help mate. He must have a wife, whose pedigree his future sons might
place beside his own; and he must have one, of a temperament and
character opposite to that of lady Margaret B----; and his good stars,
his ill stars, or whatever else you please, led him to the feet of Mrs.
Valmont.
It is true, your aunt was neither as coquettish nor had she the
sprightly wit nor the mischievous gaiety of lady Margaret, but she loved
crowds, detested solitude, and was a votary of dissipation; to convince
her how much he had studied her inclinations, and how much he meant to
gratify them, no sooner was Mr. Valmont in possession of his bride then
he snatched her from the scenes where her existence was alone valuable
to her, and buried her amidst obscurity and horror at Valmont castle.
What is the consequence? she had no mental accomplishments in reserve
for their mutual benefit and delight; nor had he mind enough to steal
fire from heaven and animate with life the marble. From the struggle of
tempers, and the warfare of words, she droops into an hypocondriac; he
degenerates into a cynic, proud of himself alone.
Among the disappointments produced by this marriage, the want of
children was the most offensive to Mr. Valmont. Your father, who had
pursued a course of life quite different from his brother, tasting all
the excesses of dissipation; died; and, very improperly in my opinion,
left you to the guardianship of your uncle. That Mr. Valmont should
adopt a son from the lowly condition of a cottager's child, has
occasioned much wonder and many surmises; however, as I do not find any
thing material either to you or me in the conjectures, I have listened
to on this occasion, I shall not be at the pains of relating them.
But how comes it to pass, my dearest Sibella, that when your uncle had
the means of gratifying his darling wish in educating two children, and
one of them a female, to whom according to his creed, nothing should be
granted beyond what the instinct of appetite demands, how comes it, I
say, that you possess the comprehensive powers of intellect? from what
sources did you derive that eager desire of knowledge of which I find
you possessed; and how came you to be learned on subjects, which, in the
education of females, are strictly withheld, to make room for trifling
gaudy and useless acomplishments? tell me by what miracle I find you
such as you are, and let me cease to wonder at you, but never let me
cease to love you.
Tell me too, how came you to be dependent on your uncle? Does your
dependence only mean the protection due from him who stands in the place
of a parent to you? I wish to be informed what explanation Mr. Valmont
and yourself affix to the term of dependent, when it is applied to you;
for colonel Ridson talks so familiarly of the fortune you must possess
from your mother, and also the wealth of the Valmont family which he
says is yours by heirship, that I must own I am puzzled. I care little
about your being rich, but is seems unnatural and unjust to have you a
dependent on your haughty uncle.
Ah, my dear Sibella, how often in a day do I feast my imagination by
allowing it to bear me back to you; and yet perhaps, our separation
gives a spur, a stimulus to our friendship. I am not convinced, indeed,
but that temporary separations are even useful between lovers; and that
Mr. Valmont may have acted rather wisely than otherwise, in parting you
and your Clement for a season. Why he should bid you remember him only
as a brother, is really too far plunged into obscurity for me to
discover.
Do not, however, suppose for an instant that my affection for you would
decay were I at liberty to enjoy your society as I wish; on the
contrary, I am persuaded that every hour I should pass with you would
add something to my improvement, and render us more valuable to each
other. My expression arose from my being at that moment in idea a
partner of your seclusion, and feeling that I should want in the same
situation that energy and activity which is the support of your
solitude. I am fond of society; and, indeed, I find myself most excited
when I have most opportunities of observing the various characters and
pursuits of those around me. Gladly would I possess the power of
selecting my society. From that happy privilege I am debarred. But I
seldom make one of a circle in which I do not find some novelty of
character, and something either of excellence or absurdity from which I
may draw improvement.
Yet, a two month's visit at the villa of Sir Thomas Barlowe is rather a
hard trial of my patience; and, unless we are enlivened by new visitors,
I fear the company here will afford me but a trifling harvest of
observation. I shall soon be glad to turn from them to my own resources;
and fly, even oftener than I now do, to the ever vivifying remembrance
of my Sibella.
