Secresy; or, Ruin on the Rock

Among the disappointments produced by this marriage, the want of children was the most offensive to Mr. Valmont. Your father, who had pursued a course of life quite different from his brother, tasting all the excesses of dissipation; died; and, very improperly in my opinion, left you to the guardianship of your uncle. That Mr. Valmont should adopt a son from the lowly condition of a cottager's child, has occasioned much wonder and many surmises; however, as I do not find any thing material either to you or me in the conjectures, I have listened to on this occasion, I shall not be at the pains of relating them.

But how comes it to pass, my dearest Sibella, that when your uncle had the means of gratifying his darling wish in educating two children, and one of them a female, to whom according to his creed, nothing should be granted beyond what the instinct of appetite demands, how comes it, I say, that you possess the comprehensive powers of intellect? from what sources did you derive that eager desire of knowledge of which I find you possessed; and how came you to be learned on subjects, which, in the education of females, are strictly withheld, to make room for trifling gaudy and useless acomplishments? tell me by what miracle I find you such as you are, and let me cease to wonder at you, but never let me cease to love you.

Tell me too, how came you to be dependent on your uncle? Does your dependence only mean the protection due from him who stands in the place of a parent to you? I wish to be informed what explanation Mr. Valmont and yourself affix to the term of dependent, when it is applied to you; for colonel Ridson talks so familiarly of the fortune you must possess from your mother, and also the wealth of the Valmont family which he says is yours by heirship, that I must own I am puzzled. I care little about your being rich, but is seems unnatural and unjust to have you a dependent on your haughty uncle.

Ah, my dear Sibella, how often in a day do I feast my imagination by allowing it to bear me back to you; and yet perhaps, our separation gives a spur, a stimulus to our friendship. I am not convinced, indeed, but that temporary separations are even useful between lovers; and that Mr. Valmont may have acted rather wisely than otherwise, in parting you and your Clement for a season. Why he should bid you remember him only as a brother, is really too far plunged into obscurity for me to discover.

Do not, however, suppose for an instant that my affection for you would decay were I at liberty to enjoy your society as I wish; on the contrary, I am persuaded that every hour I should pass with you would add something to my improvement, and render us more valuable to each other. My expression arose from my being at that moment in idea a partner of your seclusion, and feeling that I should want in the same situation that energy and activity which is the support of your solitude. I am fond of society; and, indeed, I find myself most excited when I have most opportunities of observing the various characters and pursuits of those around me. Gladly would I possess the power of selecting my society. From that happy privilege I am debarred. But I seldom make one of a circle in which I do not find some novelty of character, and something either of excellence or absurdity from which I may draw improvement.

Yet, a two month's visit at the villa of Sir Thomas Barlowe is rather a hard trial of my patience; and, unless we are enlivened by new visitors, I fear the company here will afford me but a trifling harvest of observation. I shall soon be glad to turn from them to my own resources; and fly, even oftener than I now do, to the ever vivifying remembrance of my Sibella.

Sir Thomas Barlowe has risen from some very obscure station to the wealth and dignity of a nabob. He has risen too, I greatly fear, by the same depredating practices which the unfortunate natives of India seem destined constantly to suffer from those who perfidiously call themselves the protectors of the country. Sir Thomas Barlowe's riches have become his punishment. Each morning, his fears awaken with his faculties, lest that day should bring tidings of the dreaded scrutiny; and, when evening arrives, and he struggles to yield himself to mirth and wine amidst the circle he has assiduously gathered round him, a word, a look, or the most remote hint or allusion gives his watchful terrors an alarm. A sudden turn of his head, perchance, discovers his shadow on the wall. Legions of threatening phantoms then crowd upon his apprehension; and the evening, yet more miserable than the day, concludes with an opiate, administered to lull the feeble body into lethargy, and hush the perturbed conscience into silence.

And my mother can look on this existing fact with indifference, while I shudder. Those enormous sums of wealth she lavishes away, that cluster of pearls she triumphantly places in her hair, those diamonds heaped into different ornaments, how were they obtained? Thousands perhaps – Oh, Sibella! I have laid aside my ornaments! A dress plain as your's supersedes them.

