened
to the cottage; and the first object I beheld was Nancy blooming as
health could make her.
The insolence with which I reproached the mother of Nancy on this
occasion may be easily imagined; but I shall relate minutely to you,
Sibella, the good woman's answer; I have never forgotten it.
'Miss,' she said, 'I might as well have told the truth at once, for out
it must. Nancy is not sick in body, Miss; and if I can help it, she
shan't be sick in mind. Your papa is a great rich man, and you will be a
great rich lady. You, Miss, who are so high born and so rich, need not
care if people do hate you; but my Nancy is a poor child, and will never
have a penny that an't of her own earning--she never used to fleer, and
flout, and stamp at her little brothers and sisters, as she does since
she came to your house, Miss. And so, Miss, as she will never be able to
pay folks for saying she is good when she is bad, I, who am her mother,
must make her as good as I can. You may be good enough for a great lady;
but Nancy will never be a great lady; and, be as angry as you will,
Miss, indeed she can't come to your fine house any more.'
Yes, Sibella; she persisted, in defiance of my resentment and its
probable consequences, the worthy woman persisted in preserving her
child from the infectious example of my vices. Her lesson had awakened
in my mind a true sense of my situation; nor could anger or disdain once
force me from the painful conviction that people were hired and paid to
lavish on me their insincere encomiums. All the instances of attention
or kindness I could recollect I believed had been mine only because I
was rich and powerful. I imagined I saw lurking hatred and loathing in
every eye; and, though I ceased to command, I resented with an acrimony
almost past description every effort that was directed towards
increasing my pleasures or convenience. These ebulitions of a wounded
vanity insensibly wore away, while I considered how much of amendment
and happiness was yet in my power; and, at length, I began seriously to
remedy the defects which had made me unworthy to be the companion of
Nancy; but, ere I had courage to demand again the society of my little
friend, her parents had removed to a distant part of the country, and in
this instance frustrated the end of my labours. Yet the labour itself
had become delightful, and was amply rewarded by the satisfaction
betrayed in the eyes of my numerous attendants; but who, however, as I
was a great lady and a rich lady, durst not openly rejoice in my
amendment. I longed to hear them burst into praises. I almost sickened
for the accents of well-earned commendation; but shame of my former
unworthiness, and perhaps a remaining degree of pride, withheld me from
encouraging such an explanation: and they continued silently to receive
the benefits of my reformation.
And now, Sibella, I must bring you back again to my mother, with whom in
these years of childhood I have been but little acquainted. She hated
children; their noise and prattle and monkey tricks threw her into
hysterics. For a few minutes after dinner, I was sometimes admitted,
hushed to silence with a profusion of sweetmeats, and dismissed with a
kiss or a frown, just as the avocations and pleasures of the day
happened to fix her disposition. As I grew older, I was occasionally
allowed to sit in her dressing-room, or to take the air with her in the
same carriage; and on those occasions I reached the highest pinnacle of
her confidence, and used to listen while she poured forth her longing
desires to return to England. As I had been frequently disgusted at
witnessing the malignant feuds existing among the Europeans resident in
the East-Indies, it was easy for her to interest me in the first of her
wishes, namely, that my father would return to England. She spoke of
this island as of the abode of pleasure. She described an almost
innumerable circle of friends, amidst whose society delights would
abound. My imagination gave a stronger colouring to her pictures: I
indulged the visionary theme till I also panted to become an inhabitant
of this climate of peace, joy and felicity.
No sooner had I adopted the project than my father's lethargic indolence
gave way to his desire of gratifying my wishes. He vigorously completed
the necessary arrangement of his affairs; and we were in daily
expectation of quitting India, when he was attacked by the malignant
disease of which he died.
My mother was now the uncontrouled mistress of a world of wealth; and,
placing her remittances in a proper train, we speedily set sail for our
land of promise.
Safely arrived in London, I expected Mrs. Ashburn would instantly fly to
the embraces of her friends. But no: a sumptuous house and equipage were
first to be prepared; and, while she exulted in preparation, I repined
at her want of sympathy for the feelings of those who I imagined were
expecting her with fondness and impatience. Alas, Sibella, I had not
followed my mother three times into her circles of friendship, ere I
discovered that the enjoyments she had looked forward to, during so many
years, consisted only of triumphing with superiority of splendor over
those who formerly with the same motives had triumphed over her.
