'I do not deem you worthy of enquiry,' I said; 'for you came with
pretences of falsehood and guile, and those are coverings that virtue
ever scorns.'
'Fair philosopher,' he exclaimed, 'teach me how you preserve such
vigour, such animation, where you have neither rivalship to sustain, nor
admiration to excite? Are you secluded by injustice from the world? Or,
do you willingly forsake its delights, to live the life of hopeless
recollection? Say, does the beloved of your soul sleep in that
monument?'
The supposition, Caroline, was for an instant too agonizing; and I
called twice on the name of Clement, with a vehemence that made this man
start. His face flushed with colour; he retreated a few steps, and
looked every way around him.
'No,' said I, as he again approached, 'my beloved lives. Our beings are
incorporate as our wishes. The sepulchre need not open twice. No tyranny
could separate us in death. But who are you,' I added, 'that come hither
to snatch from me the moments I would dedicate to remembrances of past
pleasure, and to promising expectation?'
'Is then your heart so narrowed by love, that it can admit neither
friendship nor benevolence?'
I answered, 'To my friendship you have no claim; for, we are not equal.
You wear a mask. Esteem and unreserved confidence are the only
foundations of friendship.'
As he had done on the former day, he again intercepted my path; for I
was going to quit the wood.
'Stay,' he said, 'and hear me patiently; or I may cast a spell around
you!'
He interrupted the reply I was beginning to make, thus--'I do not bid
you fear me. My power is not terrible, but it is mighty. Tell me, then,'
he added, 'have you no sense of the blessings of intercourse? Have you
never reflected on the selfishness of solitude, on the negative virtues
of the recluse?'
'I find you here,' said I, 'in Mr. Valmont's wood; and I expect,
therefore, that you already know my seclusion is not the effect of my
choice.'
'But from whom, other than yourself, am I to learn why it is the effect
of your submission?'
This was a question, Caroline, which I had never steadily put to myself;
and I stood silent some moments before I found my answer.
I said, 'I am not yet convinced that the time is arrived when my
submission ought to cease.'
'Ah, rather, honestly confess,' he replied, 'that you shun a stern
contention with that power which here detains you. But there are other
means. A secret escape. If you resolve to exert yourself for that
purpose----'
'No,' I said, 'I am not weak enough to descend to artifice. Did I think
it right to go, I should go openly. Then might Mr. Valmont try his
opposing strength. But he would find, I could leap, swim, or dive; and
that moats and walls are feeble barriers to a determined will.'
'Oh, stay, stay in these woods for ever!' he vehemently exclaimed. 'Go
not into the world, where artifice might assail and example corrupt that
noble sincerity. Or if, as I think, your courage, your integrity, are
incorruptible. Oh yet, go not into the world! View not its disgusting
follies! Taste not its chilling disappointments!'
My answer was: 'I am accustomed to listen to inconsistencies. You just
now, spoke of the pleasures and blessings of society.'
As he did not reply, but stood as though he was musing, I thought I
could pass him, which I attempted to do. He immediately knelt on one
knee before me; spread one hand on his bosom, and said--
'You are above my controul. I would not dare profane you, by the single
touch of my finger. But I beseech you, by that firmness, that innocence
which holds distrust and danger at defiance, I beseech you listen to me
a few short moments longer.'
'Have you any thing to impart which can interest me?' I asked him.
'I have that which ought to interest you.'--He rose from his kneeling
posture, and appeared to hesitate. 'Alas,' he then added, 'I have many
many faults! I am unstable in wise resolutions; and yielding, as
childhood, to temptation. I wanted a guide, a monitor. I sought one in
the world, and found only tempters. I have quitted the world. I have
chosen my abode in that Ruin. There I would fain learn to amend myself.
I want to learn to be happy. But I come not to that Ruin, to banish you
from this wood. This is your selected spot; and that is mine. Only a few
paces divides them. Yet, if you say it must be so, the distance shall be
as impassable as though entire kingdoms lay between us. Ah, reflect a
moment before your single word forms this immense barrier!--A moment
did I say?--No: reflect a day. Leave me now in silence; and return
to-morrow, the next day, when you will, and then tell me, if you could
not sometimes find me a more sympathizing auditor than trees and marble,
when you would breathe complaint, or utter joy. Go then. But----'
A second time he hesitated; and, when he spoke again, his articulation
was changed from its clear decisive character to a thicker lower
utterance.
