Secresy; or, Ruin on the Rock

Heigh ho! and this pretty wisdom-speaking mortal has actually prevailed on me to endure the brunt and carry her back to Miss Ashburn! She has offered high bribes, – solid comforts, – made up of duty and justice; – but I have a sickly palate – spoiled by other viands, – I want a modern seasoned fricassee.

Alas! I have no alternative – unless I shoot her and bury her under a tree. I don't know what of that sort I may be tempted to for myself! for when I have no longer her and her concerns to think of I must turn to my own – a pretty prospect!

Do you know, Walter, any way that a Lord turned plain man can get a living? for unless I get it heaven knows I must go without it.

You are admiring my forbearance in keeping such a distance, Walter; but the fact is, I was a coward. Daily almost hourly Miss Valmont intreated she might speak with me, and I as constantly with a great many civil excuses declined the conversation. What could I have said but what had amounted to this: 'Miss Valmont, I ran away with you, because I wanted your estate, for want of a better. – As to yourself, I know nothing about you, therefore how can I care for you?' Methought, Walter, when I had your cash in hand I should be bold. Your cash came; I pocketed it; and I proudly strutted up to Miss Valmont. – The former pages will tell you the result.

The plot thickens, and I am more of Montgomery's sort than I believed I was. – Mr. Murden is dying. – Good God, Walter! who would have thought on this? – They told my messenger that he has been raving mad! and that a lady took him away for London yesterday morning. – I dare not relate to Miss Valmont these cursed tidings. – I am impatient to yield her up. – We shall travel as fast as I think her condition may allow without danger.

FILMAR

LETTER XXXVII

FROM GEORGE VALMONT TO CAROLINE ASHBURN

Madam,

I am certainly obliged to you for your intentions; and though I allow you have sometimes reason on your side, I think you make too little allowance for the proper obedience due from children to parents. As a parent I certainly stood both to Clement and Sibella, and they ought implicitly to have obeyed my commands. However, she poor child suffers sufficiently, and I am willing to forgive though I can never be reconciled to her. Her pregnancy will now be known to the world; and, were I again to receive her, I should co-operate in disgracing my family. I heartily wish your search may be successful; and I am ready to reimburse your expences; and also, if you find my niece, to allow her a proper establishment.

My Lord of Elsings, joint guardian with me in the trust of Miss Valmont, resides at present in this neighbourhood. I have had an interview with him on the business; but I do not discover that either himself, or any one related to him, is any way concerned in taking Sibella.

Will you take the trouble, in my name, to wish Clement Montgomery all the felicity he may expect to find in his union with old age, folly, and affectation?

Madam,Your very obedient servant,G. VALMONT

LETTER XXXVIII

FROM LORD FILMAR TO SIR WALTER BOYER

Your Pardon, Walter, that I should pass your lodgings as I drove out of town without stopping to say a single how-do-ye. But, let pity and humanity plead their cause with ever so much eloquence, yet the prejudices of custom are so potent that a man becomes ashamed if his eyes give their tribute to the feelings of his heart. Truly, Walter, I should have blushed to-day at my insensibility if I had not wept yesterday. Yet, for weeping, I coward-like drew up the blinds of my chaise, and, to hide myself from the finger of scorn, bade the driver carry me with all expedition to my aunt's retreat at Hayley lodge.

I must suppose, for your own sake, Boyer, that when you wrote me your hasty letter to the farm, you were uninformed of Montgomery's marriage with Mrs. Ashburn. Haste could not excuse such an over-sight, as little as you knew of Miss Valmont. No! no! it was not possible you could be informed of it and not send me the tidings.

I am an ass, I have not the common discernment of a school boy, or I had never talked of accommodating her condition by tardy travelling when I was bearing Miss Valmont to her beloved though perfidious Clement. Speed, flying speed, was alone necessary to her safety. I spared neither money nor command, yet to her foundered. Not that she complained. Never! She even thanked my zeal, when her gasping sensations would give way to utterance. But I saw it, Walter, in her eyes. I saw the speed of her affections in the convulsive swells of her bosom. Do not call me ridiculous, but upon my soul there were moments of the journey that while gazing on her I was on the point of grasping her in my arms, lest her very form should dissolve into feeling and vanish from my protection.

Once I refused to proceed unless she would take refreshment. She did not plead; and taking from me a cup of chocolate, her shaking hand raised it half way to her lips then returned it untasted to the table. I drew a chair, and deliberately seated myself, as if resolved to put my threat in practice. After a short silence, 'Sir,' said she, 'have you ever known what it is to love?' I was looking on the fire; and, recollecting some odd sensations that had occasionally crept to my heart, was about to reply in the affirmative, but turning my head and meeting the full gaze of her eloquent eye, an honest and prompt reply sprang to my lips – 'By my soul and salvation, never, Madam! – Griffiths, see the horses instantly put to the chaise. We alight no more, till we alight in London.'

