obedience due from children to parents, and in answer to that I must
observe, I know not of any opposing duties, and wherever the commands of
parents are contrary to the justice due from being to being, I hold
obedience to be vice. The perpetual hue and cry after obedience and
obedience has almost driven virtue out of the world, for be it unlimited
unexamined obedience to a sovereign, to a parent, or husband, the mind,
yielding itself to implicit unexamined obedience, loses its individual
dignity, and you can expect no more of a man than of a brute. What is to
become of the child who is taught never to think or act for himself? Can
a creature thus formed ever arrive at the maturity of wisdom? How is he
who has never reasoned to be enabled in his turn to train his offspring
otherwise than he himself was trained. Proud of sway and dominion, he
gratifies every impulse of caprice, blindly commands while they blindly
obey; and thus from one generation to another the world is peopled with
slaves, and the human mind degraded from the station which God had given
to it.
You sent Clement into the world and you commanded him to hate it, but
you never told him why it merited this abhorrence, only he was to hate
because it pleased you that he should hate the world. Clement Montgomery
saw every thing new, every thing fascinating; and the more he remembered
he was to hate, the more he loved the world. Then you bid him make
himself independent, and you had not given him one lesson of
independence of mind, without which he must ever be a tool and
dependent. Indeed, Sir, you have no right to withhold from him your
forgiveness, for you taught him by your own example to say one thing and
intend another; in your own mistakes, you may trace the foundation of
his vices.
Mr. Montgomery has, indeed, heaped upon himself an infinite load of
mischiefs; and you, Sir, in the bitterness of your resentment, could not
wish him a severer punishment than, I believe, he at present endures. My
beloved and sacrificed friend was unhappily led into his presence on the
first moment of her arrival. She claimed him as her own; and, he must
have been marble itself, had not that interview and its sad consequences
to the deceived injured Sibella stung him with remorse. Yet his
repentance has more of frenzy than feeling. Several times he attempted
to force his way into Sibella's chamber; and, finding me immoveable
resolved that he should not see her, he gave way to the most violent
bursts of indignation and invective, whose chief object was my mother.
At length he quitted the house; and it is said that, in grief and
distraction, he also quitted the kingdom. But I understand his feeble
and wavering character; his sorrow will abate; he will be again
reconciled to himself, and live abounding in all things but esteem.
In consequence of Mr. Montgomery's departure, my mother has vowed an
everlasting enmity to me. She has chosen another abode, and forbidden me
her presence. It is, Sir, no uncommon case for persons who would fly
from the consciousness of their follies to shelter themselves under
resentment, and accuse others of malignantly creating those misfortunes
for them which were the unavoidable consequences of their own errors.
How vain and futile are such endeavours; and how strongly do they help
to prove the value of rectitude, which brings its own consolation under
every afflicting circumstance of life.
To press you further on the subject of your coming to London, or to
relate the particulars which have befallen Sibella, would be only to
give you unnecessary pain. Suffer me, however, to remind you once more
that the moment approaches rapidly upon us when resentment cannot
agitate nor forgiveness soothe her.
I remain, Sir, your sincere well wisher,
CAROLINE ASHBURN
LETTER XL
FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN
TO
LORD FILMAR
My Lord,
I scarcely recollect the verbal message I sent in answer to your letter
of yesterday; for I was then under the dominion of feelings more
powerful than reason--yet not more powerful; it was reason had yielded
for a time her place.
I will fortify myself for the relation of the events of yesterday,
because I think it will do you a service. I am sure you are not
incorrigible; and one example of the wretched consequences of error has
often more power than a volume of precepts.
It was half past eleven yesterday morning when an attendant silently
beckoned me from Sibella's bed. In the antichamber, Sir Thomas Barlowe's
gentleman waited to inform me that Mr. Murden was in my study. I could
scarcely believe I was awake; it seemed so impossible that he should be
there. 'Alas, Madam,' said the young man, 'every persuasion has been
used to prevent his rash design. And since Sir Thomas Barlowe, by the
advice of the physicians, positively refused his coming to visit Miss
Valmont, he has neither taken rest nor sustenance. What could we do,
Madam, but indulge him?'