'Be aware,' he said, 'that there are certain requisites necessary to
form the utility of my solitude: Uninterrupted retirement, and perfect
secresy.'
Was I unjust, Caroline? but his mention of secresy instantly filled my
mind with a supposition that his words wore one form, and his intentions
another. I warned him to depart. I told him, I despised concealment;
that I had ever scorned to separate my wishes from my acts, or my
actions from my words. I said, his caution pointed out my duty. I bade
him, as I then thought a final adieu.
I proceeded immediately to the library, to relate this conversation to
my uncle. There I was told, that my uncle was gone from the castle, not
to return till four days were past. I then requested to be admitted into
Mrs. Valmont's dressing room, and she received me.
Her conduct disgusted me extremely at the time; and I have since thought
it very extraordinary, that Mrs. Valmont should doubt my veracity.
Scarcely had I described the manner in which the person in the wood
first came to me, than Mrs. Valmont broke my narration by asking me over
and over again, I know not how many times--'Had I indeed seen a hermit
come out of the Ruin?--Was I quite sure I had seen him?--Could it really
be true!' Not disposed to hear such offensive repetitions, I declined
entering any further into the story; and merely said, that, if the
person was a visitor in the castle, it might be proper for her to
signify to him that his intrusion in the Rock and wood would be
displeasing to my uncle, and highly inconvenient to me.
I went to my own apartments.
On the next morning, I rose as I frequently do, at the first dawn of
day--Do you recollect the situation of my apartments? You will certainly
remember, that the south-west wing is rather distant from that part of
the body of the castle where most of the family inhabit. You know too
that my rooms open into a long gallery; but you never explored this
gallery. My hours with you were rich in pleasure and variety; and I
thought not then of the solitary haunts to which I fly, when I seek
amusement and find none.
This gallery, at the remote end from the body of the castle, closes with
a stair case. These stairs descend into a narrow and winding passage of
the West Tower, and lead to the door of the Armoury. It is probable you
never saw either the West Tower or the Armoury. They are both out of
repair, and altogether out of use; nor do I recollect any that I ever
saw one of the family enter them but Clement and myself.
In very tempestuous weather, the Armoury was a favourite place of resort
for us. The various implements and cases of steel with which it is
furnished, were subjects of wonder and conjecture; besides, it is a hall
of large dimensions, and we possessed it so free of interruptions, that
it served better for play and recreation than any other apartment we
were allowed to frequent within the castle.
At a very early hour on the succeeding morning, as I before said, I rose
and left my chamber, to walk in the Armoury. After I had gone down the
stairs, and as I had nearly reached the end of the dark stone passage, I
heard a sudden creaking noise; but whether or not it proceeded from the
Armoury I could not be certain. I entered the Armoury. The door closed
heavily after me. There was scarcely light enough to distinguish the
surrounding objects.--I stood still.--But all was silent.
I walked about; and other thoughts entirely effaced an impression of
something unusual in the noise; till, again, and in a louder degree, it
assailed me. I hastened toward the door, but the voice I had heard in
the wood called me to stay. I turned round, and the same figure was
before me.
Andrew interrupts me. My uncle is returned home; has something to
communicate; and expects me now. I go.
In continuation.
Farewel, thou precious resemblance I must part with thee. From
yesterday, until the present hour, thou hast been mine. Farewel, then,
exquisite shadow!
Caroline, I left my letter unfinished, yesterday; and hastened to the
library.
'Come hither, child,' my uncle said as I entered; 'and tell me if this
be a likeness.'
He presented to me a small case, and I beheld the picture of Clement. I
folded both hands over it on my bosom. I had not words to thank Mr.
Valmont; but the tears that rolled upon my cheeks were tears of
gratitude.
'I ordered Clement,' my uncle continued, 'to send me his portrait, done
by an eminent artist; and his obedience has been as prompt as I could
desire. You may retire, Sibella, and take the picture with you; but you
are to bring it back to the library to-morrow after my dinner hour.'