Here my enthusiasm in the search of sincere and uniform friendship would
have been extinguished; but that my hopes yet rested on Mrs. Valmont. Of
Mrs. Valmont my mother had spoken as playmate, schoolmate, and the
confidant of juvenile secrets. Separated, said I to myself, near twenty
years, what emotions must a first interview produce! The fire of youth
in Mrs. Valmont and Mrs. Ashburn will be, for some moments, renewed; and
I shall anticipate the effusions of my own heart when it finds a friend.
After exhibiting our pomp at every place of resort in the metropolis, we
began our tour; and passed by several invitations to pay our first visit
at Valmont castle. What a freezing sensation crept in my veins, as we
waited for the raising of your uncle's draw-bridges, as we rolled along
his dark avenues! Such gloom, such menacing grandeur brought into my
mind a feeling totally opposite to the hilarity, the glow of expectation
I had cherished on the journey. Many persons had spoken in my hearing of
Mr. Valmont as the most absurd ridiculous misanthrope of his age; but I
had not the highest respect for the authorities from which the
information was derived, and I had also conceived with much more fancy
than judgment of the delights of a life of solitude. I, in my dream, had
forgotten the name of Castle, and the ideas associating with the name;
my imagination in its reveries had blended elegance and simplicity,
nature and art with their most fascinating productions; when, instead of
smiling lawns and gay parterres, without, I found moats, walls, and
draw-bridges, frowning battlements that looked as uninviting on the
friend as threatening on the enemy, turrets all cheerless, all hostile,
and discouraging to the wandering stranger. The castle's Gothic
magnificence within reminded us at every step of the dignity of the
Valmont race; the apartments received their guests without welcome; the
domestics were obedient, but neither cheerful nor attentive. Through
carved saloons and arched galleries, into which the bright sun of spring
can only cast an oblique ray, we were conducted to Mrs. Valmont's
dressing-room.
My Sibella, can you not imagine, you hear your aunt mingling complaint
and compliment, languor and restlessness, and labouring to interest real
sensibility by moans of imaginary disease? Can you not imagine my mother
secretly urging her triumphs over the immured Mrs. Valmont, by lamenting
the slavery of pleasure to which she herself is perpetually compelled?
And can you not see your disappointed, disgusted Caroline Ashburn
viewing caresses without warmth, hearkening to professions without
sincerity?
Your uncle entered the room for a moment. Appearing to act, to speak, to
look according to some rule settled for the hour, I deemed his character
too much assumed to be quickly understood. From the solemn pride which
sat on his brow, I judged, however, that he was fitted for his castle,
and his castle fitted for him.
Here, thought I, in this place and with these people have we promised to
remain for seven long days; and I quitted Mrs. Valmont's dressing-room,
to search for amusement and variety in the park and surrounding woods.
I must have been devoid of taste and feeling, if in viewing the
exquisite scenery of the park, I had not forgotten the gloomy entrance
and the dreary building. I found a seat on the margin of that fine sheet
of water which is skirted by _your_ majestic wood; and I rested there
till twilight began to spread itself over the horizon. Who would not,
Sibella, although evening had cast its misty shade over the tall trees
and impressed an awful serenity on every surrounding object, who
would not, I say, like me have ventured into the wood rather than have
returned to Mr. and Mrs. Valmont and their castle. I found the paths so
admirably contrived in their breaks and windings, that I could not
forbid myself to proceed. Every now and then I had an imperfect view of
something dark, rugged, and mountainous. On a sudden, I caught a glimpse
of a rude pile of stones, seemingly carried to a tremendous height,
which as suddenly vanished from my sight, amidst the intercepting
branches; a few steps further, it was again before me as a wild ruin
tottering on the projecting point of a rock. Silence, solitude, the
twilight, the objects filled my mind with a species of melancholy. Fancy
had become more predominant than judgment. I slackened my pace: I
breathed heavily: when, suddenly turning into a new path that I expected
would bring me to the foot of the rock, I beheld a female form, clothed
in white, seated at the foot of a large oak. Her hair, unrestrained by
either hat or cap, entirely shaded her face as she bowed her head to
look on a little fawn, who in the attitude of confidence and affection
was laying across her lap.