How indeed could they act otherwise! He was brought, my Lord, in a
chair; and had fainted once by the way.
Much affected by the nature of his enterprise, and by the resolution
with which he persisted in accomplishing his design, I could not
restrain my tears when I joined him in the study. He was gasping for
breath; and seemed ready to drop from the arms of the servant who
supported him.
As I approached him, and took his hand, he turned his head away from me;
an increase of anxiety and something of ill nature contracted his brow,
for he expected a decided opposition on my part to the design which he
had resolved never to relinquish.
'Murden, my dear Murden,' I said, 'I----'
He interrupted me in a peevish tone. He came, he said, to see
Sibella--He _must_ see her. And, if I refused to let him see her, he
would crawl to her chamber door, and live there whilst he did live.
I would have spoken again, but he waved his hand to express that he
would not hear me; and rested his head on the servant's shoulder. The
hand which I still held, though he had twice attempted to draw it from
mine, began to endure a consuming heat. A deep hectic colouring
overspread his cheek; and I imagined disappointment was committing more
ravages on him, in one way, than indulgence could, in another.
Strongly incited to lead Murden instantly to my friend's chamber, yet
unwilling to hazard so much merely on my own judgment, I retired to
consult with Mrs. Beville, who has kindly given me her society and
assistance since my mother quitted the house. Mrs. Beville suggested to
me an idea which determined me to permit the interview, unless Sibella
herself should object to seeing Murden.
I must tell you, my Lord, that from the fatal day when you was a feeling
witness of her agonies, Sibella has been perfectly or rather horridly
calm. Never has she named Clement; nor has she ever wept. She insisted
on having the corpse of her infant brought to her before its burial;
and, while she pressed it to her burning bosom, she said--'Poor
senseless earth! In quitting life so soon, thou hast not lost but
gained! What art thou? nothing! thy members will not swell into strength
and proportion. Life will not inform them. Thy heart will never beat,
and it shall not feel.----Babe, thou art gone for ever! None laments for
thee. She who should have been thy mother weeps not for thee.--Go, babe!
go to thy cold shelter! soon will that shelter be mine. But I cannot
afford thee warmth: for I shall be cold, senseless, dead, as thou art!'
As she spoke her eye had no moisture; and she delivered up the infant
without shedding one tear; but the oppression she endured for want of
this salutary relief was dreadful to behold. Mrs. Beville was of opinion
that the altered and pity-moving countenance of Murden, the recollection
of his kindness, and his sufferings for her would surprise, affect her,
turn her consideration from herself to him, and call forth a sympathy
which must produce tears.
I had less hope of the success of the experiment in this way to Sibella
than Mrs. Beville entertained; yet, I had hope and I also persuaded
myself that a kind word from her would give to Murden a renewal of
vigour, and prove the chearing companion of his few remaining days.
Sibella was at this time more composed than usual; and, on being
informed of Mr. Murden's desire, she expressed an earnest wish to see
him.
I returned to the study. 'You are come to lead me to her,' said Murden,
impatiently. 'Yes,' I replied, 'I am. Sibella herself desires it.'
'Give me--give me----' said he, stretching forth his hand, and his
servant presented some liquid he held in a glass; but Murden pushed it
from him. 'Carry me there,' said he, 'all my strength is gone.'
I saw that he trembled excessively, and gladly would I have retracted my
consent; but it was too late. I could nothing more than hasten the
interview, that the expectation of it might not prey on him thus
dreadfully. We prevailed on him to taste the liquid; and then his
attendants carried him in their arms to the chamber door, where at his
own desire they stood still for a moment or two.
