defects and singularities of the two attendants whom my uncle assigned
me. Andrew, almost inflexible in silence, attempts (when I put him to
the trial) to explain himself by signs. While his daughter possesses
not, that I could ever discover, in the smallest degree the faculty of
hearing. Andrew often looks on me with affection; but Margaret, who has
a most repulsive countenance and demeanour, appears, even while I
endeavour to conciliate her by kind looks, to be scarcely conscious that
I am in existence. With such companions intercourse is rigorously
excluded. In cases of peculiar uncertainty, I sometimes venture to apply
to Andrew, as I did on the morning after I had seen the beautiful
edifice in the wood path completed. Andrew said, 'Tis a tomb.'
Shortly after, I called at Mrs. Valmont's door to inquire of her health,
for she is now recovering slowly from a severe indisposition. Very
unusually, she desired I might be admitted. I stood while I spoke to
her, for the wood was at liberty, and I was impatient to be gone. The
surprise of Andrew's concise information was new in my mind, and I began
to describe the structure in the wood path. I perceived Mrs. Valmont's
attendant directing strange looks and gestures to me, and I paused to
ask her meaning. She positively denied the circumstance, and I
proceeded. When I mentioned the name of _tomb_, Mrs. Valmont started
forward on the couch where she sat. 'Raised a tomb!' cried she. 'For
whom?' And then, again falling back in seeming agony, she added without
waiting for my reply, 'Yes, I know it well, he has opened a tomb for
me.'
'For you, madam?' I said, 'you are not yet dead.'
'Barbarian!' exclaimed Mrs. Valmont, looking fiercely on me, 'not yet
dead!--Insolent!--Be gone, I shall be dead but too soon. Be gone, I say,
the very sight of any of your hated infidel race destroys me.'
I wished to understand how Mrs. Valmont's anger and agitations were thus
excited, for she began to utter strange assertions, that my uncle
intended to murder her, and that he had made me his instrument. She
groaned and wept. One of her attendants urged me to withdraw; and I
complied. From thence, I visited the tomb. Again I admired its structure
and its situation; but I could not devise why a receptacle for the dead
should be reared amidst the living.
At this time Mr. Valmont himself, followed by his steward and by Andrew,
came to inspect the tomb. Methought he looked pleased, when he saw me
resting upon it. He viewed it round and round, walked to the foot of the
rock, and contemplated it at that distance. Mr. Ross did the same, but
Andrew stood still some yards on the other side. My uncle spoke thus at
intervals.
'No doubt strange reports will circulate, throughout the neighbourhood,
of this monument.'
'The vulgar fools, who lend so ready a belief to the ridiculous tales of
that Ruin, will now have another hinge on which to turn their
credulity.'
'Sibella, take again the attitude I saw you in when I entered the wood.
There, child; keep that posture a short time, your figure improves the
scene.'
'Does the monument excite much wonder, Ross?'
'It does indeed, Sir,' the steward replied. 'They wonder at the expence,
they wonder more at the object; and, still more than that, they wonder
at the unconsecrated ground.'
'And my impiety is, I imagine, the topic of the country.' The steward
remained silent. 'Andrew remember my orders, and repeat them to your
fellows: I will have no idle tales fabricated in the servant's hall.'
'What are the opinions of other men, concerning holy and unholy, to me?
It belongs to men of rank to spurn the prejudices of the multitude.'
Shortly after, my uncle addressed himself to me.
'A strange message, child, has been sent me from Mrs. Valmont, which you
it seems have caused. What have you been saying to her?'
I repeated the conversation. My uncle smiled in scorn.
'Contemptible folly!' said he, 'The vicinity of a tomb becomes a mortal
disease. It is hard to judge whether the understanding or the frame of
such animals is of the weaker texture. Child, you have killed your aunt,
by reminding her that she may one day happen to be buried.'
I was startled with the phrase of, _I had killed my aunt_; and I began
eagerly to speak. My uncle interrupted me with saying:
'There is no real harm done, child. These nervous affections are
tremendous in representation, but trifling in reality. You will,
however, do well to remember, that I do not approve of your frequenting
Mrs. Valmont's apartments.'
My uncle then left me, not quite satisfied with myself nor with his
representation of Mrs. Valmont's case. Yet, on a careful review of the
past, I did not feel that my words, my manner, or my information could
justly tend to produce uneasiness either to her or me. Yet Mrs. Valmont
persists in holding me culpable; and has twice rejected the messages I
have sent by Andrew.
