Secresy; or, Ruin on the Rock

LETTER XXIV

FROM JANETTA LAUNDY TO CLEMENT MONTGOMERY

I ought to reproach you; but, dear and irresistible as you are, your image, Montgomery, banishes every thing but sensations of pleasure. What can be the reason of your sudden gloom and distraction? I am sure the loss of your money cannot be all, because you know how easily you may be supplied by Mrs. Ashburn till you have further remittances. Why should you hesitate, when I assure you she would be obliged by your making the demand? Recollect her own words the evening she compelled you to use her pocket-book at the faro table; and, if you will not allow me to urge you on another point, at least be persuaded to spare yourself fruitless anxiety about your losses at play.

Still I fear there is something else; and will you not tell it to Janetta, to your own Janetta, who has sacrificed her peace to you, what it is that thus distresses you? Do you remember how you behaved last night? I was terrified to death at your appearance. I asked if you were ill. You struck your hand on your forehead, and said you were undone. 'Is the beauteous Sibella inconstant?' asked Mrs. Ashburn. – I shall never forget the manner of your answer. You spoke through your shut teeth. 'Damnation, madam! she has ruined me!' Then, whirling round, you caught my hand, and exclaimed, 'Oh Laundy! I am indeed undone!'

How I trembled! – I tremble now to think of it. For God's sake, my dear beloved Montgomery, be careful! The hated, the prying Miss Ashburn was by; and if she never suspected us before, I am sure she does now. You went up to Lady Barlowe and asked her fiercely for her nephew.

'Mr. Murden, Sir,' said Miss Ashburn looking at you with such scorn I could have killed her, 'Mr. Murden, Sir, is at present a sort of wandering knight errant. Sometime within a fortnight you will hear certain tidings of him. He may be in London.'

It seemed as if you came only to ask this question; for you went away soon after; and, though you strove to be gayer, you sighed so deeply I could scarcely contain myself. I wept all night; and now I am writing instead of dressing. How dear to me every employment that has a concern with my charming Montgomery! – I know not what excuse I shall make at dinner for my melancholy appearance; but fears for my own safety are swallowed up in my apprehensions for you.

Luckily, the Dutchess is confined with a cold. – I will visit her to-night; and, on my way, call on you. So prepare to confide all your griefs to the sympathizing bosom of your Janetta.

Miss Ashburn, two hours ago, received a letter which seemed to give her great pleasure; and, while she was reading it, Lord Filmar came in. When she had finished the letter, she turned to him. 'Didn't I hear you speak of some one being ill, my Lord?'

'Oh, yes, madam, I was enquiring whether Montgomery came here last night to seek physicians or a nurse. I called on him yesterday morning and the servant said, his master was very bad, dreadfully bad, too bad to be seen. I sent after dinner, and he was worse. I drove to his lodgings, just now, to make my adieus, before I leave town, and still he was so bad I could not be let in. Yet I met Miss Trevors, who tells me he was of the party here last evening; a little out of spirits, indeed, but quite as handsome as ever.'

'That he is bad, my Lord,' replied Miss Ashburn fixing her eyes on me, I can very well credit. And, ere long, I shall endeavour to point out some persons who have the same infectious disorders.'

Unless you had seen her look, you can't tell half the meaning this conveyed. – After reading her letter again, she told Mrs. Ashburn she was going out of town immediately; and being asked where, she said, that could not be explained till her return. Her chaise is ordered; and I am delighted to think she can't interrupt us when she is away.

Dear, too dear Montgomery, expect at nine, thy ever faithful

LETTER XXV

FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN TO ARTHUR MURDEN

The long narrow passage where you met those three men you spoke of connects the tower with the south wing. There you will find a flight of stone stairs, by which she used to descend to the armoury. Those stairs will conduct you into the gallery belonging to Sibella's apartments. Her uncle, fond of magnificence, appropriated to her use solely all the suite of rooms on that floor of the wing. She may be secured by lock and key, but I do not suppose any one is permitted to sleep near her. Of that you must run the hazard.