The names of Wood Nymph, Dryad and Hymadriad, with a confused number of
images, arose in my memory; and I was on the point of reverently
retreating, but a moment's pause prevented the romance of the fence from
thus imposing on my reason, and I resolved to examine whether the face
like the form bespoke more of divinity than of mortal.
As I approached nearer, away bounded the fawn--up sprang the nymph.
Again, Sibella, I stood still, unknowing whether to fall at your feet or
to clasp you in my arms.
Such was our first romantic interview. There was something wild in your
air; your language was simple and concise, yet delivered with an
impressive eloquence, and I thought you altogether a phenomenon. My
heart could not help partaking the transport with which you received my
promise of staying with you in the wood. Yet it was to me
incomprehensible how you could talk so familiarly of roaming in woods at
night, without seeming to know any thing of the ideas of loneliness and
apprehension generally supposed to belong to such situations.
But my habits would not so suddenly yield to your's. You saw that the
damp and darkness affected me, and you instantly led the way to the
castle: but you became silent: you sighed: you walked at a greater
distance from me: and I began to fear lest you could only submit to be
pleased in your own way. The instant we entered the outer court of the
castle you seized my hand; and, having pressed it forcibly to your
bosom, you darted through a small side door in the building, and closed
it after you. I was going to follow--'This way, if you please, madam,'
said the servant who had been sent to search for me in the park. 'I will
accompany Miss Valmont,' said I. 'Miss Valmont does not see company,
madam,' replied the man, 'her uncle does not permit it.'
I suffered myself to be conducted to the supper room, where I related
the manner of our meeting, the information you had given me of your
relationship to Mr. Valmont; and finally I spoke of the singular way in
which you had quitted me, and expressed my surprise at not finding you
of the supper party.
Mrs. Valmont said, you were a strange unformed child. Mr. Valmont would
gladly have been silent; but, as I continually addressed myself to him,
he could not rid himself, without gross rudeness, of the necessity of
answering me. He spoke mysteriously of his systems, and his plans, of
his authority, his wisdom, and your dependence, of his right of choosing
for you, and your positive duty of obeying him without reserve or
discussion. At last, with tones and gestures, by which I was to
understand that he went to the extreme of condescension in my favour, he
consented that, provided no other company came to visit him in the time,
you should associate with us while we remained at Valmont castle.
Your very extraordinary seclusion and your extraordinary self, occupied
my mind during the greatest part of that night. I had found you highly
interesting; and I believed you to be infinitely amiable. I thought I
might embrace you as the first choice of my affections; but I doubted
whether you might not, if now exposed to the glitter of the world, lose
that vigour of feeling which in solitude made you appear so singular, so
attractive. I longed to make the experiment, for my hopes of you were
stronger than my fears; and, as I had so far prevailed on Mr. Valmont, I
flattered myself I should also prevail on him to suffer me to conduct
you from the castle. And these were the motives, this the expectation,
dearest Sibella, that withheld me from confessing in Valmont
woods--_that I loved you with all my soul_.
The seven days I remained at the castle I forbore, although with
difficulty, to ask you questions, that I might gradually develope your
character, as surrounding circumstances should operate on your
feelings. Sometimes, I saw you devoted to me; sometimes, I saw your
imagination soaring as it were beyond the bounds prescribed to your
person, in search of a remoter object. Why, dear Sibella, are you so
pensive? Why do you gaze on that portrait of yourself with so much
earnestness? And why do you caress that little fawn, who wears a collar
inscribed with the initials--C. M.--till your eyes fill with tears?
Let me be the partaker of your unrestrained emotions; while I, who have
a wider range of observation, will place my opinions before you without
check or limit. Our next resting place is to be the seat of a nabob: Sir
Thomas Barlowe's, amongst whose laboured pleasures I shall wish to
return to gloomy Valmont, where I found a felicity of which I have no
promise in the scenes I am now destined to partake. Adieu! adieu!