Still, Caroline, I do not understand why my uncle should have expended
money to rear a marble tomb, when any spot of waste ground might serve
for the receptacle of a lifeless body; nor can I understand how Mrs.
Valmont is injured by the knowledge of the circumstance. My uncle's
conversation with Mr. Ross is for the most part beyond my comprehension.
I observe too, that every part of the family, more carefully even than
before, now shun the wood. Last night, when Nina and I had held our
evening converse at the oak, till the moon shone at her height, Andrew
came in search of me; he stood at an unusual distance; and, having
beckoned me to return, he with a soft quick step, hastened before me to
the castle.
Thus, dearest Caroline, I pass from the weight of a tedious uniformity,
to view and wonder at the mysterious actions of mysterious people. Oh,
speak to me then, my friend. You I can understand. You I love, admire,
revere. Speak to me often, Caroline. Bring the varieties of your life
before me. Awaken my feelings with your's, and let my judgment
strengthen in your experience.
SIBELLA VALMONT
LETTER VII
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
SIBELLA VALMONT
My dearest Sibella,
To all that I yet know of you, I give unmixed praise. Your own
rectitude, your own discernment, and your reliance on my sincerity,
satisfies you of this truth; and I am assured that I have your sanction
when I speak less of yourself than of frailer mortals.
On casting my eye over the foregoing lines, I smile to perceive that I
felt as if it were necessary to apologize for the strong propensity I
have to begin this letter as I concluded my last, namely, with Mr.
Murden; whom, in the moments of my best opinion, I cannot wholly admire,
nor, at the worst of times, can I altogether condemn.
As he is, then, or as I think he is, take him. Colonel Ridson, you know,
said Mr. Murden was handsome. So say I. At times, divinely handsome; but
only at times. His figure, it is true, never loses its symmetry and
grace; but his features, strongly influenced by their governing power
the mind, vary from beauty to deformity; that is, deformity of
expression. What would Lady Mary, Lady Laura, or the two Miss
Winderhams, who are lately added to our party, say to hear me connect
the ideas of Murden and deformity? Yet in their hearing, incurring the
terrible certainty of being arraigned in their judgments for want of
taste, of being charged with prudery, affectation, and I know not what
besides, I shall dare repeat, that I have looked on Murden, and looked
from him again, because he appeared deformed and disgusting. The
libertine is ever deformed; the flatterer is ever disgusting.
His daily practice in this house justifies me in bestowing on him the
latter epithet. I own, and I rejoice to own, that of the justice of the
former I have my doubts. Vain he is. That he is gratified by,
encourages, even stimulates the attention of fools and coquettes, I
cannot deny; and when I view him indulging a weakness so contemptible,
so dangerous, I am almost ready to believe he may be any thing that is
vicious; and that, having taken vanity and flattery for his guides, he
may attain to the horrid perfection of a successful debauchee.
Yet, what man, plunged in the whirlpool of debauchery, ever retained
delicacy of sentiment and pungency of feeling? I think Murden possesses
both. What man of debased inclinations would preserve that perpetual
delicacy, that happy medium between neglect and encouragement, by which
Murden regulates his conduct to Lady Laura Bowden? Lady Laura,
celebrated as a wit and beauty, betrays to every observer her passion
for Mr. Murden. I dreaded, on such an occasion, to see a vain young man,
insolent in pity, or barbarous in neglect; but Lady Laura has not a
particle more or less of his admiration, his flattery, and his services
than any other lady of the circle.
Ah, I feel already that my description languishes. The Murden before me
is a being of more vigour and more interest than the Murden on my paper.
I have failed in discriminating the contradictory parts of his
character; and I give up description; leaving those circumstances I may,
on further acquaintance, select from the round of his actions to speak
for him.
These insatiable devourers of amusement tear me from my pen. The
morning, which in my mother's house in town I possessed uncontrouled, is
no longer my own. The days are wasted in the execution of projects that
promise much and perform nothing; and I made a whimsical attempt the
other day, to convince my good friends here that we ought at least to be
rational one half of one's time, if we would find any pleasure in being
foolish the other half. But while I am complaining to you, Sibella, the
party are perhaps complaining of me. Adieu for a short time. I go to
taste _simplicity_. Not the simplicity of a golden age; but the
simplicity of gold and tinsel. On the banks of a charming piece of water
we fish, under a silken awning. Horns, clarionets, and bassoons are
stationed in a neighbouring grove, with their sweet concords
occasionally to soothe our fatigues. Ices, the choicest fruits, and
other delicate preparations for the refreshment of the palate are at
hand; and, notwithstanding all this costly care, it is very possible we
shall pass a listless morning, return without any increase of appetite,
or animal spirits, and be mighty ready to bestow loud commendations on
the pleasures of a morning, from which we derive no other secret
satisfaction than the certainty of its being at an end.