Lady Barlowe is a composition of a very curious kind. She is about forty years younger than her husband, is tolerably pretty, and has a showy talent of repartee that she mistakes for a sublime genius; and her inclinations are perpetually at warfare, without being able to decide whether she shall be most renowned as a wit or a beauty. She is extravagantly fond of admiration, which she formerly enjoyed unlimitedly, being the head toast of a small county town, till she became the wife of a nabob. Prosperity has not increased her happiness; for in the great and gay world she has found rivals of such magnitude that malice and envy have strung up within that bosom which till now owned no inmate but vanity.

These are our host and hostess. The first in precedency among the visitors ranks the Earl of Ulson: an antiquated gallant, who, in public, affects not to feel the approaches of age; and, in private, broods over the consciousness of its effects till he sickens with ill nature. The countess of Ulson hates her husband; nor has she over much charity and good-will towards other men. She talks largely, indeed, of her piety, and the strict performance of her manifold duties.

This amiable pair are attended by their son and two daughters. Lord Bowden is so perfectly satisfied within himself, that, if you will take his word for it, there is not a more amiable and accomplished young man in England. His eldest sister, lady Mary Bowden claims no praise beyond what is justly due to the complacency of her temper; she is at once too giddy and too indolent to aim at meriting a more enlarged praise; she loves dress, company, cards, and scandal; and indulges herself in the use of the latter as a mere matter of course, without entertaining the smallest particle of ill-will towards the very persons she helps to vilify. I have endeavoured to convince lady Mary of the folly of this practice, and she acknowledges, that what I say appears very much to the purpose, but then how can she cease to do what every body does.

All the beauty that exact regularity of feature, and transparency of complexion can bestow, is in the possession of the Earl of Ulson's youngest daughter, lady Laura Bowden. Beyond this description, I hardly know what to say of her. I can perceive she entertains a very hearty contempt for her sister; and perhaps, she may hold me in as little estimation; but a woman so perfectly well bred as lady Laura does not display such sentiments if she entertains them, unless some species of rivalship should unfortunately call her passions into action. I do not think her either witty or wise, yet I have been told she bears the reputation of the former, and is poet enough occasionally to pen a rebus or an acrostic. It may be so. I have not been favoured with her confidence. A delicate languor pervades her manners, and this is generally honoured with the name of sensibility. I am apt to call it affectation; for the sensibility that I understand and admire, is extreme only in proportion to the greatness of the occasion; it does not waste itself in vapours, nor is it ever on the watch for wasps and spiders. Colonel Ridson assures me that Lady Laura Bowden is admired by the whole world, and that he must be the happiest of men on whom her ladyship bestows a preference.

Colonel Ridson loves his white teeth, and his epaulet. He likes every body, praises every body, is attentive to every body; lives without attachment; and will probably die in the same torpid state, without ever knowing felicity, or ordinary misfortune.

The colonel hitherto has been the only unmarried man amongst us, except Lord Bowden, who really is so assiduous in remembering his own recommendations that no one else finds it necessary to remember him or them at all.

But we are now to be enlivened. It seems we damsels are to be excited to call forth our charms, for the conquest of a youth of no common value, as his fame goes here. Sir Thomas Barlowe's nephew, Mr. Murden, arrived at the villa this very day.

I know not why I should be particularly selected from the party, by Sir Thomas Barlowe, to listen to his encomiums on this nephew. From the most insignificant occurrences, the Baronet has constantly occasion to say – 'Ha! Ha! Miss Ashburn, if my nephew Arthur was but come!' If I praised a dish of fruit at table, the nabob's nephew Arthur had certainly done the same thing. Let me speak of walking or riding, let me complain of hail, rain or sunshine, Arthur was still my promised chaperon, the future knight-errant of all my grievances.

'Tell me something,' said I one day to Colonel Ridson, 'of this Mr. Murden, this hope of the family.'

'He is very handsome,' replied the Colonel.

'But is he good?'

'Assuredly.'

'And amiable?'

'Infinitely!'

'And wise?'

'To a miracle, madam,' replied the Colonel.

Good! amiable! wise! – Who could desire more?

Lady Mary Bowden stood beside me one afternoon, while the baronet was reminding me of his dear Arthur. 'Sir Thomas I believe intends,' said I to her, 'that I shall be in love by anticipation. You know Mr. Murden. What is he?'