Do not wonder my lines are uneven, for I actually tremble while I follow you in imagination to that gallery. Were I writing to any one but yourself I should bid you blend boldness and caution. You have done it already.

Ah, my sweet friend, my Sibella! – but I forgot that you are a stranger, my Sibella, to nervous apprehension. – The first word of his errand will bless you!

No, Murden, mere assertion though aided by the authority of your name, will not convince Mrs. Ashburn of her companion's proflicacy. If I cannot fairly and fully detect her practices, I can never remove her. The affair must rest till my return; and then I will try my utmost. I thank you for your information, and I have this morning given Miss Laundy an information that I understand her. A surprising alteration is displayed in Montgomery. Mr. Valmont, I conclude, has begun his discipline. – Explanation is approaching; and do you, my friend, school yourself, before you and he meet, and then you will not cease to befriend him though he may cease to befriend himself.

Adieu! ere this arrives at the farm, I shall be at my station.

LETTER XXVI

FROM CLEMENT MONTGOMERY TO JANETTA LAUNDY

And is it come to this? You urged the secret from me I would fain have withheld; and now do you also give me up to despair? Oh Janetta! Janetta! have I deserved it of you? What was there in that cruel letter of Mr. Valmont's which should chill the ardour of love? His anger has blasted all the fair promises of my life; but it could not transform me into age or ugliness. Still am I, though wretched and desperate, thy Montgomery; still adoring thy beauty, panting for thy charms.

Forgive me if these reproaches are injurious to your tenderness. If you yet love me, forgive me. Alas! you love me not! You turn from me with an averted eye. You repulse my caresses! You give me up to misery and despair; and the wretched Montgomery dies under your neglect.

Farewel, my Janetta! Oh farewel, farewel, then, to all the blooming pleasures which I gathered with an eager hand! My sentence is without appeal. Mr. Valmont – that a father should be so cruel! dooms me to poverty and disgrace. Can I exist in poverty? No, by heaven! Shall I languish in a sordid dwelling, with there food and covering, and sicken over the remembrance of past enjoyments? Shall I live to crawl along with steps enfeebled by misfortune, and view the splendid equipages of those who were once my associates pass me unheeded? No, I cannot endure it. Some way or other I must end it. All the means of making life desirable are denied me. I blush at my unmerited disgrace. I would hide myself from every eye save your's, Janetta; and, when the fatal tidings are divulged abroad, I shall surely expire with torture.

Yet, be once more kind, my charmer: – if thou hast no kindness for the unfortunate Montgomery, this once, at least affect it. Thou hast known misfortune. Have pity on me! Come and listen to my sighs: let me breathe a sorrowful farewel on thy bosom. I shall not ask this indulgence a second time. I will fly, to bury in solitude the short remnant of a miserable existence. – Then come, and once more bid my heart throb with rapturous sensations! Bid me for a moment forget my doom, remembering only what I have been! – The blissful moment ended, farewel, Janetta! farewel to all!

LETTER XXVII

FROM JANETTA LAUNDY TO CLEMENT MONTGOMERY

It is very strange I should express myself so ill as to have my emotions of sorrow and regret mistaken, by you, for coldness and aversion. It is cruel, Montgomery, thus to accuse your Janetta. Could I but describe the anguish I suffered both on your account and my own, you would pity me. Yes, Montgomery; 'tis I should ask for pity. I, who never till now knew how strong are the ties by which my rival held you. Barbarous as she is, I fear you still love her. She thinks only how she can most effectually work your ruin; while you charge with neglect and unkindness the faithful Janetta, who is labouring to redress your misfortunes.

Montgomery, there is but one way. To talk of dying is absurd. You may feel a temporary languor, the effect of vapour and indigestion; but the bloom and vigour of a constitution like your's is not so easily undermined. Trust me, you will live to a good old age, even with the despicable 200l. per annum your hard hearted father bestows on you. But it is in your power, Montgomery, to live surrounded by riches and splendor, to command the perpetual succession of pleasures which riches and splendor can procure.