Sir Thomas Barlowe has risen from some very obscure station to the
wealth and dignity of a nabob. He has risen too, I greatly fear, by the
same depredating practices which the unfortunate natives of India seem
destined constantly to suffer from those who perfidiously call
themselves the protectors of the country. Sir Thomas Barlowe's riches
have become his punishment. Each morning, his fears awaken with his
faculties, lest that day should bring tidings of the dreaded scrutiny;
and, when evening arrives, and he struggles to yield himself to mirth
and wine amidst the circle he has assiduously gathered round him, a
word, a look, or the most remote hint or allusion gives his watchful
terrors an alarm. A sudden turn of his head, perchance, discovers his
shadow on the wall. Legions of threatening phantoms then crowd upon his
apprehension; and the evening, yet more miserable than the day,
concludes with an opiate, administered to lull the feeble body into
lethargy, and hush the perturbed conscience into silence.
And my mother can look on this existing fact with indifference, while I
shudder. Those enormous sums of wealth she lavishes away, that cluster
of pearls she triumphantly places in her hair, those diamonds heaped
into different ornaments, how were they obtained? Thousands
perhaps----Oh, Sibella! I have laid aside my ornaments! A dress plain as
your's supersedes them.
Lady Barlowe is a composition of a very curious kind. She is about forty
years younger than her husband, is tolerably pretty, and has a showy
talent of repartee that she mistakes for a sublime genius; and her
inclinations are perpetually at warfare, without being able to decide
whether she shall be most renowned as a wit or a beauty. She is
extravagantly fond of admiration, which she formerly enjoyed
unlimitedly, being the head toast of a small county town, till she
became the wife of a nabob. Prosperity has not increased her happiness;
for in the great and gay world she has found rivals of such magnitude
that malice and envy have strung up within that bosom which till now
owned no inmate but vanity.
These are our host and hostess. The first in precedency among the
visitors ranks the Earl of Ulson: an antiquated gallant, who, in public,
affects not to feel the approaches of age; and, in private, broods over
the consciousness of its effects till he sickens with ill nature. The
countess of Ulson hates her husband; nor has she over much charity and
good-will towards other men. She talks largely, indeed, of her piety,
and the strict performance of her manifold duties.
This amiable pair are attended by their son and two daughters. Lord
Bowden is so perfectly satisfied within himself, that, if you will take
his word for it, there is not a more amiable and accomplished young man
in England. His eldest sister, lady Mary Bowden claims no praise beyond
what is justly due to the complacency of her temper; she is at once too
giddy and too indolent to aim at meriting a more enlarged praise; she
loves dress, company, cards, and scandal; and indulges herself in the
use of the latter as a mere matter of course, without entertaining the
smallest particle of ill-will towards the very persons she helps to
vilify. I have endeavoured to convince lady Mary of the folly of this
practice, and she acknowledges, that what I say appears very much to the
purpose, but then how can she cease to do what every body does.
All the beauty that exact regularity of feature, and transparency of
complexion can bestow, is in the possession of the Earl of Ulson's
youngest daughter, lady Laura Bowden. Beyond this description, I hardly
know what to say of her. I can perceive she entertains a very hearty
contempt for her sister; and perhaps, she may hold me in as little
estimation; but a woman so perfectly well bred as lady Laura does not
display such sentiments if she entertains them, unless some species of
rivalship should unfortunately call her passions into action. I do not
think her either witty or wise, yet I have been told she bears the
reputation of the former, and is poet enough occasionally to pen a rebus
or an acrostic. It may be so. I have not been favoured with her
confidence. A delicate languor pervades her manners, and this is
generally honoured with the name of sensibility. I am apt to call it
affectation; for the sensibility that I understand and admire, is
extreme only in proportion to the greatness of the occasion; it does not
waste itself in vapours, nor is it ever on the watch for wasps and
spiders. Colonel Ridson assures me that Lady Laura Bowden is admired by
the whole world, and that he must be the happiest of men on whom her
ladyship bestows a preference.
Colonel Ridson loves his white teeth, and his epaulet. He likes every
body, praises every body, is attentive to every body; lives without
attachment; and will probably die in the same torpid state, without ever
knowing felicity, or ordinary misfortune.
The colonel hitherto has been the only unmarried man amongst us, except
Lord Bowden, who really is so assiduous in remembering his own
recommendations that no one else finds it necessary to remember him or
them at all.