Only, conceive, Caroline, how I flew back to my apartment. Think how
many fond avowals, how many rapturous caresses, I bestowed on the
insensible image. While I eat, it lay before me; and while I slept, the
little that I did sleep, it rested on my pillow.
I have counted the stroke of five, from the great clock. Now Mr. Valmont
dines; and the picture is no longer mine. I have placed it in its case,
ready for the hand of Mr. Valmont. I become dispirited. Farewel,
precious shadow!
Farewel, also, Caroline to you!
SIBELLA VALMONT
I have torn the seal away from this letter! I am breathless with the
tidings! Clement, my Clement, is to return! Oh, Caroline, Caroline, did
you ever weep for joy?
LETTER X
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
SIBELLA VALMONT
Certainly, a picture is at all times a very pretty toy; and I can
readily imagine, that the picture of an absent lover must be indeed a
precious blessing; but you will forgive me, Sibella, if I honestly
confess that I have a hundred times, since the receipt of your letter,
wished Clement had not been so willing, or his artist not so ready.
Oh, that Mr. Valmont had withheld the picture but one hour longer! Then
would the womanish curiosity of Caroline Ashburn have been gratified.
For, trust me, Sibella, your surprise at finding your enigmatical hermit
in the Armoury could not exceed my disappointment at leaving him and you
there without further explanation.
I have imagined and imagined; returned to the subject; and quitted it
again, more wearied than before; and, though I did, after a time,
discover that I never should, by the mere aid of suppositions, find of
what materials your hermit is composed, yet I have persisted in
comparing accidents, and combining circumstances perhaps totally remote
from each other, with the vain hope of tracing him. Knowing how much
your uncle worships mystery, I sometimes think it may be one of his
stratagems;--sometimes that----Psha! The folly of conjecture grows with
me.
Pardon me, Sibella, you are above these things. Uniform in rectitude,
you steadily pursue the path before you; nor mislead yourself to follow
the swervings of others. In compassion, however, to the longings of your
friend, hasten to communicate the remainder of this your adventure.
Our poor Indian is dead. She survived her reception at Barlowe Hall only
about ten days; and, during the visits I made her, I never found her
capable of sustaining any conversation with me. From her, as she was
long a resident in the family, I hoped and expected to have been
informed by what means my father amassed his fortune: for, the
suspicions which I find generally attached to East Indian riches sit
heavy on my mind. I do not love to encourage suspicion, for it is
cowardly; nor can I indeed fairly give my opinions the name of
suspicions, for I am persuaded, that in whatever clime or country it be
found, the mind that grasps at such inordinate wealth must be vicious,
and that there can be but little to choose among the degrees of vice
wherewith it is obtained. Yet, being convinced as to that point, I still
wish to know the employments of my father's life: for it is possible
there may be some retribution to make to individuals. A voyage to India
for such a purpose, Sibella, would be but as a pleasant summer day's
excursion.
Your letter has been sent after me to Bath, for Barlowe Hall no longer
retains her circle of gay visitors. The Ulson family have gone I forget
where, and taken the Winderhams with them, while we, together with Sir
Thomas, Lady Barlowe, and Colonel Ridson, arrived at Bath last week. The
season is crowded, and my mother and the nabob think themselves
fortunate in having been able to secure one large and commodious house
for the reception of both families.
This arrangement Lady Barlowe and Mrs. Ashburn profess to find very
pleasing. They declare a violent friendship for each other; and use it
as a cloak for the workings of their secret malignities. My mother is
the object of Lady Barlowe's envy: for the nabob's fears have made him
covetous; he hoards his diamonds in their cases; and Lady Barlowe's
glitter is out-glared by the happier uncontrouled Mrs. Ashburn.
On the other hand, Lady Barlowe has youth, and has beauty; and these
attractions Mrs. Ashburn finds the lustre of the diamond will not
altogether outshine, though there are many among the venal crowd, who
daily offer up at the shrine of wealth the incense due to merit, wit,
and beauty.
Sir Thomas, I believe, considers himself as bound to play both his own
part and his nephew's; and to overwhelm us with the attentions and
kindnesses, his ungracious Arthur withheld.
Did I not tell you, or rather did I not intimate, that before Mr. Murden
made his appearance amongst us, the Baronet evidently bestowed him upon
me? but, alas, scarcely had he arrived, when his uncle, remembering the
value of a certain old proverb, left me to seek another lover; and gave
or would have given his all-prized nephew to my mother.