Remember the proposal I made you one day, half in earnest half in jest. Think of it. Embrace it. And send Mr. Valmont back his paltry annuity in disdain. You cannot be so blind, so mad as to reject this only means of your happiness. Renounce it, and I shall believe you reserve yourself for my rival, the faithless and barbarous Sibella. Accept it, and all the delights which Janetta's love can bestow are your's for ever.

Why should you hide yourself? That form and face were given for better purposes. Bloom in success and victory! And leave to those who possess not your advantages to mope in dull obscurity! You owe to yourself this triumph over the malice of Mr. Valmont and the cruelty of her who has so wantonly betrayed you to his wrath. Throw off your foibles and your sorrow; and call up those alluring graces of your mien which are so irresistible. Exchange your sighs for smiles; and, aided by the advantages of dress you well know how to choose, come here to dinner. I have contrived that we shall dine alone. Weigh well what I advise and its motives; and then ask yourself, if I deserve to be accused of unkindness – Ask yourself what that love must be which can content itself with secret confessions, and can yield its open triumph to another in order to secure your advantage. Consider these things with attention, dearest Montgomery: and convince me that you deserve all I am willing to do for you by your instant compliance. I cannot, do not, doubt you. Be here by six.

LETTER XXVIII

FROM GEORGE VALMONT TO CLEMENT MONTGOMERY

Scoundrel,

By means I cannot divine, Sibella has escaped me. I have no doubt you or some of your diabolical agents are concerned in the business. – The deed, Sir, I have burned. – Your draught of it must help to amuse you.

It delights me to think she is not yet nineteen, and that you are pennyless. Beg at my gates if you dare! – The worst of indignities are better than your deservings. – You seal your union under happy auspices. – I give you joy. – Would I could give you destruction!

LETTER XXIX

FROM CLEMENT MONTGOMERY TO GEORGE VALMONT

Since, Sir, you have extended my punishment to the utmost, I can incur no heavier penalty by thus intruding myself before you.

I could offer many excuses, Sir, for my first fault; but it is now too late. Only, I must say your harshness and severity drove us to that measure, which, in justice to myself, I must also inform you Miss Valmont proposed, and with which I but reluctantly complied.

But, Sir, your further charge is without foundation. I have neither any concern in, nor any knowledge of Miss Valmont's flight; and, further to prove that I would have obeyed you if I could, I shall refuse to protect her. – Indeed, Sir, your last letter has driven me immediately to ratify an engagement that precludes the possibility of any further intercourse with Miss Valmont.

LETTER XXX

FROM ARTHUR MURDEN TO CAROLINE ASHBURN

There she is, Madam! – She walks and sighs: – and one little room, a small circumference, contains only Murden and Sibella. When the waiter shut the door and withdrew, I would have given an eye to have detained him. – She knows not I am writing to you; for she would have taken the office on herself, and that would not satisfy me. – It is a relief, madam, to write – tho' any thing upon earth would be preferable to hearing – I mean, seeing her.

Miss Ashburn, till I saw her, I did not understand you. – Well might you warn me!

It will be three hours before we reach you. – I send this letter by a man and horse; because, in knowing that we are safe, you will have at least half an hour of less anxiety.

The place where we are now is only a village, five miles out of the road to Valmont. – Richardson advised me to make this sweep for fear of a pursuit. – He brought us here through cross roads on his own horses. I have sent him back; and the only chaise this little inn maintains is engaged for a two hours airing for some invalid in the village. – Have patience, madam. – Your friend is safe.

Richardson and myself possessed ourselves of the cell at half past nine last night. – Then in our disguises we prowled around the castle till about eleven, and heard the locking of doors, and saw in the upper windows light after light die away as their possessors yielded themselves to rest.

We would not venture too early. I believe it was past two before we left the armoury. – All was hushed. – The stairs! – the gallery! – her apartments! – I seized Richardson by the arm, as he attempted to turn the lock. – It seemed profanation. I feared every thing! – I would have gone back. – Richardson forbade me.

We entered the antichamber. We crossed two others. The door of a third stood open. – In that there was a fire, a candle, and a bed. – The curtains were undrawn; and I caught a glimpse of her face. Instantly, I drew the door so close as only to admit my hand, holding out your letter. – I gasped. – 'Speak for me,' I said to Richardson; 'Say, Miss Ashburn.'