CAROLINE ASHBURN
LETTER IV
FROM SIBELLA VALMONT
TO
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Was I pensive, did I gaze, did I sigh, did I weep, when you Miss Ashburn
were with me--what do I know when I have only for companion the
faithful, the exquisite, but torturing representation of memory? Can I
do more than gaze, and sigh, and weep? O yes, I can: for, Miss Ashburn,
I can raise altars on a thousand spots in these woods, which were once
hallowed by the footsteps of him I love!
Two years have elapsed since he bade me farewel: therefore did you see
me pensive.
That picture of me was painted by himself: therefore do I gaze on it.
The fawn he took from a dying mother; by him she was nourished into
familiarity. Nina has ceased to mourn the absence of her benefactor; she
is satisfied with my caresses; but the heart of Sibella Valmont, nor
now, nor ever, can find any substitute for her Clement Montgomery.
I was nearly six years old when they told me that I had lost my father.
He had travelled a twelvemonth before to foreign countries, for the
benefit of his health; and I knew not that his death more than his
absence would deprive me of my happiness, till my uncle Valmont came and
carried me away in his coach from my governess, my maid, and all the
domestics who loved me and whom I loved, of my father's household.
Then, indeed, I mourned; and my uncle attempted to soothe me. He said, I
must be happy, for I was now dependent upon him; and it was my duty to
love him, obey him, and be satisfied. My swelling heart revolted against
being commanded to be happy; and I found not one person at the Castle
who could supply to me the want of my kind governess and kind maid,
except a little dog that on my first entrance had fawned on me as if he
wished to make me happier. Him I carried incessantly in my arms; and I
told him, whenever we were alone, how I longed to get back to my
father's house and to carry him along with me.
In a fortnight after I arrived at Valmont, the affectionate little
animal died; and I remained inconsolable. I was sitting weeping on the
hall steps when my uncle came to me. He wiped away my tears; bade me be
cheerful; and said he had procured me a better play-fellow than Fidelle.
My uncle led me with him into the library; and presented me to a boy
three years older than myself, blooming, blushing, beautiful. 'Clement
is my adopted son, Sibella,' said my uncle. He will henceforth live with
you in the castle. Take him out child; and show him where you find the
prettiest flowers and the ripest fruit.'
Ah! need I tell you how we advanced from shyness to familiarity, from
familiarity to kindness, from kindness to love, all powerful, all
potent! The castle then seemed no prison; the moat seemed no barrier.
Sometimes my uncle carried Clement abroad to visit him, but then I was
sure of his return. Even the hours of instruction I shared with him. He
had a good, an amiable tutor, who delighted in teaching to me also every
science he taught to Clement; and if Mr. Valmont frowned upon me or
checked my industry, Clement was still at my side and I smiled through
my tears.
Thus passed away the years from six till sixteen. On the day that I
became sixteen, we had run races with our little fawn; and, having
wearied ourselves with exertion, we had lain down to rest in each
other's arms, at the foot of that oak where you, Miss Ashburn, first
beheld me. My uncle broke our happy slumbers. He came to the oak; and
sternly commanded Clement to rise and follow him.
I followed too. My uncle sat down in his library; and appeared to
meditate; while we looked on each other with love and pity, and on him
we looked with suspicion and affright.
When my uncle began to speak, Clement trembled; but all my emotions were
chained up in astonishment: for I heard him say that Clement should that
day quit the castle, that he should seek new companions, new countries,
new climates.
'Never! never!' I cried. I folded my arms round my lover--'Thou shalt
not go, Clement,' I said. 'We have world enough. No: thou shalt not go,
my Clement!'
Mr. Valmont furiously bade me desist; but he had awakened a dread in my
mind more powerful than my dread of him. For a time, I expostulated with
vehemence and courage; but I could not repress my tears--and, while I
was compelled to listen to my uncle, his tone, his words impressed me
with my former awe of him and rendered my remonstrance timid and
useless.