Montgomery showed you a silly portrait that he painted. To say it was the likeness of Miss Valmont was a falsehood. 'Twas a mere passive representation of fine features. Let him paint me their energy, their force, the fulness of hope that beamed from them yesterday morning, and I will say he is worthy of Miss Valmont's love! – He cannot do it, Walter! He could as soon be a god! She never was beautiful till then. Not, in the fullest bloom of her vigour and prosperity, did she ever equal herself such as I saw her yesterday morning.

'This, Madam is Miss Ashburn's residence,' I said as we drove to the door.

'I shall see my Caroline first then,' said Miss Valmont: – 'next my Clement.'

Agitated as I was at the time by her impatience and expectations, I cannot suppose I enquired for any one else than Miss Ashburn. Whether the servant imagined she was of the party or concluded my visit must be to his mistress I know not, but he announced Lord Filmar in the drawing room; and I led in the loveliest spectre with golden threaded hair to an apartment where Montgomery lolled negligently on one sopha and his portly bride on another.

Shall I tell you how they looked? No! for their best looks are worthless! But I will tell you that Miss Valmont looked ardor love and truth. – She raised her clasped hands one instant, then rushed into the arms of Montgomery, which involuntarily opened to receive and were compelled to sustain her. A confused suspicion of something more than usually wrong in Montgomery darted upon my mind. I looked wistfully around the apartment, as it were for a relief from danger, and my heart bounded as I saw Miss Ashburn enter the room. – Charming woman! She could make astonishment yield to better feelings with admirable presence of mind, she instantly approached Miss Valmont, saying, 'Sibella, dearest Sibella, have you no tokens for your Caroline?'

'Oh yes,' replied Miss Valmont, 'many, many! Love and gratitude also for my Caroline! happy happy world! I will live with you in it for ever!'

Miss Ashburn endeavoured to retain Sibella in her embrace; and began hurryingly to enquire of her where she had been, and by what means she had got hither. But Miss Valmont knew nothing of the past. She was alive only to the present, to her own anticipation of the future. She turned back to him.

'I say for ever, Clement!' – She would have given herself a second time to his arms, but an averted look and staggering retreat forbad her.

Good God, Walter, methinks I see her now! Never shall I cease to remember the changes of her countenance – from rapture to astonishment – from dumb astonishment to doubt: – and from doubt, the quick transition, to despair!

Thus spoke to her the hesitating cold blooded villain – 'Miss Valmont, you have used me very ill – once – I – I could have – it was barbarous of you who knew your uncle's severe disposition – a little longer concealment might – '

He paused. Miss Ashburn's tears began to flow for her friend, who showed no symptom of common sorrow. Miss Ashburn endeavoured to take her hands; but Sibella shrunk as if the kind emotions of her nature were congealed. A tear that had lingered on her cheek, the last of her tears of happiness, died away. Her asking eye still fixed itself on Montgomery, nor could he forbear answering to it.

'You know, Miss Valmont – '

'Hear me! listen only to me!' exclaimed Miss Ashburn. Sibella pushed her firmly aside, and bent forward to him.

'I would, Miss Valmont – 'continued he in the same irresolute, cowardly, cruel tone, 'I should be glad to serve you. – It will be best that you return to your uncle. It might have been otherwise – but you were always rash and premature. – This is not time for explanations. I am sorry, but I cannot now give you any protection, for I – I am, indeed – Yes, Madam, I am married.'

'Are we not both married?' said she, with an emphasis that thrilled him. – 'What is this? – speak Clement!'

'Nay, now, Miss Valmont, you are childish,' said Mrs. Ashburn coldly (Montgomery's bride I mean). 'What man of taste marries a woman after an affair with her?'

'I can bear this no longer,' cried Miss Ashburn. 'Silence, Madam! – Sibella, dear Sibella, turn your eyes on me! Let not their pure rays beam on a wretch so worthless!'

Devoured by emotions over which friendship had no control, she was still deaf to Miss Ashburn. Still those pure eyes bent their gaze on Montgomery, who now trembled, who now could not ever articulate his broken sentences, who, fainting with guilt, supported himself by leaning on the back of that couch on which he had so lately reclined in the ease of his basely purchased triumph. Suddenly starting from this posture, he rushed towards the door.

'Whither, whither, Clement!' exclaimed Miss Valmont. 'Oh, you'll take me with you, Clement!' – And while, without daring to look on her, he disengaged his hand which she had seized, she rapidly uttered in a softened tone of voice – 'Clement, lover, husband, all!'