It was highly whimsical to see the Baronet's labours to promote this
end. He dared not be quite certain, that Murden, although dependent on
him, would yield him an implicit obedience; and yet, according to his
understanding, the scheme had so many and such important
recommendations, that they were not to be hastily rejected. Fearing to
be out-talked, if not convinced, should he at once resort to his
nephew's opinion, the Baronet would not venture to do so; but, secure in
the presence of numbers, he grew bold at hint, and soon made his plan
fully comprehended by every person present; and put his nephew's
ingenuity to the trial to find methods how to express his
disapprobation, without being rude and offensive to the feelings of any
one. I cannot say that Mrs. Ashburn appeared to think Sir Thomas very
absurd in his designs.
After playing this game of hint, till the party talked of separating,
the Baronet then acquired courage enough to make a direct attack on his
nephew; the latter gave an explicit refusal to the proposal; and the
former for some days lost his good humour and his patience.
It was, I suppose, in consequence of this marked displeasure from his
uncle, that Murden thought of paying a visit to a friend at some
distance from Barlowe Hall. At first, Sir Thomas opposed it not; but
when Murden was actually on the point of going, the nabob relaxed his
solemn displeasure, and earnestly requested Arthur not to leave him.
Arthur, in his turn, became inflexible, and would not be intreated. He
had written, he said to his friend, and go he must. At length, however,
he condescendingly offered to hasten to join us at Bath; and, having
thus accommodated their difference, the nabob and his nephew parted very
good friends.
This serious altercation on the subject of Mr. Murden's quitting our
party, took place in the breakfast parlour. Lady Mary Bowden invited me
soon after to walk with her.
'Don't you think,' said she, putting her arm through mine, as soon as we
had crossed the threshold of the Hall door, 'that Murden is very
obstinately bent on making this excursion?'
'I think him determined,' answered I; 'and perhaps very properly so.'
'Thereby hangs a tale,' said Lady Mary.
'I don't love tales, Lady Mary.'
She looked at me, and smiled. 'Yet, I believe you are willing to hear
this,' she said, 'and I am resolved to tell it you.'
Lady Mary certainly did not lay that to my charge, of which I was
undeserving; for I quietly suffered her to proceed in her story. It was
an accusation against Murden, that his pretended visit of friendship to
Mr. Villier was in fact a visit of a different kind, to a female in Mr.
Villier's neighbourhood, of whom Lady Mary said Murden had not been the
original seducer; that she had been lured from her friends by another
person, and that having preferred the attractions of Murden, she made a
pretence of returning to her friends, in order to be the more
conveniently under his protection.
Lady Mary added a number of little corroborating anecdotes, which gave
the affair a striking appearance of matter of fact; and I was inclined
to believe it, till I recollected how much my opinion had been misled by
appearances in the affair of Peggy, of which I spoke to you in my last
letter. Warned by that example, I began to doubt the representations of
her ladyship; and begged she would join with me in having better hopes
of Murden, and endeavouring to discountenance the unsupported assertions
that were spread abroad concerning him. Lady Mary willingly promised,
and I dare say as readily forgot it the very next instant.
As I told you, Sibella, my suspicions of Peggy, I will now tell you her
history at once, without going through the round of circumstances that
brought me acquainted with it.
In Murden's own words, you have learned, that the pleasant farm was his
house of call in the shooting season. The farmer is an industrious and
worthy man; and his daughter Peggy is, or rather was, ere disappointment
fed upon her bloom, a very pretty girl. Joseph, Murden's servant, fell
in love with Peggy, and Peggy with Joseph. He was sober; he had some
expectations from friends; and his master thought very well of him; and
all this together induced the father of Peggy to consent. The marriage
was settled as a certain thing; but a delay of time was agreed on among
all parties; and Joseph went to London with his master. It so happened,
that at Christmas Joseph's father died; and, as he was a shopkeeper in a
country town, Joseph might, if he chose, succeed him, and marry Peggy
directly. He consulted Murden, who approved much of his designs, and
likewise gave him thirty pound to assist in forwarding them.