'Oh!' cried Lady Mary, lifting up her right hand, to enforce the spirit of her emphasis, 'he is the most abominable rake in the universe!'

I absolutely started. 'It is possible, Lady Mary, you should mean what you say?' I asked after a moment's pause. 'Yes! certainly!' replied her ladyship, quite gaily; 'every body knows of hundreds with whom he has been a very happy man.'

'I do not want,' said I, 'to hear what every body says. I want, Lady Mary, to know your own sincere opinion of Mr. Murden. If you have already told me a fact, my situation to be sure will oblige me to be sometimes in his company; but, in that case, there exists not a reptile, however noxious or despicable, from whom I should shrink with more abhorrence than from this boasted nephew of the nabob.'

'Good God!' cried Lady Mary: 'Why! what did I say? I protest I have forgotten, already. I am sure I know no harm in the world of Mr. Murden.'

'Did not you tell me he was an abominable rake?'

'They say so,' replied Lady Mary. 'He certainly is very engaging. He admires fine women. But I don't know whether he has ever made serious addresses to any one. Miss Ashburn, I'll tell you a secret.'

'You had better not. I don't keep secrets.'

'Oh, all the world knows it, already. Lady Laura is quite fond of Murden. You would have laughed to have seen her last winter, as I did, plunged over head and ears in sentiment and sensibility. Well, I do hate affectation.'

'And you do love good nature.'

'So I do,' said she smiling; 'and I hope with all my heart that my poor sister may now secure her conquest, unless indeed, Miss Ashburn, it should interfere with you.'

Neither the baronet's hints, the colonel's all good, all wise, nor the motley dubious character given by Lady Mary Bowden of Mr. Murden, would have tempted me to devote thus much of my paper to him. I have other inducements. I have heard that the domestics of Barlowe Hall anxiously expected the day of his coming. A gardener, who has been discharged for no worse fault, I believe, than his being too old, assures himself, that the prosperity of him and his family will be restored when Mr. Murden arrives. I have heard also, that the neighbouring cottagers bless him. Such a man must have worth. Agnes, who is zealous to tell me all the good she can of any one, has related several anecdotes of Mr. Murden, from which I learn, that he possesses sympathy and benevolence. I cannot tell how such qualities can exist in the mind of a man who is, either in principle or practice, a libertine. Yet, Agnes also had been told that Mr. Murden was a libertine. I bade her enquire more; and she could hear of no particular instances wherein the peace of individuals or families had been injured by him. Still those with whom Agnes conversed, bestowed on him this hateful title. I fear the reproach may belong to him. Young men are frequently carried into these excesses, from the pernicious effect of example, sometimes from vanity, and from a variety of other causes, all which tend to one uniform effect, to destroy the understanding, deprave the heart, corrupt the disposition, and render loathsome and detestable a being that might have lived an honour and a blessing to his species. If Mr. Murden is indeed devoted to this error, farewel to his benevolent virtues, to his sense of justice; and farewel to the pleasure and instruction I might have gained in the society of a virtuous man.

I said Mr. Murden was already arrived; but I have not seen him. He paid his duty to his uncle, in the Baronet's own apartment; and then retired to dress before he would present himself in the breakfast parlour. Lady Laura appeared impatient; she was adorned in a new morning dress, perfectly graceful and becoming. The hour came in which I was to write to my Sibella; and I would not sacrifice that employment for twenty such introductions.

Farewel, my friend! Close to your altar of love, raise one of friendship, and I also will meet you at the oak.

CAROLINE ASHBURN

LETTER VI

FROM SIBELLA VALMONT TO CAROLINE ASHBURN

A confused recollection sprang up in my mind when you questioned me concerning my dependence. On the day of his last departure, my father caressed me fondly; he held me a long time in his arms; and he shed tears over me. He spoke, likewise, at intervals; not, perhaps, with any expectation of being understood by me, but to relieve the weighty pressure of his thoughts. I well remember that he named my uncle. He had many papers on a table before him; and I think there was a connection in his discourse between them and me. I believe he spoke of some disposition of his fortune; but the time is now remote, and the idea is indistinct. I cannot cloathe it in expression.