The door shut upon Montgomery, she shrieked. Miss Ashburn would have embraced her, but she would not suffer it. She sunk upon the floor. She crossed her arms upon her bosom, with a violent pressure, as if to bind the agony; her teeth grated against each other; and every limb shuddered.

I had approached her with Miss Ashburn, and, scarcely less affected than Miss Ashburn herself, I was turning away to hide my emotions when she sprang upon her feet in an instant; and, grasping my arm, 'you shall not go without me,' she said. 'Come, Sir: I have told you the way, carry me back to the castle.'

'Then you have forgotten your Caroline, forgotten the kind Murden who hazarded so much to save you?'

'No,' replied Miss Valmont, 'I never forgot any one.'

She took her hand from my arm, and lifted both hands to her forehead. She stood immoveable in deep musing for some time. 'Take me to the castle!' at length she exclaimed, without changing her posture or looking at any person. 'Bid Mr. Valmont provide a dungeon where I can die. I will not go to the wood! Oh, no! nor to my chamber!' She groaned and started. – 'For whom is it that you weep, thus?' she asked, abruptly turning round to Miss Ashburn.

'For my Sibella.'

She bent forward; and gazed intently in Miss Ashburn's face, as if in search of something.

'It is Caroline!' said she, drawing back. Spreading her arms wide, she looked down upon herself: 'Sibella!' – then, every muscle of her face convulsed with anguish, she bent her eyes upon the door – 'and that was Clement! – Oh!'

In short, Walter, a thousand tender touches followed which wrung my heart to pity – while that – woman had the insolence and brutality to call herself Montgomery's wife. But Sibella did not understand her, or if she did, 'twas nothing. His look, his tones had completed the work, and her mind could feel nothing beyond. Other dreadful agonies followed, but under the suffering of those she was patience itself. She was conveyed to her friend's chamber; and in three hours delivered of a dead child.

I waited the result alone in Miss Ashburn's library, canvassing over all the exquisite concern I had in producing such misery to this injured Sibella. Had I been buried in a quick sand on the road to Hipsley, her noble minded Caroline and the tender Murden might by due preparation have robbed Clement's perfidy of half its sting. But to come upon her thus, to hurl her down such a precipice from the felicity of her expectations – Oh, no wonder her life should be in danger! And think, Walter, what I must have felt when they came to tell me so.

In such a moment, who could palliate? Not, I indeed! I did not conceal from Miss Ashburn an atom of the truth; and she talked like an angel, for she not only told me I should amend but taught me how to amend.

One little satisfaction, indeed, visited me under that roof. I saw Janetta Laundy disgracefully dismissed. She it was, I doubt not, that made this match to satisfy her own grasping avarice by Montgomery's folly. Would you believe that she had so far imposed on the credulity of Mrs. Ashburn that she dared sneer at my assertions? Luckily, I had some letters in my pocket-book lately written by her to me, and such proofs could neither be denied nor parried. As the letters pretty fully displayed the commerce with Montgomery, Mrs. Ashburn poured on her a torrent of abuses; but scarcely had Janetta withdrawn when she complained that her daughter had made her house odious to her, had brought a rival to insult her; and finally she ordered a servant to enquire if Mr. Montgomery would attend her to the opera. Mr. Montgomery was no where to be found.

And, next, Miss Ashburn gave me a commission. No less, Walter, than to relate my worthy exploits to Mr. Murden. By the interest of Miss Ashburn's name, I was admitted to his chamber. When I saw the wasted form and heard the hollow voice of Murden, and knew, for Miss Ashburn had told me, that love of Miss Valmont had brought him thus near the grave, I shuddered at the idea of my commission. He heard me with a composure which shocked while it astonished me, till I mentioned our entering Mrs. Ashburn's drawing room. 'Hold Sir,' cried he, 'has she then seen him?' I replied, 'she has indeed.'

'Enough, Sir,' said he, 'I know all that remains already.'

Not another syllable passed between us, till I rose to go. He then offered me his hand, and said if I would promise not to pity him he would ask to see me again.

And so he shall. I will, if possible, see him before he dies. My messenger, who brings you this letter, travels for tidings respecting Miss Valmont. Adieu,

FILMAR

LETTER XXXIX

FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN TO GEORGE VALMONT

Sir,

Our Sibella is found. – I write at her bed-side; and, if after one hour's cool investigation of the past, you can lay your hand on your heart and say, though Sibella offended me I was ever just to her, I will yield up the earnest wish I have, that you should come to London to extend the forgiveness you have already granted, to see, to bless her, e'er she dies. Those convulsive starts tell me nature cannot long support the struggle.

She was the only child of your brother, Sir, and one among the fairest among the daughters of men.

You complain, Sir, that my opinions pay too little deference to the 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.'