assuring myself, from the still silence that prevailed, my passage was
undiscovered, I returned to my cell, which I believe none had entered
since I quitted. The succeeding night I revisited farmer Richardson's.
John Thomas, ever delighted to talk, came on me open-mouthed, with a
tale newly brought from the castle: namely, that Miss Valmont had seen
and spoken with the hermit's ghost in the wood.
And next, Madam, to prevent suspicion and enquiry, I deemed it proper to
join you and my uncle's party at Bath. There, in the midst of the
crowds, was I alone. I saw but one form. I heard but one voice. I began
to despise Montgomery; to assure myself, against conviction, that she
did not could not love him; and had promised my heart I know not what of
success and felicity when--the contrast past; his letter came; and I, in
the saloon, in your presence, before a crowd of witnesses, behaved like
a fool and a madman. Pardon, Miss Ashburn, in consideration of my
despair, any surprise or shock my conduct gave you. Never can you know
what were the feelings of that night. Love had no concern therewith. It
was a night of hatred, revenge and rage.
Adieu, Madam. I have filled up the last space of my paper, and my
narrative must rest till I return to the farm.
The blessings of an uncorrupted mind ever, ever, be your possession.
A. MURDEN
LETTER VI
FROM THE SAME--TO THE SAME
In continuation
Four and twenty hours longer of fruitless expectation did I endure in
that cell. No Sibella appeared. Did she then forget her request?
Painting her future delights with Montgomery, has she forgotten the
unblessed wretch, who for her sake could sustain hunger and cold,
watching and weariness, who to hail the same breeze that had saluted
her, quitted every indulgence of luxury for an abode that held comfort
at defiance, who stretched himself along the bare stone rather than on a
bed of down, because from that sleepless couch he could spring, to gain
an indistinct view of her bewitching form?
Ay, pour your contempt upon me, ye whose smiles I have beguiled you
of!--View him who bought your unprized tenderness with the empty breath
of flattery, view him, stealing slave-like into forbidden paths only to
gaze at humble distance, only to catch the echo of a sigh, a sigh
breathed to another!----He, Miss Ashburn, who lives without hope--must
_die_ for consolation.
Yet, surely this her absence cannot arise from so more than common an
instance of insensibility; some accident may have prevented her return;
and I am capricious and cruel, while I dare to accuse her of
insensibility. John Thomas met me, as I returned to the farm. He was
carrying malt to the castle. I will throw myself in his way when he
comes home; and probably, amidst the abundance of information he will be
eager to communicate, I may find something which will elucidate this
strange absence of Miss Valmont.
Little remains, Madam, for me to add to my confessions. Sibella's tender
but romantic contract placed an eternal barrier between me and the
flattering illusions wherewith fancy fled my flame. I saw she loved as I
had wished her to love: had I been the object!--In the first moments of
phrenzy, I wrote Montgomery a mad letter; and no sooner recovered a
better frame of mind, than I dispatched one of apology, which both made
my peace, and quieted his astonishment, for he is not given to look
beyond the surface.
Hours, Miss Ashburn, have I spent in wishing Montgomery worthier of his
fate. Sometimes, have I calmed my swelling agony by reproaching her for
loving him, then have humbled my proud heart to dust, to obtain her
ideal pardon. Her seclusion, her enthusiasm, his reducing countenance,
his vivacity of spirit, and above all his well expressed vehemence of
love! Oh it could not be otherwise! She saw an outline: her imagination
formed the rest.
No, not one single instance of self-reproach on Clement's account ever
assailed me. When I first discovered that Montgomery's beloved was the
selected friend of Miss Ashburn, I then knew they might be paired, but
never mated. To rival him with one woman, methought could be little
injury, when in her absence twenty others equally could charm.
After Miss Valmont had irrevocably given herself to Clement, I resolved
to travel, for to the antipodes would I have journeyed, rather than met
Montgomery. Yet I tutored my heart into the supposition that I still had
a friendship for _him_, that Sibella had injured me, and was now not a
jot beyond my friend, or my friend's wife. Dwelling on the delusion, it
insensibly produced a desire, when Clement went to London, of returning
to my hermitage, to her park, in order to behold her with firm
composure, with almost indifference.--Self-devoted victim that I am.
'I can do her service,' said I to myself; 'and I can prevent her
suspecting aught of the former intruder. Wishes she must have; something
to alleviate the tedious uniformity of her existence.' And numberless
plans to gratify and amuse her, without my having any apparent concern
therein, I quickly resolved upon.