'Rise, dear Miss Valmont,' said he, 'Miss Ashburn sends you this.'

I heard her start from the bed. – 'Who? – What?'

'Miss Ashburn,' repeated Richardson, 'Miss Ashburn, it is a letter from Miss Ashburn.'

She took or rather snatched the letter; and, as I withdrew my hand, she shut the door hastily.

I heard her utter an exclamation – I could hear her too burst into sobs and bless you. – I heard her also name another.

At length she asked, without opening the door, if I was indeed Mr. Murden, and if I could take her from the castle.

'O yes, yes,' said I, 'Come away.'

'Stay,' she replied.

She was dressed in an instant. She opened the door. She came out to us. – 'Ah! what, what is the matter?' cried she, extending her arms as if to save me from falling. – Why were you not more explicit in your letter, Miss Ashburn? – I recoiled from her, from the remembrance of her Clement – and, as I leaned on Richardson's shoulder, I closed my dim eyes, and wished they might never more open upon recollection.

'Shame!' whispered Richardson, 'you are unmanned!'

And so I am, Miss Ashburn. I think too, I should love revenge. I feel a rankling glow of satisfaction, as she walks past my chair, that I have so placed it I cannot look up and behold her.

I recovered strength and courage while my horror remained unabated. – She saw I could hear, and she began to pour forth the effusions of her gratitude upon you and us. – She knew you had been in the castle. Her cruel uncle had informed her of it. – 'And then,' said she, 'I fancied I must die without seeing any one that ever loved me.' – As she spoke, I turned my eyes from her now haggard and jaundiced face to my own, reflected in the mirror by which I was standing. 'Moving corpses!' said I to myself – 'Why encumber ye the fair earth?'

'He showed me a letter too,' added she. 'He said Clement had renounced me. – Ah, Mr. Valmont! deceiving Mr. Valmont!' – and she waved her hand gracefully – 'had you known Sibella's heart as she knows Clement's, you – .'

'Come away!' said I.

'Have you no other preparation to make, madam?' asked Richardson; 'the night is very cold.'

This reminded her of a cloak. – She enquired if she must swim across the moat; and said she was sure she could swim; – for she knew why she had failed before. – I bade Richardson lead her.

I expected to have seen her much more surprised at the strange path through which she had to go. – From the armoury to the cell she never spoke. Her mind was overcharged with swelling emotions. – At times we were obliged to stand still. She even panted for freer respiration. The —

I heard wheels. – I expected our chaise. – It is some travellers who have stopped to bait.

After we had safely crossed the moat, she alternately grasped our hands in a tumult of joy; named you, named me, but talked on the never-failing theme of her Clement.

She rode behind Richardson. – I see she is much worse for the journey; yet her burning eye and vehement spirits would persuade me otherwise.

She kindly ceased her torturing questions concerning Clement, imagining, by my abrupt answers, I was too ill to talk. – She says you will heal me – for you have healed her. – Miss Ashburn, how ardently she loves you!

I find you will receive this letter an hour before we come. – Won't you thank, and praise me? – It is written with a shaking hand, and throbbing temples. I know it would be difficult to keep Sibella from mounting the same horse, if she were informed of the messenger. When we enter the chaise, I will tell her what I have done.

LETTER XXXI

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME

Why should I have the rage of distraction without the phrenzy? Dare they tell me I am a lunatic? – She is gone, Miss Ashburn? I have lost your treasure! – Some villain, lured by the vestiges of her transcendent beauty, has taken her from me. – They have forced me into a bed! – The barbarians confine me here. – Won't you order me to be released? – Oh sweet Miss Ashburn, won't you tell them I must be released?