I do not possess a fortune; for my uncle calls me dependent, talks of obligations I owe to him for the gratification of my wants. He talks of obligations, who denies me instruction, equality, and my Clement. He provides me food and raiment. Are there not thousands in the world, where you and Clement live, who supply such wants by labour? And I too could labour. Let Mr. Valmont retire to the shelter of his canopy, and the luxury of down! I can make the tree my shade, and the moss my pillow.

Mr. Valmont calls himself my father; and calling himself such, he there rests satisfied. Cold in his temperament, stern from his education, he imagines kindness would be indulgence, and indulgence folly. Ever on the watch for faults, the accent of reproof mingles with his best commendations.

He demands my obedience, too! What obedience? the grateful tribute to duty, authorised by reason, and sanctioned by the affections? No. Mr. Valmont, here at least, ceases to be inconsistent. He never enlightened my understanding, nor conciliated my affections; and he demands only the obedience of a fettered slave. I am held in the bondage of slavery. And still may Mr. Valmont's power constrain the forces of this body. But where, Miss Ashburn, is the tyrant that could ever chain thought, or put fetters on the fancy?

I charge you, cease to repeat my uncle's useless prohibition, that I should remember Clement otherwise than as a brother. Let him give his barrier to the waves, arrest the strong air in its current, but dream not of placing limits to the love of Clement and Sibella!

Do I weary you with this endless topic? You read the world: I, my own heart. Imprisoned, during so many years, within the narrow boundary of this castle and its parks, the same objects eternally before me, I look with disgust from their perpetual round of succession. Nature herself, spring, summer, autumn, degenerate into sameness.

Where must I turn me then, but to the resources of my own heart? Love has enriched it; and friendship will not reject its offerings.

Yes: they are many, my Caroline; various and increasing. Shall my uncle tell me that my actions are confined to the mechanical operations of the body, that I am an imbecile creature, but a reptile of more graceful form, the half finished work of nature, and destitute of the noblest ornament of humanity? Blind to conviction, grown old in error, he would degrade me to the subordinate station he describes. He daringly asserts that I am born to the exercise of no will; to the exercise of no duties but submission; that wisdom owns me not, knows me not, could not find in me a resting place.

'Tis false, Caroline! I feel within the vivifying principle of intellectual life. My expanding faculties are nurtured by the passing hours! and want but the beams of instruction, to ripen into power and energy that would steep my present inactive life in forgetfulness.

Bonneville, when shall I cease to love thy memory, to recal thy lessons? It was thou, Bonneville, who first bade me cherish this stimulating principle; who called the powers of my mind forth from the chaos, wherewith Mr. Valmont had enveloped them. Thou, Bonneville, taught me that I make an unimpaired one of the vast brotherhood of human kind; that I am a being whose mistakes demand the conviction of reason, but whose mind ought not to bow down under power and prejudice.

He of whom I speak, Miss Ashburn, was chosen to be Clement's tutor. Can you conceive the sensations which swell within my breast while I recal the memory of this friend of my infancy? My friend, ere I lost Clement, ere I knew you, Caroline. Methinks I hear his voice; I see his gestures. Again, he enters the wood path. Again, I behold that countenance beautiful in age, radiant in wisdom. – He speaks. My soul hangs on his utterance. All my lesser affections fade away.

Ah, no! no! no! Bonneville is gone for ever! Clement is torn from me! You are interdicted! and I am alone in the wood path!

I hailed him by the name of father. He called me his child. He was enervated with disease. The chill damps of evening pierced him. The wintry blast shook his feeble frame. Still, would he endure the damps of evening, and tremble under the cold blast, rather than Sibella should be sunk in ignorance and sloth; for her cruel uncle had forbidden her an entrance into that apartment where Bonneville gave Clement his daily instruction.

Five days passed away, and Clement had not met his tutor in the library. Five long evenings, Clement had taken his usual rides with Mr. Valmont, yet no Bonneville had visited the oak. My mind anticipated the hour of his approach, and mourned its disappointment. My questions accumulated; I stored up demand upon demand; I recalled the subject of all our conversations; I carefully selected for another investigation, those parts which I had not fully comprehended; I arranged my doubts; and, perhaps, had never so prepared my mind for improvement, as when I heard that Bonneville was in bed, ill, dying. I flew to his apartment. Clement followed me. We saw him die. 'My father! my father!' I cried. 'You will not leave us! We are your children! Better were it that we should die with you than be left without you. My father! my father!'