When he was borne into the room, he suddenly assumed a strength which
had before totally failed him, and tottered to the seat beside
her.--Neither spoke.----He gazed, till he could gaze no longer; and,
leaning back his head, burst into a violent flood of tears. Sibella was
not moved. She put out her hand towards his; I lifted his, and gave it
her.
'Mr. Murden,' said she, as she pressed his hand, 'you have been very
kind to me--tell me how I can thank you?'
'You were once unkind to me,' replied Murden, sobbing,--'you hated me!
you shunned me!'
'True, for I did not know you.----Yet, I fancied myself infallibly
discerning.' She turned her head away.
'Oh do not, do not turn from me!--Miss Valmont, I once talked with you
in the Ruin--Do you remember it?'
'Yes.--You were not so ill then, as you are now.'
'And you, Miss Valmont, was well.'
'I did think so,' she said, and sighed.
Murden comprehended the fullest force of her meaning. He looked wildly
around the apartment. 'Let me go, let me go,' said he eagerly,
withdrawing his hand from Sibella and attempting to rise. I beckoned in
his two attendants, who lifted him from his seat.
'Will you go, and not bid me farewel, Murden?' asked Sibella.
He started at the plaintive tone.--'Stand off!' cried he, 'would ye dare
take me from her ere my errand is completed?'
'It is completed, my dear Murden.' said I. 'You have seen Sibella. Bid
her farewel, and part.'
'Yes! yes!' said he, sitting down again beside her. 'We shall part--we
are now on the very verge of parting.--Oh dear, good Miss Ashburn, bless
you for ever!' As he spoke, he pressed each of my hands alternately to
his lips.--'Dear dear Miss Ashburn, fare you well!'
'Indeed, Murden, you must go,' said I. 'Must,' repeated he--'must! why I
know I must.--I have no choice, Miss Ashburn. But allow me a little
longer:--won't you,'--turning to Sibella--'allow me a very little
longer?'
'Certainly, I will,' replied Sibella; 'if it will give you
satisfaction.'
'Satisfaction!' said he.
After a pause, during which he gazed intently on Sibella, his
countenance underwent a striking alteration. He made a motion for
something to be given to him; but, when the servant approached, he put
him aside. His head dropped against the side of the chair; and the hand
he had just lifted to his forehead fell upon the bed. Sibella placed it
between both of her's.
He drew his breath slowly and heavily. Once I thought he had fainted,
and offered to support him. 'No! no! no!' he said; and shortly after, I
believe he slept.
At that time all who were in the apartment observed a profound silence.
Sibella in deep thought continued to hold his hand. Sometimes she looked
upon Murden; and, in those expressive looks, I read the anguish of her
heart. She could not, as Mrs. Beville had supposed, separate his
sufferings from her own. I perceived that her emotions were kindling
into agony; and I arose from my seat, undetermined which way I could
relieve her, when a loud and dreadful groan from Sibella roused Murden
from his short interval of forgetfulness.
'Oh! have pity!' said Murden.
Sibella uttered a second groan.
'Miss Valmont!' exclaimed Murden.
'Give me not a name'--cried Sibella. 'I own none! What am I? a shadow! A
dream!--Will you oblige me?' added she, vehemently grasping Murden's
hand--'Carry to him the name you used to me. Bid him murder that
also.--Oh! your touch is ice!'--she exclaimed, throwing his hand
suddenly from her; 'you have chilled my blood!'
A moment after, she recollected herself. 'Poor Murden!' said she, 'Warm!
warm yourself! Why are you so cold?'
'Because I too am but a shadow,' replied Murden. 'Hear me, Miss Valmont.
I must call you so.--It was when you came to seek your fawn in the Ruin,
that you talked with me there. Do you remember it?'
'I do.'
'Oh, Miss Valmont, Miss Valmont, methought you never looked so lovely,
never was so gentle as while you spake two words--Only two. And can you
not remember that I said to you--When remembrances of love shall be no
longer remembrances of happiness, then--_Die also_.'