Now I recollect I wanted to tell you all the particulars. – Ha! they fade from me, and I dream again! —

Madam,

I keep the Blue Boar at Hipsley; and the poor unhappy gentleman who wrote the above came to my house with his lady yesterday morning. As long as ever I live, I shan't forget the poor gentleman's ravings, when he discovered that his lady had ran away from him, and he only came to his senses about an hour ago, when he ordered us to send for you, and he wrote till his raving fit returned; and it would melt your heart, madam, to hear how he is bemoaning himself and calling by the kindest names the ungrateful wicked lady who served him so badly. – I saw her jump into the chaise myself; and she went willingly enough, though he won't believe it. My son brings you this, madam; and I hope you will tell us what we must do for the poor gentleman. From

LETTER XXXII

FROM CAROLINE ASHBURN TO ARTHUR MURDEN

Ah my friend, my beloved Murden, if an interval of memory, happily, now is thine, read these lines which thy friend pens to thee in agony. – She follows on the instant. You once demanded my consolations and friendship, as a reparation for the mischievous error into which I had led you. – Will you receive them now as such, against the manifold mischiefs I have brought upon you?

Ah! what, what had I to do with secret escapes! – I, who exclaimed from the beginning against Valmont's secresy, and prophesied its fatal consequences! – Must I too conspire to make Sibella the victim of secresy? – Unhappy sufferer! Yet more unhappy Caroline! She, debarred the use of her judgment, erred only from mistake; I, alas! have sinned against reason and conviction!

Clement, I suspect, has watched our footsteps. I fear he has secured her. – Ah, miserable fate!

Console yourself, my dearest friend. It will please you to know that, even before I come to you, I am going to B – , to send messengers in search of Sibella. And if money and vigilance can bring us tidings of our lost friend, I have the power of employing both. – Prepare to receive me with calmness. – Already, I have the aggravated distress of your and Sibella's feelings to endure. – I am pained beyond description.

LETTER XXXIII

FROM LORD FILMAR TO SIR WALTER BOYER

I can truly say, I neither sit, stand, walk, nor lie: – that is, the complete I, body and soul together; for, let the former attempt its mechanical motions as it will, the other in a quite opposite direction is striking, curvetting, capering, twisting, tumbling, and playing more tricks than any fantastical ape in nature.

Therefore, dear Walter, you must send me instantly a hundred guineas. Yes really, if you want to quiet my conscience, you must send me a hundred guineas.

Nothing will quiet my conscience but matrimony.

I cannot marry without a hundred guineas. – Ergo, if you don't send me a hundred guineas, and I should die, and be – , the sin will lay at your door, and you will die and be – likewise.

As I have much consideration for you, my dear Walter, and as I know that people who have very weak heads, have sometimes also very weak nerves, I would advise you to lay down my letter, unless you are seated in some safe place, for, should your situation be dangerous, and should the surprise I am preparing for you rob you of apprehension, down you drop and leave me in utter despair – lest your executors should refuse me the hundred guineas.

Well – are you settled to your satisfaction? – Here it comes like a thunderbolt!

Miss Valmont is mine, and I am her's – your hundred guineas will buy a parson and a prayer book; and then the L.7000 a year is mine also.

You know, dear Walter, that resolved to obtain the heiress of Valmont castle, I left London to return to Monkton Hall, with a heart full of promise, and a head full of stratagem. Fortune, that dear blind inconstant goddess, who formerly was almost within my grasp, now dashes the projects of others to the ground, to give my wishes their triumph. Some Merlin, with more potent spells than mine, broke the enchanted castle, bore off the damsel, and, directed by fate and fortune, brought her on the road, to meet me, to the very spot where it was decreed his success should end, that mine might begin. And begun it has.

Last night, I slept at B – ; and intended breakfasting with Sir Gilbert Monkton: this morning I ordered the driver to leave the high road, and cross the country, by which means I should save six miles of the journey. Griffiths had been unwell some days; and he now appeared so cold, and so much indisposed, I thought it prudent to give him a breakfast on the road. The postilion, by the luckiest of all chances, drove up to a pretty little white-washed inn, that I shall love dearly for six months to come.

The landlady, a curtsying civil woman, was mighty sorry she had not a better room to receive my honour in; but her best parlour, she said, was already taken up with a lady and gentleman, who had arrived at seven o'clock in the morning. And she showed me into a little place, which had two excellent properties, namely, perfect cleanliness, and a good fire.