You recollect Madam, (perchance with disdain) my abrupt departure from
Bath.--Farmer Richardson rejoiced to see me. John Thomas was yet brimful
of Miss Valmont and the ghost. When these industrious labourers of the
day retired to early rest, I betook myself to the now bleak and desolate
hermitage. No sooner had I deposited my lanthorn and little basket, than
I left my cell intending to revisit, not with rapture but regret, her
selected paths.
It was I think one of the finest nights I ever beheld; and I must have
wanted that fervour of soul which gave birth to my love, had I not been
enchanted with the scene. The resplendent moon, now at the summit of her
growth, silvered the wide spreading branches of Sibella's oak, the
fairest tree of the forest; her steady beam glittered over one half the
tomb; the bending bough of a cypress on the other half, shed irregular
darkness; the rock cast its pointed shadow up the path-way; light and
shade no longer blended but were abruptly contrasted. No cloud glided
into motion, no zephyr into sound. On the broken-down porch, I leaned.
Imagination was alive. I will not conceal aught from you, Miss Ashburn,
an excess of tenderness, even produced tears. And why need I be ashamed
of that emotion? 'Tis not a property of guilt. And while I wept, I made
a vow at the shrine of reason to abandon my mad enterprise, to quit for
ever and ever this seductive rock.
Alas reason and resolution were instantaneously torn from me, by the
sweetest sound that ever stole on the listening ear of night. You know
the rest. Enraptured, I listened to her effusions; unobserved, was her
shadow; scrawled with my pencil that inconsistent address; sighed to her
sigh; and was more delirious than ever.
Prudent, cool, and considerate, she came no more. I enticed her fawn
into the utmost degree of fondness; and when Nina returned to my cell
from the caresses of Sibella, she brought me a pleasure which the
universe to me cannot equal.
It must require all your faith, Madam, to believe that I lived thus
without the shadow of a motive beyond sometimes seeing and sometimes
hearing her: in the strictest sincerity, I assure you I had no other.
Although I loved her to dotage, although I feel an internal testimony
that I cannot live without her, yet was she, and is to this moment, more
effectually banished from my wishes by her contract with Montgomery,
than she could have been by age, disease, or any possible deformity,
circumstance or accident might inflict.
The sweetly soothing promise of speedy dissolution, produced temporary
vigour. It enabled me to quit that vague and idle mode of life,
unsatisfactory to myself and cruel to Sibella; to brave the censures of
Montgomery; to ask your pity; and finally determined me to retire to a
romantic and fit retreat for sorrow I once saw on the banks of the
Danube.
One absurdity more, and I have done. By the little fawn I sent my
farewel to your friend, and waited only for darkness to revisit farmer
Richardson's. Night came and with it rain and such an impervious mist
that I could not see my hand when I stretched it out, nor was I so lost
to common prudence as not to foresee the danger of attempting my descent
under such circumstance. Morning might afford me opportunity. The sword
I brought from Valmont's armoury still lay on the floor of my cell; and
a temptation arose of bearing it back to its original station: to be a
last time under the same roof with Sibella, to offer a farewel prayer as
near her as I dared approach.--Things so apparently unsatisfactory of
themselves as these acquire an infinity of importance when the heart is
assured they never, never can be reacted. The hour of night made me
bold. I ventured beyond the armoury. I even intended seeking the room
you once spoke of, and stealing from it her portrait. My beard and gown
gave me the privilege of spirits, I thought to walk undisturbed; but
hardly had I trodden ten paces beyond the armoury door when I met three
men, and, what was still worse, considering the imagined security of my
disguise, one of them pursued me. Apprehension gave me wings. I flew
back; and had secured the pannel before he entered the armoury; then
regained my cell with all possible expedition. This accident prevented
my quitting the park by day-light, least I should be watched.
On the next morning, when Nina came panting down to my cell, I heard a
voice calling her back, to which every nerve vibrated throughout my
frame. I went up into the chapel. Sibella was there. I was shocked to
see her pale and wan.--She heard me with patience, she looked on me with
pity. Above all, she gave me very good advice. In the dusk of that
evening, I left Valmont park.
