Secresy; or, Ruin on the Rock

Whither am I running! – I would give a world that I could tell you – When! where! why! I dreamt and was awakened – not for a world's wealth though would I tell you.

'Tis past! 'tis done! the mischief is irretrievable. – The phantom remains; but the gilded hope that illumined her path is gone – despair casts its length of shade around me; and sunshine is no more.

Let me recollect myself. – When I began to write, I meant to request you would say something conciliating for me to Sir Thomas. The letter I left for him was written in haste and from a sudden impulse, and probably expressed nothing I either meant or ought to have said – I beseech you, madam, do this for me. I know my uncle looks on me with affection; and I do not consider myself entitled to make so free with the happiness of others as I have done with my own.

If he has any expostulations to offer, any reproaches to make me, let him send them to Barlowe Hall. There I shall be some time. But let him not ask me to come to London. – No: Miss Ashburn, the ignis fatuus is still in view; and, though I perfectly understand its nature and have no hope nor scarce a wish to overtake it, yet am I, lunatic-like, galloping after it over hedge, bog, and briar.

From this assurance, and from the many other things you know of me, you will believe I am in the right to subscribe myself the infatuated, miserable,

A. MURDEN

LETTER VI

FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN TO SIBELLA VALMONT

For the first time of my life, have I become the assiduous watcher of windows, the listener after footsteps; and have lived eternally in the drawing room. Yet has no Clement Montgomery appeared; and I have just now recollected that my desire of knowing him will not accelerate his approach, that so much time given to expectation is so much thrown away, and that to employ the same quantity of time in endeavouring to amuse you would be more friendly and of course more laudable.

Once more then, Sibella, we are in London, this great metropolis, alike the resort of him who possesses wealth and him who seeks to attain it. Here merit comes, hoping in the vast concourse to find the protector of talent; and hither the deliberating villain hastens, expecting the crowd will be at once favourable to the practice of his crimes, and the means of escaping their punishment. What a field here is opened for the speculator, and the moralist! And often, Sibella, do I anticipate the time when we shall look on the chequered scenes of life together. When – but let me give you the remainder of Davenport's history while is is yet fresh in my memory.

Punctual to the minute I had named, Davenport entered my apartment. The same species of settled gloom I observed the preceding day in Arabella, marked his voice and gesture. He looked so familiarized, so wedded to sadness and misfortune that, desirous of expressing in my demeanour the kindness my heart felt for him, I approached and held out my hand to receive his. He lightly pressed it; and coldly bowing, retreated to a seat on the other side of the room. From that motion, I perceived he now viewed me as one who had saved him from the commission of an action which, although of evil and dangerous tendency, would have produced to him a benefit he knew not how, in any other way to procure; and that after rendering it impossible for him to marry, I was about to leave him with some general advice to the horrors of his situation. This he imagined was the utmost of my ability; he had convinced himself of the goodness of my intentions, and could not altogether call me his enemy; but he was now looking round, hopeless and despairing, for the almost supernatural means which could extricate him from his poverty and distress.

The power was mine; and I hastened to relieve him from the anguish he endured. I told him, he should render himself independent and happy; that my pecuniary assistance should go hand and hand with his endeavours; and enquired if he had any friends who could advise him in the choice of a profession.

'Not a creature in the world who would not rather advise him to end his miseries and disgrace with a pistol.' This was Davenport's answer.

I recollected that I had noticed some little intimacy between him and Mr. Murden; and, supposing the precariousness of dependence must have occasionally led Murden's thoughts to the same views, I concluded his judgment would be useful. 'Let us consult Mr. Murden,' said I.

'No: Miss Ashburn!' cried Davenport, reddening violently. 'Contrive it all yourself; I will obey you wherever I can; but do not command me to the revolting task of declaring to all the world that I am – a beggar. When Murden and I first knew each other, I was the expected heir to a good fortune; and, as I was descended from some of the first families in the kingdom, Murden moved in a sphere below me. He stands where he did; but I alas am fallen. – Yet I won't hear him exult and triumph in affected pity. – No: no! I could tell him that even a nabob's wealth cannot blazen him with the honours that cling to the name of Davenport.'