A summons! The carriages are at the door. You understand, I hope, that
this is a _rural_ expedition therefore a coach and a chariot attends,
Mr. Murden drives one phaeton, Colonel Ridson another, and Mrs. Ashburn,
who has arisen from the voluptuous luxury of the palanquin, and eight
slaves, to the more active triumph of a high seat, reins, and long whip,
will drive Lady Laura Bowden in her curricle.
* * * * *
It would be vain for me to attempt to sleep, for I endure at present a
very considerable portion, though from a different cause, of those
restless feelings which so often, my Sibella, urge you from your bed.
I believe I shall not go to bed this night, yet I have not to tell you,
that I am roused to this wakefulness by events strikingly removed from
the ordinary course of our lives. On the contrary, the accidents of the
day, though new in their form, are by no means of an uncommon character.
It is, alas, no novelty for some people to be inconsistent, and for
others to imagine that rank and riches, as it places them beyond the
reach of the common misfortunes of life, gives them full privilege to
censure the weak and contemn the unfortunate. I hope benevolence is not
a novelty. I would not subtract from the due praise of any individual;
but I feel it as it were a tacit reproach upon human nature, or rather
upon human manners, when we loudly vaunt the benevolent actions of any
single man. I love the man, be he whom he may, who will perform the
offices of a brother to the weakest, the most despised of his fellow
creatures; but I lament that the example should be so unusual; and, when
seen, rather vaunted than valued; and speedily forgotten.
I have no reason to accuse myself of a want of penetration. Our morning
was any thing but pleasant. The air from the water chilled Sir Thomas.
Lady Barlowe could find no scope amidst the very small talk for one
single repartee. The Earl of Ulson had the tooth-ache. The Countess
detests the music of wind instruments; and my mother found out that she
hated fishing. The young ladies lost their spirits and temper, by losing
Mr. Murden, whose absence occurred in such a way as put me out of
temper, and out of spirits also.
As we were on the road to the destined spot of diversion, a pretty
country girl on a horse loaded with paniers drew up to the hedge-side,
while the cavalcade passed her. I was in Mr. Murden's phaeton; and we
were the last carriage but one. The girl, in making her awkward
obeisance to the company, no sooner lifted her eyes to Mr. Murden, than
she blushed deeper than scarlet. It was a blush of such deep shame, of
such anguish, that I felt a sudden pain like a shock of electricity. The
time of passing was so instantaneous, that I could not see what effect
the blush had at the moment on Murden's countenance; but when I did look
on him, I found him lost in thought, from which he presently started, to
gaze back upon the girl, while she continued in sight. It was palpably
obvious, that in this incident Murden had a concern more powerful than
any interest he took in the party, for he remained dispirited and
absent; and, after refusing to angle, and walking a few turns to and fro
on the banks of the water, he said he should join us again before we
returned to dinner, mounted his servant's horse, and disappeared. Thus
were we left without one satisfied person of the party, except the
ever-satisfied Colonel Ridson, and the self-satisfied Lord Bowden. We
saw no more of Mr. Murden, till late in the afternoon.
I must now, my dear Sibella, call your attention to the history of an
unfortunate woman, who, in occupying the greatest part of this
afternoon, gave scope to the display of that hard-heartedness, and that
benevolence to which I alluded in a former passage of this letter.
When Sir Thomas Barlowe left the East Indies, he retained in his service
a young Creole as secretary. At that time, the youth, who was sanguine
enough, and young enough to believe that his situation would increase in
gain, and be permanent in favour, wrote to his mother, whom he
contributed to support, saying it was his wish she should come to
England. He expected she would wait for a remittance from him to pay her
passage; but the mother, impatient to join her only child, sold her
little property, borrowed on her son's credit the remainder of the money
for her passage, and set sail from Bengal much about the time that her
son, with whom the climate had disagreed, and whom Sir Thomas had
discharged, set sail from England.