As eager now to quit this place as I had formerly been to seek it, I
would not even allow myself to rest one night at the farm; but, although
the evening was dark and chilling, I mounted my horse and bade
Richardson farewel. My strength failed me, my head became dizzy, and the
bridle frequently dropped from my hand. When I reached the first village
on my road, I stopped at an inn, and ordered a chaise to be got ready
for me. They showed me into a room where three or four other persons
were seated at a table drinking. I drew a chair close to the fire and
turned my face from them. For a minute after my entrance they remained
silent; but observing, I imagine, that I did not appear disposed to give
them any attention they resumed their conversation, and little should I
have known of their subject had not the name of Miss Valmont struck upon
my ear. I turned round involuntarily and found the speaker was a dark
young man, smartly dressed; he was evidently in a state of intoxication,
and his auditors not more sober than himself were the landlord of the
inn and two countrymen.
'If I was to tell you all I know about it,' said the man, 'you would
stare sure enough. And it is all true as the gospel--it is. My friend,
the nobleman I told you of, knows all the business as well as I do--ay,
ay, and he'll marry her too. Such a devilish fine girl deserves a lord
for her husband.'
This speech, interlarded with many oaths, had also frequent
interruptions from the effects of his inebriety, so that my chaise was
announced just as he spoke the last word. I sat still, and called for
wine. They again recollected the presence of a stranger; another silence
ensued; and, while I lingered over my wine, the young man and one other
of the company dropped asleep.
My interest in that name would not suffer me to depart. I grew restless
and uneasy, I shifted my chair, stirred the fire; and in so doing
doubtless roused the sleeper, for he started up and vociferated a great
oath. 'Not see it,' added he, 'why I saw it myself, with my own eyes,
the Lord defend us!--no wonder! no wonder! I wouldn't sleep in old
Valmont's skin to have twenty fine castles. To cheat his own brother's
daughter out of such a fine fortune! 'Tis enough to make the ghosts of
all her grandfather's walk out of their graves. Forty thousand is the
least penny.--Well, well,' said he rising, 'I shall see the day yet when
a certain Lord that I know will have her and her fifty thousand pounds
too. Come, landlord, here's a safe deliverance to Miss Valmont and her
money out of the claws of her old griping uncle.'
Having swallowed his bumper, he staggered out of the room, and the
landlord was instantly summoned to assist him to bed. From one of the
remaining guests, I learned that this man had lately come from London;
but his name was unknown to them. Finding my intelligence at an end, I
stepped into my chaise and proceeded towards Barlowe Hall.
During my journey, I often, almost indeed perpetually, thought of the
conversation I had heard in the inn. And when I had arrived at Barlowe
Hall, and sat in the same apartment where I first heard you speak of
Sibella, I also recollected that colonel Ridson, who had been in habits
of intimacy with her father, expressed both doubt and surprise when you
said Miss Valmont was dependent on her uncle. This recollection added
new force to the assertions of the young man in the village. I became
persuaded that some injury was intended to Miss Valmont; and resolved if
possible to develop the mystery. I journeyed back again to the village,
where my suspicions had first been excited. The young man had departed
the day before; and no one could tell me of his route.
I now determined to put it in Sibella's own power to demand an
explanation of her uncle. Again, but without my hermit's disguise, I
crossed the moat and ascended the rock. When I approached her in the
wood, she looked on me sorrowfully; but, Miss Ashburn, there was no
welcome in her eye. I had neither power nor inclination to hold her long
in conversation. I briefly related to her my suspicions: and as I told
you before, she bade me wait her return in the cell.
She returned no more. Have I then seen her for the last time?--I sicken.
Never, never, never, to behold her!--Oh for a potion, powerful in its
nature, rapid in its effect, that would overwhelm these dregs of
existence, giving me but time to know the relief of dying when life has
become hateful!
* * * * *
In continuation
The carriage, in which I instantly return to Barlowe Hall, stands
waiting before my window. I do not fly through fear; but if Mr. Valmont
knows my secret visits, and punishes her for my faults, he may release
her when I am gone.
Write to me, I beseech you, Miss Ashburn, and say why Sibella suffers.
She is a prisoner, madam. She has quarrelled with her uncle.
It is said he struck her.--Heaven forbid! It is said she attempted
suicide!--But she will tell you all; and for pity's sake relieve my
suspence, though you cannot quell my anxiety! Respectfully your's
A. MURDEN
_P.S._ My authority is derived from John Thomas.--He was not, nor is any
person but the family, suffered to cross the draw-bridge. All the
servants have been interrogated, and some discharged, for the supposed
admission of a stranger. Sibella is not allowed to quit her apartment.