He spoke this with surprising bitterness.

'For pity's sake, Mr. Davenport,' said I, 'do not lay on high birth more infirmities than, from its nature, it unavoidably possesses. Were you ten times more honourably descended it could not alter Murden's ability to advise you, it could not degrade him or exalt you. I have seen you court his conversation: and did you imagine your poverty was then a secret? Oh, no! who could mistake the cause of your seeking to become Mrs. Ashburn's husband? In defiance of his uncle's displeasure, Murden refused this very marriage. At the same time, I must acknowledge, his firmness has not undergone the trial you have suffered; for he had no Arabella, I believe.'

Davenport threw his arms across upon the table by which he sat, laying his head upon them. The attitude prevented my seeing his face; but I thought he wept. A half supressed sob rose at intervals.

Thus he remained; for unwilling to press too hard on his prejudices, I relinquished the idea of consulting any other person, and sat silently examining plans for his future service. His age, his quickness of apprehension, and his manners which are pleasing to persons of every station, inclined me to think the study of physic would be well adapted to his capacity and talents. I made the proposal; named the sum I would give him yearly till he should be qualified to provide for himself; and his gratitude was expressed with the same vehemence which alike attends him on trivial or important occasions.

You will perhaps wonder, Sibella, that is, if the value of money is at all known to you, and if its importance ever occupies your thoughts, how am I enabled to make so lavish a use of it.

On our first arrival in England, my mother assigned me an annual income proportioned to the splendour of her appearance, and the immense fortune that I am destined to possess when her advantages in it shall be eternally proscribed.

That I do not employ this allowance in keeping pace with her elegance, that I do not blaze in jewels, and riot in the luxury of dress, displeases my mother; yet she continues me the stated income, flattering herself daily though daily disappointed that I will secure my own indulgencies by overlooking the errors reason tells me I am to condemn in her.

But to return to Davenport: on the subsequent morning, I ordered my horse very early intending to pass an hour with Arabella, when a servant informed me Mr. Davenport and a lady requested to see me. I hurried down stairs, to chide Mr. Davenport for suffering Arabella (supposing it must be her) to hazard an increase of her disorder, by coming out while the air was raw and cold, and the morning fog not yet dispelled. I opened the parlour door with the reproof almost ready on my lips, when Davenport, with his eyes glistening, his cheeks glowing, seized my hand and placed it within that of a young lady, who kissed it, and with mingled ardour and pleasure pressed it to her bosom. Surprised, I stepped back; and, looking alternately at her and at Davenport, a strong resemblance anticipated his introduction of a sister.

This sister, whom Davenport had forgotten in his misfortunes, was newly married; and had arrived at Bath the preceding evening, with her husband, a merchant of the name of Beville. Davenport had related the scenes he had passed through in those glowing colours whose use is so familiar to him; and the whole family were disposed to think I had rendered them an important service. Accepting Mrs. Beville's invitation to dinner, I was that day introduced also to Mr. Beville and Miss Harriot Davenport.

Davenport's feelings are ever alive to extremes. He was now in the bosom of his family. He saw his sister no longer the humble dependent of a proud relation, but the wife of an affectionate opulent husband, sharing her advantages too with his other sister. Then, how could Davenport look at them and remember either what he had been or might yet be. He was extravagant; sometimes brilliant, but always fanciful; and the incoherencies of his conversation formed an amusing contrast with the steady uniform bluntness of Mr. Beville. He was even too gay to be grateful; for, instead of thanking his brother-in-law for an offer of taking him into immediate partnership, in preference to the plan I had proposed, on terms so liberal as brought tears from his sister's eyes, Davenport began to ridicule and burlesque trade. He was determined for this afternoon at least to enjoy his mirth in defiance of the checks, instigations, or reproaches of the better inmates sincerity and common sense.

Poor fellow! The grimace, the laugh, the jest reign no longer; for Arabella cannot live! Perfectly satisfied with the prospects of her Henry, with his affection for her child, and the present attentions of his family to her, she calmly looks forward to that abode where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest; while he suffers ten thousand agonies in anticipating their eternal separation.