Arrived in London, she hastens to Sir Thomas Barlowe's house, to meet
this beloved son. The family are in the country; the porter surlily
assures her that her son is gone. She will not believe him; demands the
name of Sir Thomas Barlowe's country seat; returns to her lodging with
trembling limbs and an aching heart; writes a letter to Barlowe Hall,
which probably was never sent; and falls ill of an ague and fever. Eight
weeks the unhappy woman languished in the extreme of misery and disease;
receiving no tidings from her son, having no friend, no acquaintance,
either to pity or relieve her. Her money all spent, her clothes almost
all sold, she availed herself of a small recruit of strength, and
begged her way, half naked, to Sir Thomas Barlowe's seat, kept alive, no
doubt, by the feeble hope that she should yet find her son.
At Barlowe Hall, the tidings of her son's departure was confirmed.
Despair gave her strength. In spite of the servants' opposition, she
forced her way into the dining parlour, ere the dessert was yet removed.
She designed to have thrown herself at the feet of Sir Thomas; but on
whom did her eye first fix? on no other than Mrs. Ashburn, whom, in her
own land, in her happiest days, she had served in the capacity of
housekeeper. Had the apartment held the first potentates of the earth, I
firmly believe they would have been as so many straws in the poor
woman's way when she rushed forward to Mrs. Ashburn. She clasped her
knees, kissed her hands, her gown, the very chair on which she sat, and
was so wild and extravagant in her joy, that I do not wonder at the
result. I only wonder that her intellects survived.
It was in vain the company expressed their disgust at so miserable an
object; in vain my mother and Sir Thomas commanded her to rise and
withdraw. She would, in her imperfect language, curse the climate of
Britain. She would intreat them to send her back to her own country. She
would relate the history of her griefs, till combined recollections, or
perhaps the frigid countenances of those around her, wrought a
passionate flood of tears; and she then quietly suffered the footman to
conduct her from the room.
The rigid Countess of Ulson instantly began a severe investigation of
the folly of the young Indian, who sent so far for his mother, while his
own prosperity was yet wavering and uncertain. Lady Barlowe and the
young ladies appeared disconcerted. The Earl of Ulson had dined in his
own chamber. Colonel Ridson often shifted his seat. Mrs. Ashburn and Sir
Thomas Barlowe gave their assent to the invective of Lady Ulson, adding
at the same time all the shades of imprudence in the mother's
enterprise. They agreed, however, in the necessity of affording her some
relief. Two guineas from Sir Thomas, and two from Mrs. Ashburn was the
_vast_ sum contributed; and, with this four guineas, the servant was
ordered to deliver the following commands: That she should immediately
go back to London, where she might easily find employment for her
support, till her son should know she was in England, and remit money
for her return to India.
Colonel Ridson stole to the door after the servant, and gave into his
hand a benefaction for the widow.
I had only waited the conclusion of the nabob's and my mother's
determination; and I now left them.
The Indian did not, as before, attempt to rush into the parlour; but in
the hall, she wrung her hands, gnashed her teeth, tore her hair,
exclaiming, she must go back, she could not work, she could not live in
a climate that would kill a dog. My remonstrances she could not hear. I
might as well have spoken to the dead.
It was then that Mr. Murden returned home. Astonished at the frantic
agonies of the poor distressed woman, he enquired the cause from the
servants, whom pity had drawn around her. He threw his whip out of his
hand, and coming up to the Indian--yes, Sibella, this _seducer_ perhaps,
this very elegant, fashionable, handsome, and admired Murden immediately
lifted in his arms the poor miserable despised object, from whose touch
others had revolted, carried her into an apartment, and seated her by
himself on a sopha, still holding his arm round her to prevent her
relapsing into those violent excesses.
'You shall go back,' cried Murden. 'I swear by the God that made me, you
shall go back to-morrow, to-day, this very hour, if you will but be
calm.'
She looked on him steadily--it was such a look, Sibella!
'See,' said Murden, 'Miss Ashburn says, you shall go back. You know Miss
Ashburn? Ay, and you love her too. I know you do.'
In a fainting voice, she said,--'Then I shall die with my poor Joseph at
last.'
Her head fell upon Murden's breast; and he suffered it to remain there,
till he found she had become insensible; he then requested the
housekeeper to see a bed prepared for her; and, by his kind speeches and
charming tones, he rendered every servant as eager to do the poor woman
service as he himself had been.