'Great God! Do you reproach me with living!' cried Sibella, starting up
in the bed in a phrenzy. 'Know you not I expired when--Oh! Am I not dead
dead already?'
'Then, let the same grave receive us!' Bending forward, he locked her in
his arms, and sunk upon her pillow, never to rise again.
* * * * *
It is easier, my Lord, for you to imagine than for me to describe the
consequence of yesterday's event to my beloved and dying friend. Her
convulsions become each hour more and more rapid and exhausting. Yet she
has intervals of composure and even of rest, and these serve to detain a
little longer her bursting spirit within the fading form. Oh, cruel
those who have been the means of thus early separating a mind and form
so worthy of happiness, so mated to each other! As for myself, I have
endured much, and have much yet to endure, for remembrances of Murden
and Sibella, of their virtues and misfortunes will live with me, will be
the cherished, tender companions of many hours; nor shall that which the
world calls pleasure, ever buy me from one of those hours with the
richest of her temptations.
Last night, while Sibella slept, I would have slept also, but the scene
of yesterday lay a cumbrous load upon my heart. I rose and passed to the
chamber where the corpse of Murden is deposited. His faults fled from
me. I saw only Murden, I remembered him living, and now I looked on him
dead.--My Lord, my Lord, what a contrast!--What a pang!
A smile of something more than peace illumines even now the face from
whence animation is gone for ever. It was his last smile, the smile he
had so dearly purchased. His heart indeed dictated that smile, for it
expanded with joy when he felt he should die with her for whom he died.
Fatal end of an ungoverned passion--virtuous in its object, but vicious
in its excess!
The corpse still remains in the house. Why should I part with it? None
loved him better.
A sleep almost like death still locks up the faculties of Sibella.
During her last interval from pain and convulsions, she gave her final
directions, and you my Lord are concerned therein.
Mr. Valmont is sick, sick at heart. He could not come to London; but he
sent his steward with forgiveness, blessings, and an earnest request
that Sibella would make her own disposition of her fortune, by which he
has resolved most faithfully to abide. There is a sum in hand of near a
hundred thousand pounds, out of which she has desired that your debts
may be discharged, my Lord. Her request to you is, that you will in
future refrain from the pernicious practice by which they were incurred.
I have no doubt but you will; and certain am I, my Lord, that you may
find means of disposing of your time, that in real pleasure will beggar
all comparison with those to which you have been accustomed.
I am summoned to Sibella's chamber.
* * * * *
Again Sibella doses.--Her fits have ceased, and death becomes gentle in
its preparation. 'Now, my Caroline,' said she as I approached her bed,
'Come and let me bid you farewel. I find there is something yet for me
to feel in leaving you.--Methought--' she added after a
pause--'sensation had been dead in me--I have had strange feelings,
Caroline. And now I seem awakening from a fearful dream. I have lost the
raging fire which consumed me--early scenes recur--and here,' laying her
hand on her bosom, 'something swells as if--as if I yet
had--affections!'
So saying, the melting sufferer burst into tears; and my fond hopes
would have persuaded me, that these tears were the beginning of her
restoration. No, my Lord, it is only fondness that could for one moment
entertain the supposition.
'Do not let us weep,' said she, 'Caroline, there is a person--'tis, I
desire it, Caroline--whom you must forgive, pity, and befriend. When you
meet him--Clement'--the name hung upon her quivering lips--'tell him to
be sincere. Tell all the world so, Caroline.--My uncle's secrets could
have done me but temporary harm, it was mine own secrets destroyed
me--Oh that fatal contract!'
A long pause succeeded; but she neither wept not sighed. She had folded
her hands upon her bosom, and she looked intently upward.
Again raising herself, she embraced me; and then she said, 'Poor Murden!
he had his secrets too, and he has died for them!'
* * * * *
My Lord--it is over.--She expired in my arms.
* * * * *
Yes, they shall be entombed together--the dearer parts of my
existence.--I loved them both as I never loved man nor woman beside.