With Mrs. Beville and Harriot Davenport the remembrance of Arabella's former transgression now lies dormant, their former affection revives, gains new strength from the aid of pity, and instigates them to attend the dying Arabella as a sister. But I suspect from accidental hints they are yet infected with the worldly maxim that the guilt of such a sailing remains wholly with the female, from whom in every other instance of life we look for nothing but weakness and defect. Love more perhaps than reason has taught Davenport a better lesson; he would certainly have married Arabella, and Mr. Beville would have supported him in the resolution, knowing it to be now as much his duty as it was before their mutual duty to abstain from the transgression.

Thus have I saved Davenport. But not my mother. No – she will assuredly marry to prove to me her power and pre-eminence. She will pique herself also on choosing a husband, as handsome as engaging as the fugitive Davenport.

In the mean time flattery is flattery; and the dose being doubled from a female tongue approaches so near to an equivalent that the immediate necessity of a lover becomes less urgent. The happy Mrs. Ashburn – happy in her acquisitions – has lately gained a companion who can treble the quantity on occasion. In good English language, with the animation of French vivacity and French action, Mademoiselle Laundy deals out her bursts of admiration and exstacies of rapture from one of the prettiest mouths in the world. Shaping herself, most Proteus-like, to the whim of the moment, my mother sees not that she is young and handsome; and, could a painting be shown to Mrs. Ashburn the exact but silent representation of Mademoiselle Laundy, unless previously instructed to look for the likeness, I am positive she would not recognize one feature of her companion.

This young person was born of English parents who were settled in France. Her father, being deprived of an enormous pension, by the change of government, chose rather to break his heart than live upon a contracted income, which could only furnish him with the necessaries of life; and such worthless accommodations as are beneath the enjoyment of a courtier.

After his decease, a ci-devant Dutchess brought Mademoiselle Laundy to England, to try her fortune; and, most opportunely, chance threw her in our way at the very same time when my mother was seized with the rage of entertaining a companion. Money was an object with Mademoiselle Laundy, but none to Mrs. Ashburn; and the former knew how to hold off from the bargain till the latter's wishes and expectations were wound up to the highest. The pride also of enabling her companion to outdress half the fashionable young women about town was doubtless an additional motive with Mrs. Ashburn; and the enormous salary demanded was to me the first unfavourable specimen of Mademoiselle Laundy's principles.

Nor has the young lady improved on farther acquaintance. Supple as she is, she cannot accommodate the feigned artlessness of her countenance to the examination of my eye. Native simplicity would neither court nor retire; but Mademoiselle Laundy invites my favour, while she evades my scrutiny.

Resigning her personal pretensions to charm, and labouring incessantly to acknowledge the already inflated superiority of the people around her, she becomes the universal favourite; and 'tis hard to say whether the dear, unfortunate, amiable, Mademoiselle Laundy is more necessary to Mrs. Ashburn or to Mrs. Ashburn's acquaintance.

To her establishment here, however, I cannot object, because I should not be understood. Picking and stealing to be sure are very atrocious things; but who ever thought of calling selfishness, art, and insincerity by the name of vice? – Oh no! garret-lodgings philosophers may speculate, and dream over their airy systems; but we people of fashion know better things. We know self-love and insincerity to be useful and important qualities, the grand cement which binds our intercourse with each other. Born a superior race, we can bid truth and plain honesty depart; and, having dressed falsehood and guile in all the fascination of the senses, can bow down before the idol of our own creation.

'Tis all true, Sibella: although, in rambling about your woods, and looking into your own heart, and arranging the matter of your former studies, you may find what ought to be, you cannot discover one trait of what really exists.

Sir Thomas Barlowe is ill of the gout, and almost pines in his confinement for the society of his nephew; while the whimsical Murden, in defiance of command or intreaty, is capering about the country nobody knows why, nor nobody knows where.

Murden! Why cannot I name Murden without feeling a portion of that anxiety which so visibly preys on the happiness, and throws a veil of mystery over the actions of that inconsistent young man?

Various have been the endeavours I have used to understand the nature of his mind's disease; but he has wrapped an impenetrable fold of secresy around his heart. At times, I imagined that acknowledgment was ready to burst from his lips; nay I even imagined at times I had caught some remote allusions that I thought I understood; yet in attempting to trace them to a source, I lost their original form, and became more and more entangled in the labyrinths of surmise.