All this time, I forgot the country girl.
While I attended the Indian to her bed, Mr. Murden visited the drawing
room and when I also went thither, I found Murden's face in a glow. He
was debating with his uncle on the danger that might befal his sick
patient, by removing her from Barlowe Hall to the next village, and the
danger Sir Thomas might incur by allowing her to remain where she was.
The nabob recollected she had spoken of her fever in London; and,
already, he saw himself in the utmost danger, and half his family dead
or dying of the mortal disease. Any sum of money, any thing in his house
that could tend to her accommodation she might have, so that she was but
removed. He absolutely shook with apprehension; and Murden was at length
compelled to yield the point. A post chaise was accordingly got ready;
two maids went in it with her, to support her, for successive faintings
had reduced her to the weakness of an infant. Murden, although it was a
rainy evening, walked by the side of the chaise to the village, to see
that she was there taken proper care of.
In the drawing room, the interval between this arrangement and the time
of Murden's return from the village was passed in a most irksome state.
The weather would not allow of walking, or riding. No casual visitors
arrived. Every common topic of conversation languished; and each
individual dreaded lest some other of the party should begin to speak of
the Indian, whom they were one and all laboriously urgent to forget. The
entrance of tea and coffee was an immense relief. Their cups were
received with unusual complacency, and their drooping spirits revived.
The card-tables were just arranged, when Murden entered. Good God, what
a charm was diffused over his countenance! He was pale with fatigue, and
want of food; his linen soiled; and his hair disordered with the wind
and rain; but there was such a sweetness in his eyes, that no heart
could resist it. Every one pronounced his name at once.
'Dear Murden!' breathed Lady Laura in the melting voice of love: then,
covered with confusion, she added, 'Dear _Mr._ Murden, you will kill
yourself!' At the same time, she made an involuntary motion for him to
seat himself between her and her sister. He did so, his heart was open
to the reception of all tenderness. He could not reject Lady Laura's
tone. He took her hand. I saw him press it. He said something low and
soft, and her cheeks were instantly suffused with a burning colour.
_Ah that country girl!_ thought I. I could not help sighing for her. I
sighed too for Murden. 'Would,' said I to myself, 'that he could suffer
me to possess his confidence, would suffer me to advise, exhort, and
intreat him to be worthy of himself!'
Perhaps, while these and other such reflections occupied my mind, my
eyes were fixed upon Murden, for suddenly I perceived that his cheek
took a stronger glow than even Lady Laura's; and he sprang up from his
seat.
'James, bring me some biscuits and a jelly,' said he carelessly; 'Egad!
I believe I have not dined to-day.'
This was enough to rouse Sir Thomas.
'There now!' cried the nabob.
'Was ever any thing like it? You have had no dinner! And here you are
all this time in wet clothes! Lord, have mercy upon me! Call your
valet!' and he began to ring the bell furiously. 'I am sure, Arthur, you
will be ill. You will have a fever. You will certainly kill yourself, as
Lady Laura says.'
I had too much compassion to look at Lady Laura; and so had Murden, for
he crossed the other side of the room, and immediately withdrew.
As Murden shut one door, a servant opened another, and gave into my
hands your last dear letter. I retired to my own chamber to read it.
You are a glorious girl, Sibella, you elevate, you excite me! You awaken
my mind to more and more love of those fervid qualities that shine so
eminent in you. Had your Bonneville lived--Well, fear not my love. The
day of your liberty will come. There are perhaps other Bonnevilles in
the world, who will like him delight to give you that instruction for
which your mind pants. Already, you possess energy, fortitude, and
feeling; and those qualities, now kept alive and fostered by your love,
may one day be called into action by objects of higher magnitude, of far
higher value, (forgive me) than love, though it were the love of a
Sibella.
I stood at my window to read your letter. The rain and wind had ceased;
there was not even breeze enough to shake away the drops that yet rested
upon the leaves. The dim, grey, melancholy remains of day, just afforded
sufficient light to read by; and, when I had finished your letter, I
threw up the sash and leaned out, thinking of you, my Sibella, in my
imagination seeing you, seeing your fawn, your wood, your oak, your
black angry looking rock, your solemn ruin, your clumps of yew trees,
your white marble tomb. And these objects engrossed my whole attention,
while those which surrounded me became hid in darkness.
Footsteps passed underneath my window through a path leading to the
stables.