But we are now to be enlivened. It seems we damsels are to be excited to
call forth our charms, for the conquest of a youth of no common value,
as his fame goes here. Sir Thomas Barlowe's nephew, Mr. Murden, arrived
at the villa this very day.
I know not why I should be particularly selected from the party, by Sir
Thomas Barlowe, to listen to his encomiums on this nephew. From the most
insignificant occurrences, the Baronet has constantly occasion to
say--'Ha! Ha! Miss Ashburn, if my nephew Arthur was but come!' If I
praised a dish of fruit at table, the nabob's nephew Arthur had
certainly done the same thing. Let me speak of walking or riding, let me
complain of hail, rain or sunshine, Arthur was still my promised
chaperon, the future knight-errant of all my grievances.
'Tell me something,' said I one day to Colonel Ridson, 'of this Mr.
Murden, this hope of the family.'
'He is very handsome,' replied the Colonel.
'But is he good?'
'Assuredly.'
'And amiable?'
'Infinitely!'
'And wise?'
'To a miracle, madam,' replied the Colonel.
Good! amiable! wise!--Who could desire more?
Lady Mary Bowden stood beside me one afternoon, while the baronet was
reminding me of his dear Arthur. 'Sir Thomas I believe intends,' said I
to her, 'that I shall be in love by anticipation. You know Mr. Murden.
What is he?'
'Oh!' cried Lady Mary, lifting up her right hand, to enforce the spirit
of her emphasis, 'he is the most abominable rake in the universe!'
I absolutely started. 'It is possible, Lady Mary, you should mean what
you say?' I asked after a moment's pause. 'Yes! certainly!' replied her
ladyship, quite gaily; 'every body knows of hundreds with whom he has
been a very happy man.'
'I do not want,' said I, 'to hear what every body says. I want, Lady
Mary, to know your own sincere opinion of Mr. Murden. If you have
already told me a fact, my situation to be sure will oblige me to be
sometimes in his company; but, in that case, there exists not a reptile,
however noxious or despicable, from whom I should shrink with more
abhorrence than from this boasted nephew of the nabob.'
'Good God!' cried Lady Mary: 'Why! what did I say? I protest I have
forgotten, already. I am sure I know no harm in the world of Mr.
Murden.'
'Did not you tell me he was an abominable rake?'
'They say so,' replied Lady Mary. 'He certainly is very engaging. He
admires fine women. But I don't know whether he has ever made serious
addresses to any one. Miss Ashburn, I'll tell you a secret.'
'You had better not. I don't keep secrets.'
'Oh, all the world knows it, already. Lady Laura is quite fond of
Murden. You would have laughed to have seen her last winter, as I did,
plunged over head and ears in sentiment and sensibility. Well, I do hate
affectation.'
'And you do love good nature.'
'So I do,' said she smiling; 'and I hope with all my heart that my poor
sister may now secure her conquest, unless indeed, Miss Ashburn, it
should interfere with you.'
Neither the baronet's hints, the colonel's all good, all wise, nor the
motley dubious character given by Lady Mary Bowden of Mr. Murden, would
have tempted me to devote thus much of my paper to him. I have other
inducements. I have heard that the domestics of Barlowe Hall anxiously
expected the day of his coming. A gardener, who has been discharged for
no worse fault, I believe, than his being too old, assures himself, that
the prosperity of him and his family will be restored when Mr. Murden
arrives. I have heard also, that the neighbouring cottagers bless him.
Such a man must have worth. Agnes, who is zealous to tell me all the
good she can of any one, has related several anecdotes of Mr. Murden,
from which I learn, that he possesses sympathy and benevolence. I cannot
tell how such qualities can exist in the mind of a man who is, either
in principle or practice, a libertine. Yet, Agnes also had been told
that Mr. Murden was a libertine. I bade her enquire more; and she could
hear of no particular instances wherein the peace of individuals or
families had been injured by him. Still those with whom Agnes conversed,
bestowed on him this hateful title. I fear the reproach may belong to
him. Young men are frequently carried into these excesses, from the
pernicious effect of example, sometimes from vanity, and from a variety
of other causes, all which tend to one uniform effect, to destroy the
understanding, deprave the heart, corrupt the disposition, and render
loathsome and detestable a being that might have lived an honour and a
blessing to his species. If Mr. Murden is indeed devoted to this error,
farewel to his benevolent virtues, to his sense of justice; and farewel
to the pleasure and instruction I might have gained in the society of a
virtuous man.