As Sir Thomas and Lady Barlowe regulate all their jaunts and expeditions by ours, and as we have together made one household at Bath, it was natural enough that we should journey together to London. Mr. Murden of course was included in the arrangements; and he neither breathed a syllable of doubt or objection to the plan. The evening before we quitted Bath, our party included only four or five visitors, but had there been twenty I must have directed all my attention towards Murden. The preceding day I had seen him petulant; and the preceding part of that day, I had observed him to be more than commonly pensive and absent. He did not appear at dinner; but joined us early in the evening, with smiles and gaiety. So sudden and so singular a change excited my wonder and curiosity! I perceived it was not the gaiety of force; yet it had a tinge of complacent melancholy; and, from his subsequent conduct, I am convinced it had its origin in some determination he had taken, whether for himself, fortunate or unfortunate, the sequel alone can explain.

He shook my hand affectionately, when he bade us good night; and, at breakfast the following morning, we learned that he had galloped away at day break. He had left a letter for his uncle, not filled with flattering apologies, never fear it, but containing a short harangue on the impossibility of his going at present to London, and a few cold wishes for the general safety of the party at large.

Since that time, I also have been favoured with a letter from him which, although it is not intended to elucidate any part of his conduct, has brought back to my mind, with additional force, a surmise I formerly dismissed as too improbable.

What a length of letter! You see, Sibella, how closely I consider our feelings as united; for, while I endure no weariness myself, I fear not the chance of inflicting it upon you. Adieu, my sweet friend: may principle alone, not personal fatal experience, teach you, that your present system of secresy is erroneous.

CAROLINE ASHBURN

LETTER VII

FROM LORD FILMAR TO SIR WALTER BOYER

What a life have I led these three days! An old house my habitation, built according to old customs, with its casements staring at one another across a narrow court, and the very offices turning their backs on noble prospects; two old men and one ugly old woman my companions. No young nor pretty face abides within these walls, for thy poor friend's amusement.

Called up at nine! and, what is still worse, sent to bed at eleven! Did you ever go to bed at eleven, Boyer? – There I wake, and dose, and dream – dream I hear the inspiring rattle of dice boxes – wake, and curse myself for ever having known their enticements, and then curse them for not being now beside me.

What, in the name of wonder, could have become of you the day I left London! Your valet was drunk when I stopped full of intelligence at your lodgings. Uc – and Hic – was all I could get from the fellow for a time – and then followed 'Yes, Sir, – to be sure, my Lord – I'll tell you at once – my Lord is gone, Sir, – in a post-chaise and four, my Lord.' —

'Where is Sir Walter gone, puppy?'

'Sir Walter, my Lord! – Oh yes – Sir Walter is gone – I don't know where he is gone, Sir Walter.'

Drive on, cried I; and home I went, to step from my carriage to the travelling chaise, in which with my dear father I was gently whirled down to Monkton Hall.

What a life have I led these three days! – A pestilence on your throat, I say! – There he sits, Walter, the bird of night and wisdom; and, with his quavering Hoo – oo – oo, calls on me to be solemn if I can't be wise. I hate wisdom; and, had I not a story to tell you, would sit down and rail at it.

Every clock from every steeple last Wednesday morning sounded seven as I with pledged honour and empty pockets drove home from – . The memento was insolent; and I was splenetic. I longed to throw stones at the steeples; and to knock down each sturdy porter who looked into the chariot, to inform me by his clear eye and vigorous step that he has passed the night in rest, and had arisen poor indeed but happy. Impudent scoundrel! He, a porter! I, a viscount!

I undressed and went to bed; where I had the felicity of ruminating till ten o'clock upon the vast increase of my knowledge and happiness since I became so intimately connected with Spellman and his associates. At which hour of ten, the Earl sent a servant to request I would breakfast with him. Qualms of apprehension stole upon me. I foreboded strange discoveries and severe remonstrances; and, as I felt too humbled in my own opinion to be insolent even to my father, I considered how to avoid the interview, till I had mechanically staggered into the Earl's dressing-room, where I was received with 'good morning to your lordship.'