LETTER VII
FROM LORD FILMAR
TO
SIR WALTER BOYER
To the last hour I have lingered here, sometimes in hope, sometimes in
fear, still bold in plan, but irresolute in attempt; and now, when the
sun of my success begins to beam upon me, now must I come to London, to
sign deeds to my shame and to pay money for my folly. Yet, Walter,
though I _must_ come to London, hither I mean to return again; for, as I
told you before, the sun of my success begins to shine.
Know, dear knight, that things are all _en train_. We are in great
alarm, great inquietude, and considerable trepidation: but as you may
not be perfectly able of yourself to reconcile these assertions, be
patient while I lend you my assistance.
Yesterday (being about to quit the country to-day) I thought proper to
pay a visit of duty to my uncle elect. My footman rode up, and sounded
the bell of approach.--Roar, said the shaggy Cerberus on the other side
of the moat; while the leaden-headed porter, crawling out of his den,
bawled out for our business.
'My Lord Filmar to visit Mr. Valmont,' answered George. The porter
walked away.--'D--n the fellow,' said I, 'he has not let down the
bridge!'--'No, my Lord,'--replied George: and then I swore again.
In a quarter of an hour or something less the porter came back--'Mr.
Valmont's compliments to Lord Filmar, and he is engaged.'
Now, Walter, as you dote on discoveries, tell me what does your
algebraic head make out of this?----'That he----.' No indeed,
Walter.----'Then he----.' Nor that neither, Walter. Now I discovered it
in an instant: keen-eyed, cool and penetrating, I saw at once that Mr.
Valmont--did not choose to see me.--'Ay: but why?'--That's quite another
matter.
'Lord Filmar,' said my father, 'you are the most impertinent
prevaricating puppy I ever knew in my life.'
'My Lord,' replied I bowing modestly, 'I am told I have the honour
greatly to resemble your lordship.'
'Sir, you--this is all going from the point,
Sir.----Did--you--ever----.' beating time on one hand with a letter he
held in the other,--'directly or indirectly talk to any one about Miss
Valmont?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'You did, Sir!'--fierce attitude--'And pray what did you say?'
'I said, my Lord--that Miss Valmont--was a young lady.'
'Mighty well, Lord Filmar!--'Tis mighty well!--Go on, Sir,--Ridicule
your father for all his acts of kindness to you!'
'Ridicule, my Lord, is out of the question; but indeed I never shall be
serious without knowing why, and your interrogatories of the last half
hour are so vague, I cannot understand them. You ask me if I did ever
talk of Miss Valmont?--As a young man naturally talks of a young woman,
so may I have talked of Miss Valmont. The other day, for instance, I was
riding with Miss Monckton--'_I should like of all things_,' said she,
'_to see the wild girl of the castle.--Twice I have visited there with
my mother; but Valmont won't suffer her to be introduced._' 'The Earl,'
replied I, 'declares she is handsome, and I too should be charmed to see
her.--Perhaps, my Lord, I may have made a score such speeches, and if
they are any thing to the purpose, I will endeavour to recollect them in
form, and circumstance.--Let me see--Last Friday se'night----.'
'Psha,' cried the Earl, 'they are nothing to my purpose.'
'Why then, will you be pleased, my Lord, to tell me what is?'
A pause succeeded, during which he appeared to seek instruction from the
contents of the letter in his hand.
'If there is any thing in that letter, my Lord,' said I, stretching out
my hand to receive it, 'which relates to me, suffer me to read it; then
I can answer straight forward to the charge.'
It was not enough simply to refuse, Walter.--The Earl crammed the letter
into his pocket. 'Hem! hem!' said the Earl. 'Before we came to Sir
Gilbert's I remember, Lord Filmar, you thought fit to wind, and pry into
the state of Miss Valmont's fortune. Now if you took upon you to assert
any thing to any one, from that conversation, remember you told a
falsehood, Sir,--an absolute falsehood.--She has no fortune whatever,
Sir--not a penny.'
'No fortune whatever, Sir!--not a penny!' repeated I, slowly, and fixing
my eyes on his. He had the grace almost to blush.--'Be that as it may, I
never told any falsehoods in consequence of that conversation, my
Lord.--I might have said, if I had thought proper, that you deemed 5 or
6000l. a year a suitable portion for me, and meant to propose me to Miss
Valmont.'