To Clement he said, 'You are now to leave these boyish follies, and
learn the duties of a man. You shall mix with society; but remember that
you are not to be attracted by its specious appearances. Scrutinize into
its follies and enormities, as I have done; and let my precepts and
instructions be your guide and law. Remember, Clement, that I took you
from poverty and obscurity. Remember too that, on your duty and
gratitude depends your security. That child,' he pointed to me, 'mind
me, sir, that child is in future to be considered only as your sister.'
'As for you, Sibella,' he said to me, 'your duties in life are easily
performed. I have chosen a part for you: and nothing is required of you
but obedience. You have heard me declare to Clement, and I now repeat it
to you, that to Clement Montgomery you are to be no more than a sister.'
This day he quits us. When he shall return, I have not determined.'
Yes, Caroline, my Clement went. Two years has he roamed in a world which
I am forbidden to know. But, alike in viewing the palace or the cottage,
the burning mountain or the fertile plain, must the idea of Sibella
accompany him. Our minds, our principles, our affections are the same;
and, while I trace his never to be forgotten image within my breast, I
know how fondly he cherishes the remembrance of mine.
Caroline, adieu! I go to the oak. On that consecrated spot, mountains,
seas, continents dissolve, and my spirit unites with his!
SIBELLA VALMONT
LETTER V
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
SIBELLA VALMONT
Yes, dearest Sibella, charming Sibella, in that one short but rapid
sentence, you have taught me to understand your progress, _from shyness
to familiarity, from familiarity to kindness, from kindness to love, all
powerful, all potent_. Oh! be that love happy in its continuance, as at
its commencement! Be it the pure garb of your Clement's soul, upon which
vice shall leave no spot nor wrinkle! Be it, as you say, That _your
hearts, your affections, your principles are the same_; and I would
trust this lover amidst allurements such as virtue held seldom rejected,
had seldom turned from without contamination.
Your uncle, my Sibella, I perceive, intended you for your lover, and
your lover for you. His project, then, was to place a second Adam and
Eve in the garden of Eden. Well, Sibella, innocence remains with you.
Your Eden will yet bloom; for, trust me, innocence and happiness cannot
long be separated.
Why will that uncle of your's so strenuously uphold his mysterious
reserve and silence? I long to ask him a million of questions; and he
knows that I do, and he wishes that I should. It is not because he is
altogether convinced of the wisdom and utility of his plans, that he
does plan; it is, that he will oppose himself to general customs and
general experience. It is singularity and not perfection that he is in
search of; and, since experience formerly taught him, that even the
renowned name of Valmont might mix undistinguished with a herd of less
illustrious names, he now bravely resolves to enforce the wonder of his
compeers, if he cannot claim their reverence.
Perhaps, with the flattering promises of success, he sometimes soothes
the rancour of his solitude. And occasionally, indeed, his existence is
remembered, and his whimsies are made the subject of ridicule, contempt,
and laughter; but some novel circumstance, such as the gay Mrs.
Ashburn's visit to his gloomy retirement, must call them into this
remembrance, or the name of Mr. Valmont would rest as undisturbed as
does, in every memory but his own, the deeds of his forefathers.
It is to my mother's excursion to Valmont castle, that I owe the
felicity of calling you my friend, it is to her escape from thence, as
she herself terms it, that I owe my knowledge of Mr. Valmont's history.
Surrounded, on her arrival at the house of Sir Thomas Barlowe, by a
crowd of visitors, as gay, profuse, and dissipated as herself, she
hastens to communicate her joy at the agreeable change, and to inveigh
against the morose Mr. Valmont and his insipid wife. A conversation
ensued of some length for such a subject, during which I discovered that
two of the party, the Earl of Ulson and Colonel Ridson were once the
intimate companions of Mr. Valmont. The former of these gentlemen
appeared eager to place his defects in the strongest point of view;
while the latter, with less zeal, to be sure, but with a sweetness of
temper infinitely endearing, was willing to smooth the rugged parts of
Mr. Valmont's character, and to place a vice behind the glare of a
virtue. By setting aside, to the best of my judgment, the Earl's
exaggerations, and making also some allowance for the palliative temper
of Colonel Ridson, I had succeeded in learning as much of Mr. Valmont's
history as enables me to form some, and I believe no inaccurate estimate
of his worth, abilities, and character.