Thus, rich in pocket and in expectation, ere he commenced shopkeeper,
Joseph went first to stay a week at Peggy's farm, to settle the time of
marriage, &c. &c. Alas, the week began with much happiness, and laid the
foundation for much sorrow. Peggy became too indulgent to her lover;
and, in consequence, her lover cruelly forgot to come back, as he had
promised, at six weeks end and marry her.
Peggy's father had a strong sense of honest pride; he disdained to
solicit an ungenerous man. On the contrary, he exhorted Peggy to forget
him, be industrious, and hereafter irreproachable. But while he was thus
daily kind to Peggy, the poor old man, as he told Murden underneath my
window, wept through sleepless nights for Peggy's naughtiness.
Murden knew nothing of these transactions. He had not called at the
farm-house since he arrived at Barlowe Hall, when we met Peggy in the
narrow lane. I can now well account for her blushes, and his surprise.
He, struck with her appearance and her manner, left us to fish, and went
to inform himself at the farm why Peggy was still in that part of the
world. The father was absent; but the mother told him the whole story,
and he promised to do all that lay within his power to restore the peace
of the family.
It was Peggy's earnest longing to save herself from present pain at any
future risk; and Murden thought it right to forward her wishes. He sent
for Joseph, who was growing rich at five and twenty miles distance, but
who not having more vices than his neighbours was willing enough to be
ruled by a greater man than himself, and accordingly became either
really or seemingly very penitent. The end of the whole is, that Peggy's
present disgrace is salved by marriage. A foolish and impotent remedy,
in my opinion; removing a partial evil, most probably to begin a lasting
one.
How I misjudged Murden in this affair!--Others too may have misjudged
him. I persuade myself they have.
Men, my dear Sibella, have not that enthusiasm and vigour in their
friendships that we possess. I never could get Murden to talk much of
Clement Montgomery, though I urged him to it repeatedly. As an incentive
thereto, as well as to gratify my own feelings, I made you and your
manners a perpetual theme of conversation when I held conversations with
Murden. Perhaps my descriptions interested him, for he was never
unwilling to listen to me, though he uniformly persisted in repressing
my enquiries, if they led to the subject of his friendship for Clement,
with an insuperable coldness.--Too vain, possibly, to praise the
perfections of another; yet too honest, to deny their existence.
Inconsistent being!
Inconsistent in all things that I know of him, except in his conduct to
his uncle. There he is firm, settled and manly, respectful, but never
fawning; he opposes Sir Thomas without petulance, and obeys him without
humiliation. Such conduct will ever secure its proper reward. The Nabob
feels his superiority, and still loves him.
Sir Thomas Barlowe rejoices, I am glad, while Mrs. Ashburn and Lady
Barlowe are neither pleased nor displeased, that to-morrow is the day of
Murden's arrival. The other ladies of his acquaintance here, to whom I
have been introduced, are not so indifferent as the two last mentioned
to Murden's appearance; for, I have already heard some praise him
indiscriminately as Lady Laura Bowden would, and others comment upon his
attractions and his vices with as little true feeling of either as Lady
Mary did. I am glad he comes to Bath, for I shall now see him amidst a
multitude, where new faces, new forms will continually present
themselves; where temptations will rush in crowds, and where the sober
pace of reflection is outstripped by the flying speed of pleasure. If I
do not now learn to appreciate his character, it will be owing rather to
the idleness of my discernment than its want of space enough to practice
in.
Do not imagine, dear Sibella, that because I have run through so many
lines without a word of congratulation I am insensible to the joy which
swells in your bosom on the expected return of your lover. I do indeed
congratulate you. Your uncle becomes reasonable. His mysteries and his
contradictions vanish. Sibella expects her Clement; and the heavy gates
of Valmont Castle will fly back, that peace and liberty may enter.
Nevertheless, in the prosperity of your expectations, forget not the
Hermit in the armoury, and the longings of your
CAROLINE ASHBURN
LETTER XI
FROM CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
TO
ARTHUR MURDEN
Dear Arthur,
Precisely such a command to return home, so sudden, and so unexpected as
you received five months past from Sir Thomas Barlowe, have I received
from Mr. Valmont; but the speed of your obedience bore no proportion to
mine, for hither have I come with a rapidity which scarcely yielded to
rest and refreshment.