'Oh, Sir, if you mean to put your own construction on every unguarded
disjointed expression a man drops in conversation, you may make
something out of nothing, at any time.'
'True, Sir, the discourse was disjointed and unguarded enough; but the
design was, I believe, perfectly regular.--I am sorry, truly sorry, the
plan failed.--Has your lordship any further commands for me?' said I,
rising.
'You are piqued, my Lord,' replied my father drawing the letter out of
his pocket.--'I have cause enough to be irritated, I am sure. My
character as a gentleman is at stake. Mr. Valmont here makes charges
against me which I don't quite understand.'
I held out my hand again for the letter, and he again drew it away.
'Nay, my Lord,' said I:--'But perhaps you would rather read it to me.
The best information and advice in my power is altogether at your
lordship's devotion; and, if it is secresy you require, I am dumb as the
grave.'
The Earl looked somewhat doubtful. At length he suffered me to take the
letter.
Now, Walter, read this letter, with attention.
TO THE EARL OF ELSINGS
My Lord,
As I took you to be a man of honour, I fully relied on your word,
and never for an instant supposed you could depart from the strict
performance of the promise you gave with so much readiness and
solemnity of concealing from all the world the real situation of
Miss Valmont's circumstances till the time when I, her uncle,
guardian, and her only surviving relation, should no longer deem
such a concealment necessary.
You knew, my Lord, I could have no sinister design in teaching Miss
Valmont to believe herself dependent upon me. My well-known
integrity forbids the possibility of such a surmise: and, my Lord,
at once, in compliance alone with my own opinion of its propriety
did I resign to you the entire care of her estate, reserving to
myself the guardianship of her person and the direction of her
education, to which cares the brother of her father had the most
undoubted claim.
To the period when Miss Valmont should have attained the age of
twenty, I limited your secresy, my Lord; and this adds another
proof, if another could be necessary, to the goodness of my
intentions. By her father's will, she becomes independent of her
guardians at twenty-one. At twenty, I intended that herself and her
possessions should be given to the husband for whom I have
purposely educated her; and from whom, for the security of their
future happiness, I would carefully have hidden the knowledge of
her fortune till that period.
My precautions were taken with such order and contrivance, that I
have reason to believe it has not even been suspected by any
creature that Miss Valmont is an heiress.
_Do not slumber, dear Walter; read that line again--Miss Valmont is
an heiress._
Yet now, my Lord, my niece herself is apprized of it; and has with
more zeal than either judgment or duty demanded an explanation of
my motives for treating her as my dependent. It is you only who can
have conveyed this intelligence to her: you, my Lord, who, I am
sorry to say, since you formed the design of uniting Miss Valmont
to your son have forgotten honour and integrity.
I believe your son has found entrance into my castle by means a
gentleman should scorn to use; but, neither in his own nor in his
feigned name, shall he gain another admission. My vigilance is
awakened; and, in his behalf, it shall not slumber a second time.
My Lord, I have returned the accounts you sent for my inspection,
together with the necessary acquittals; and I request we may not
meet any more, as the business till Miss Valmont is of age may be
transacted by any agent you choose to appoint.
I remain, my Lord, henceforth a stranger to you and your's
GEORGE VALMONT
'Is there not,' said I, and in truth, Walter, I did not very well know
what to say, so dizzy had I become in reading Mr. Valmont's
incontrovertible acknowledgement of his niece's fortune, together with
the unlooked for charge against me of having stolen into his castle--'Is
there not,' said I, 'something like a challenge implied here, my Lord?'
'No indeed,' replied my father with sufficient eagerness. 'Don't you see
he desires we may not meet again.--But I am rather in doubt, Filmar,
whether we ought or ought not to send Mr. Valmont a challenge?'
'So am I, my Lord; but if your will allow me an hour to consider the
case I will settle it if possible.'
'Do--do!' said the Earl. 'But what can he mean about you and the
castle?'
'No one, Sir, but himself can decide that matter, I believe.'
The problem I had now to solve, consisted, Walter, of three parts.
First, how Miss Valmont could have arrived at the knowledge of her
fortune?--Secondly, how Mr. Valmont could know I had been in the
castle?--Lastly, and of most importance, whether all circumstances duly
considered it would be proper that I or my father should challenge Mr.
Valmont?