Your grandfather, Sibella, a being quite as eccentric tho' less
whimsical than your uncle, lived in the castle you now inhabit. Nor
would he, of his own free will, have quitted that castle for heaven
itself. Every stone of the building that had kept its station in times
of turbulence and discord against the attack of an enemy was to him an
idol. If he was thoughtful, it was in recalling the great deeds of his
ancestors; if he was talkative, it was on the same theme; if he had
wishes, they were that he had lived in those glorious days when fighting
well was the most eminent of virtues, and a strong fortified castle and
obedient vassals the most valuable of possessions.
As is the established practice in families of such renown and dignity,
as that to which you, my friend, appertain, the first born son of your
grandfather was the only hope, the only joy, the only object of the
careful solitude of his anxious parents; while your father, coming into
the world two years after his brother, was adored, flattered and
spoiled by no creature but his nurse. Your uncle, I understand, received
a stately kind of education within the castle walls; and your father,
happier because of less consequence, passed his early years with other
young men of fashion at school and at college.
Mr. Valmont was not a whit behind his father in his veneration for high
birth, but he could not boast so unqualified a love of fruits of armour;
nor did he think that civil war was the only time when a man could
gather honours worthy of a distinguished name. No sooner was your uncle
emancipated from the fetters of his minority, than he resolved to repair
to court, where he expected to find only his equals, and those equals
alive to and exact in the observance of all that haughty decorum, which
Mr. Valmont deemed indispensably necessary to the well being of social
institutions. Poor man! he feels himself lost in the motley multitude,
sees his high-born pretensions to notice and deference pushed aside by
individuals obscure in their origin, but renowned for artful intrigues,
for bold perseverance, and dazzling success! Shocked at the
contaminating mixture, he had fled back with precipitancy to his castle,
but love detained him, for he had made an offering of his heart to a
woman of rank and fashion. Nothing could be more unfortunate than this
passion. Nothing further from congeniality than the minds and manners of
Lady Margaret B---- and Mr. Valmont: he, just risen, as it were, from
the tomb of his progenitors, loaded with the punctilio of the last age,
recoiling from the salute of every man who could not boast an
unblemished pedigree, and lastly, and most worthily, possessing refined
ideas of female delicacy, of honourable love, and of unchanging
fidelity; and she, on the contrary, a graceful coquette, without an atom
of real tenderness in her heart, and valuing her rank merely as it gave
her opportunities of extending her conquest. Lady Margaret B---- was
highly diverted with Mr. Valmont's formalities; and, in spite of the
torture her dissipated coquettish manners inflicted on him, she had
sufficient power to make him the most ardent of her lovers. In fine, she
rejected him, laughed at him, despised him.
I could not hear this anecdote, nor can I repeat it, without a sensation
of pain, so strongly do I enter into the irritable feelings of your
uncle, when, hitherto accustomed only to receive homage and obedience,
he is at once foiled in his ambition by low born courtiers, and betrayed
in his love by a high born jilt.
Mr. Valmont consulted no other guide than his passions; and instantly
drew an angry and false picture of mankind. With such people as I have
spoken of he could not associate; for their vices he abhorred; but his
mind had not fortitude enough, had not comprehension enough, to cast
aside his own prejudices; and, instead of attempting to reform mankind,
he retires to rail at them; and carries with him the pride, selfishness,
and love of power, in which all the vices of society originate.
Wrapped in the impenetrable selfishness of high birth, Mr. Valmont
denies the possibility of eminent virtue existing without rank. Who
shall presume to arraign his principles, to sit in judgment upon his
actions, to teach him his duty? I stand, cries Mr. Valmont, within the
sacred verge of nobility! Look on that coat of arms! I derive from the
Normans! Wisdom in rags--keep off!
True: his ancestors conquered, that he should be wise!--Oh, cede to him
the palm! Bind his brows with the laurel!
After a few months retirement, Mr. Valmont ventured once more into the
heterogeneous multitude, in search of a wife: for, I suspect he found
himself as ill qualified for solitude as society. Beside, he had formed
the virtuous project of instructing a new race, to put the old world out
of countenance.