'I hope you are well, my Lord,' said I; and throwing myself across the sopha we sipped a cup of chocolate in silence.

'I enquired for you last evening,' said the Earl. 'I believe, Lord Filmar, it was extremely late ere you came home.'

'It was extremely late my Lord,' replied I. As I so readily agreed in his opinion, the Earl was at a loss how to proceed. Twice he removed his chair, played with a tea-spoon, and we finished our chocolate.

After the breakfast things were removed, the Earl turned his chair more toward me. 'Hem,' said he, – 'Hem!' I arose and wished his lordship a good morning.

'Stay, Lord Filmar, a moment – pray sit down. Hem! I understand but too well – that is I suspect – I am fearful, the company you keep will do you harm.'

Now, Walter, this man, the Earl of Elsings! a peer of the realm of Great Britain! had not courage to say to his own son – 'Dick, thou art a fool, and wilt be a beggar. Thy companions are gamblers, sharpers, and knaves; and henceforward I command thee to abstain from their society.'

'You astonish me, my Lord,' answered I, with great apparent simplicity; 'I could not suppose I should displease you by associating with men of rank.'

'Oh certainly, not! By no means! Only I would insinuate that play is dangerous, and your income small.'

Small indeed, thought I. A considerable pause succeeded; and then my father's countenance brightened. 'I purpose going down this day to Sir Gilbert Monkton's,' said he. I wished him an agreeable journey. 'You must go with me, Lord Filmar.'

'Nay, pray excuse me, Sir. Consider the season, the place, and the society. How can your lordship plan such an expedition at this part of the year? You will inevitably bring on an ague, or a nervous fever. Dear, my Lord, don't think of it!'

'Indeed,' replied the Earl, 'nothing but a view to your interest could have determined me to make Sir Gilbert a visit now. Your interest, Lord Filmar, has strong claims upon me. Your present income scarcely exceeds 1000l. a-year; and you well know that, with all my care and prudence, I have not so far recovered former encumbrances as to be able to leave with the title of Elsings more than a clear 5,000l. per annum.' – The Earl paused, hemmed, picked up a scrap of paper, then hemmed again, and proceeded.

'You know, I think you know, Mr. Valmont.' I bowed assent; and the Earl looked as if he wished I had spoken; but I was resolved to hear him to the end.

'Yes, you do know, Mr. Valmont: a very singular man. He has strange ideas of education. In all our conversations on the topic, I never could be brought to coincide with him. Yet he is a worthy man too. He has a prodigious fine estate at Moor Down; and that estate round the castle is in excellent order. A strange Gothic dismal place that castle of his to be sure. I cannot remember how long it is since it was built; but it was a Valmont built it I know. It has never been out of the family. Yet I wonder he should choose always to reside in it; and to keep his niece in it also. His niece – Hem! – You know, Lord Filmar, I am one of Miss Valmont's guardians.' I bowed again. 'I am told she is very handsome. She was a beautiful child. I have not seen her these ten years. It was very singular, indeed, I think to guard her so closely from every one's observation. Yes, Lord Filmar, Mr. Valmont's mode of thinking is certainly very singular. Miss Valmont's father was a most accomplished man; and one of my most intimate friends. He built a seat after the Italian manner, tasty and elegant as you can possibly suppose. He was very fond of Italy. Poor man, he died there. I wish I could have prevailed on Mr. Valmont to allow his niece a more enlarged education; her manners, I think, must be constrained and ungraceful: but certainly, as her father's brother, Mr. Valmont had a right to claim the sole protection of her person, and to bring her up as he thought proper.'

My father paused; and, though I could not immediately perceive the tendency of this ratiocination, I was resolved not to assist him, and remained silent.

'I was telling you, Lord Filmar, how much care and pains I have taken to redeem the Elsing estate. Let me advise you to leave off play, and to think of settling yourself advantageously. Would not a beautiful bride adorn the title of Lady Filmar?'

'I do not perceive,' answered I, 'that the title of Filmar wants any other ornament than it already possesses. Remember, dear Sir, I am scarcely two and twenty.'