I said Mr. Murden was already arrived; but I have not seen him. He paid
his duty to his uncle, in the Baronet's own apartment; and then retired
to dress before he would present himself in the breakfast parlour. Lady
Laura appeared impatient; she was adorned in a new morning dress,
perfectly graceful and becoming. The hour came in which I was to write
to my Sibella; and I would not sacrifice that employment for twenty such
introductions.
Farewel, my friend! Close to your altar of love, raise one of
friendship, and I also will meet you at the oak.
CAROLINE ASHBURN
LETTER VI
FROM SIBELLA VALMONT
TO
CAROLINE ASHBURN
A confused recollection sprang up in my mind when you questioned me
concerning my dependence. On the day of his last departure, my father
caressed me fondly; he held me a long time in his arms; and he shed
tears over me. He spoke, likewise, at intervals; not, perhaps, with any
expectation of being understood by me, but to relieve the weighty
pressure of his thoughts. I well remember that he named my uncle. He had
many papers on a table before him; and I think there was a connection in
his discourse between them and me. I believe he spoke of some
disposition of his fortune; but the time is now remote, and the idea is
indistinct. I cannot cloathe it in expression.
I do not possess a fortune; for my uncle calls me dependent, talks of
obligations I owe to him for the gratification of my wants. He talks of
obligations, who denies me instruction, equality, and my Clement. He
provides me food and raiment. Are there not thousands in the world,
where you and Clement live, who supply such wants by labour? And I too
could labour. Let Mr. Valmont retire to the shelter of his canopy, and
the luxury of down! I can make the tree my shade, and the moss my
pillow.
Mr. Valmont calls himself my father; and _calling_ himself such, he
there rests satisfied. Cold in his temperament, stern from his
education, he imagines kindness would be indulgence, and indulgence
folly. Ever on the watch for faults, the accent of reproof mingles with
his best commendations.
He demands my obedience, too! What obedience? the grateful tribute to
duty, authorised by reason, and sanctioned by the affections? No. Mr.
Valmont, here at least, ceases to be inconsistent. He never enlightened
my understanding, nor conciliated my affections; and he demands only the
obedience of a fettered slave. I am held in the bondage of slavery. And
still may Mr. Valmont's power constrain the forces of this body. But
where, Miss Ashburn, is the tyrant that could ever chain thought, or put
fetters on the fancy?
I charge you, cease to repeat my uncle's useless prohibition, that I
should remember Clement otherwise than as a brother. Let him give his
barrier to the waves, arrest the strong air in its current, but dream
not of placing limits to the love of Clement and Sibella!
Do I weary you with this endless topic? You read the world: I, my own
heart. Imprisoned, during so many years, within the narrow boundary of
this castle and its parks, the same objects eternally before me, I look
with disgust from their perpetual round of succession. Nature herself,
spring, summer, autumn, degenerate into sameness.
Where must I turn me then, but to the resources of my own heart? Love
has enriched it; and friendship will not reject its offerings.
Yes: they are many, my Caroline; various and increasing. Shall my uncle
tell me that my actions are confined to the mechanical operations of the
body, that I am an imbecile creature, but a reptile of more graceful
form, the half finished work of nature, and destitute of the noblest
ornament of humanity? Blind to conviction, grown old in error, he would
degrade me to the subordinate station he describes. He daringly asserts
that I am born to the exercise of no will; to the exercise of no duties
but submission; that wisdom owns me not, knows me not, could not find in
me a resting place.
'Tis false, Caroline! I feel within the vivifying principle of
intellectual life. My expanding faculties are nurtured by the passing
hours! and want but the beams of instruction, to ripen into power and
energy that would steep my present inactive life in forgetfulness.
Bonneville, when shall I cease to love thy memory, to recal thy lessons?