Sobs and tears could not delay the inexorable moment; and my life seemed to fade from me, when I found that his lips were closed for ever.

Would you believe that my uncle – Yes, you would believe, for you know his haughty sternness, – but no matter, 'tis past, and ought to be forgotten.

But a few days, and not an eye save mine, wept for the absence of Bonneville. Clement was satisfied with a new tutor. The new tutor was wise, good, and kind; for Clement said so; but he strictly obeyed Mr. Valmont, and Sibella was abandoned of guide, of father.

Death, an object new, hideous, and awfully mysterious was now ever before me. Multitudes of dark perplexing ideas succeeded each other in my mind, with a rapidity which doubt and dissatisfaction created. 'Why is it?' said I to myself, 'and what cause can produce an effect so overwhelming? Throughout life, the mind invariably rules the functions of the body. It transports itself from, and returns to its abode at pleasure; it can look back on the past, or fly forward to the future; it passes all boundary of place; creates or annihilates; and soars or dives into other worlds. Yet, in one moment, its wearied tool, the body, had extinguished these omnipotent powers, and to me quenched its vast energies for ever.' I wrung my hands in bitterness, and in anguish of heart; and I called loudly on the name of my lost instructor, for I had now no instructor.

Caroline, do not expect me to speak again of Bonneville. The tumult, the perplexity returns; and no solution is at hand to soothe or to cheer me.

Seventeen days, Mr. Valmont, his steward, and their labourers have occupied my wood.

My uncle himself gave me a command not to appear there during the day. – I said, 'At night, Sir, I am I hope at liberty.'

'You are, child,' my uncle replied; and I failed not to avail myself of the privilege. On the rising ground of the broad wood path, and nearly opposite to my oak, I found the earth dug away, and preparations made, of which I could not give an explanation; but from the progress of a few days labour, a small beautiful edifice of white marble gradually rose under the shade of a clump of yew trees, whose branches were reflected on the polished surface as in a mirror.

Its structure appeared to me beautiful. I was charmed with it as a novel object. I rejoiced that it was so near my oak. But I stood utterly at a loss, when I attempted to form an opinion of its design or utility.

Perhaps when you were at the castle, you became acquainted with the defects and singularities of the two attendants whom my uncle assigned me. Andrew, almost inflexible in silence, attempts (when I put him to the trial) to explain himself by signs. While his daughter possesses not, that I could ever discover, in the smallest degree the faculty of hearing. Andrew often looks on me with affection; but Margaret, who has a most repulsive countenance and demeanour, appears, even while I endeavour to conciliate her by kind looks, to be scarcely conscious that I am in existence. With such companions intercourse is rigorously excluded. In cases of peculiar uncertainty, I sometimes venture to apply to Andrew, as I did on the morning after I had seen the beautiful edifice in the wood path completed. Andrew said, 'Tis a tomb.'

Shortly after, I called at Mrs. Valmont's door to inquire of her health, for she is now recovering slowly from a severe indisposition. Very unusually, she desired I might be admitted. I stood while I spoke to her, for the wood was at liberty, and I was impatient to be gone. The surprise of Andrew's concise information was new in my mind, and I began to describe the structure in the wood path. I perceived Mrs. Valmont's attendant directing strange looks and gestures to me, and I paused to ask her meaning. She positively denied the circumstance, and I proceeded. When I mentioned the name of tomb, Mrs. Valmont started forward on the couch where she sat. 'Raised a tomb!' cried she. 'For whom?' And then, again falling back in seeming agony, she added without waiting for my reply, 'Yes, I know it well, he has opened a tomb for me.'

'For you, madam?' I said, 'you are not yet dead.'

'Barbarian!' exclaimed Mrs. Valmont, looking fiercely on me, 'not yet dead! – Insolent! – Be gone, I shall be dead but too soon. Be gone, I say, the very sight of any of your hated infidel race destroys me.'

I wished to understand how Mrs. Valmont's anger and agitations were thus excited, for she began to utter strange assertions, that my uncle intended to murder her, and that he had made me his instrument. She groaned and wept. One of her attendants urged me to withdraw; and I complied. From thence, I visited the tomb. Again I admired its structure and its situation; but I could not devise why a receptacle for the dead should be reared amidst the living.