It was thou, Bonneville, who first bade me cherish this stimulating
principle; who called the powers of my mind forth from the chaos,
wherewith Mr. Valmont had enveloped them. Thou, Bonneville, taught me
that I make an unimpaired _one_ of the vast brotherhood of human kind;
that I am a being whose mistakes demand the conviction of reason, but
whose mind ought not to bow down under power and prejudice.
He of whom I speak, Miss Ashburn, was chosen to be Clement's tutor. Can
you conceive the sensations which swell within my breast while I recal
the memory of this friend of my infancy? My friend, ere I lost Clement,
ere I knew you, Caroline. Methinks I hear his voice; I see his gestures.
Again, he enters the wood path. Again, I behold that countenance
beautiful in age, radiant in wisdom.--He speaks. My soul hangs on his
utterance. All my lesser affections fade away.
Ah, no! no! no! Bonneville is gone for ever! Clement is torn from me!
You are interdicted! and I am alone in the wood path!
I hailed him by the name of father. He called me his child. He was
enervated with disease. The chill damps of evening pierced him. The
wintry blast shook his feeble frame. Still, would he endure the damps of
evening, and tremble under the cold blast, rather than Sibella should be
sunk in ignorance and sloth; for her cruel uncle had forbidden her an
entrance into that apartment where Bonneville gave Clement his daily
instruction.
Five days passed away, and Clement had not met his tutor in the library.
Five long evenings, Clement had taken his usual rides with Mr. Valmont,
yet no Bonneville had visited the oak. My mind anticipated the hour of
his approach, and mourned its disappointment. My questions accumulated;
I stored up demand upon demand; I recalled the subject of all our
conversations; I carefully selected for another investigation, those
parts which I had not fully comprehended; I arranged my doubts; and,
perhaps, had never so prepared my mind for improvement, as when I heard
that Bonneville was in bed, ill, dying. I flew to his apartment. Clement
followed me. We saw him die. 'My father! my father!' I cried. 'You will
not leave us! We are your children! Better were it that we should die
with you than be left without you. My father! my father!'
Sobs and tears could not delay the inexorable moment; and my life seemed
to fade from me, when I found that his lips were closed for _ever_.
Would you believe that my uncle----Yes, you would believe, for you know
his haughty sternness,--but no matter, 'tis past, and ought to be
forgotten.
But a few days, and not an eye save mine, wept for the absence of
Bonneville. Clement was satisfied with a new tutor. The new tutor was
wise, good, and kind; for Clement said so; but he strictly obeyed Mr.
Valmont, and Sibella was abandoned of guide, of father.
Death, an object new, hideous, and awfully mysterious was now ever
before me. Multitudes of dark perplexing ideas succeeded each other in
my mind, with a rapidity which doubt and dissatisfaction created. 'Why
is it?' said I to myself, 'and what cause can produce an effect so
overwhelming? Throughout life, the mind invariably rules the functions
of the body. It transports itself from, and returns to its abode at
pleasure; it can look back on the past, or fly forward to the future; it
passes all boundary of place; creates or annihilates; and soars or dives
into other worlds. Yet, in one moment, its wearied tool, the body, had
extinguished these omnipotent powers, and to me quenched its vast
energies for ever.' I wrung my hands in bitterness, and in anguish of
heart; and I called loudly on the name of my lost instructor, for I had
now no instructor.
Caroline, do not expect me to speak again of Bonneville. The tumult, the
perplexity returns; and no solution is at hand to soothe or to cheer me.
* * * * *
Seventeen days, Mr. Valmont, his steward, and their labourers have
occupied my wood.
My uncle himself gave me a command not to appear there during the
day.--I said, 'At night, Sir, I am I hope at liberty.'
'You are, child,' my uncle replied; and I failed not to avail myself of
the privilege. On the rising ground of the broad wood path, and nearly
opposite to my oak, I found the earth dug away, and preparations made,
of which I could not give an explanation; but from the progress of a few
days labour, a small beautiful edifice of white marble gradually rose
under the shade of a clump of yew trees, whose branches were reflected
on the polished surface as in a mirror.
Its structure appeared to me beautiful. I was charmed with it as a novel
object. I rejoiced that it was so near my oak. But I stood utterly at a
loss, when I attempted to form an opinion of its design or utility.