LETTER VIII
FROM SIBELLA VALMONT
TO
CAROLINE ASHBURN
Imagine me, Dear Caroline, sitting down to write to you in the dead of night, by an almost extinguished taper: Somewhat chilled with cold; yet that sensation overpowered by the tremor of surprise, of curiosity, of emotions, in fine, which I cannot describe or explain.
And shall I boast of my strength, yet suffer my heart to palpitate, the colour to vary on my cheek, because an incident appears extraordinary?—Why did I not go back? Perhaps imagination was on the stretch, and I am self-deceived. Yet this writing! There must—but who would or could sigh with or for me, save one?—Foolish, weak Sibella! Art thou turned coward then? How can'st thou brave dangers, who hast fled from a sound? Perchance a fancied sound too!—Yes, I will return. I will not wait till day-light renews my courage; but go now to the wood, and examine this—Hark!—I hear a noise!—Good God!—Is it?—If it should be my Clem——
Oh no! that is impossible!—It was only the sweeping of the wind through that long gallery. But I won't go to the wood to-night, Caroline. I tremble more, and the cold increases. My taper too diminishes fast; but, while its light allows me, I will go over the events of the day and night, to discover if distinct recollection gives them a different appearance from what they now wear in the confusion of my ideas.
To begin, then, with the morning. While yet at breakfast, Andrew entered my room and intimated it was my uncle's orders that I should remain in my own appartments all day.—Strange as appeared the command, I sought no explanation from Andrew; but chose rather to submit to it in its present form, than encounter the teazing unintelligible signs of this silent old man. An hour had hardly passed, when I heard Mr. Valmont's footstep in the gallery; and as he approached nearer my door, I called up a firmness in my mien: for methought his visit to my chamber (a circumstance I never remembered to have taken place) foreboded something uncouth and unpleasant.
'So, Sibella,' said he, entering in a cheerful manner, 'you look quite well. You will oblige me particularly by not going into the park to-day. There's the armoury if you want exercise only be sure you go and return by the narrow stair-case. I would not have you seen for a moment in any other part of the castle. Perhaps I may bring a friend to visit you. A friend of your father's, child. You'll obey me, Sibella. And Andrew can inform you when you are at liberty to pursue your rambles.'
He withdrew. An address so familiar, with a voice and countenance so complacent, from Mr. Valmont to me, was food for reflection. The friend too! The friend of my father!—I felt not the necessity of exercise. I approached not the narrow stair-case. I thought not of the armoury. I remained in one posture; and Andrew's entrance, with my dinner, first broke in upon my reverie.
The meal ended and Andrew gone, it was resumed; and as long thinking will ever bring something home to the affections, I had left Mr. Valmont, his smiles, and his friend, to dwell on the image of my Clement—when my uncle led into the room a man somewhat older in appearance than himself, of an unmeaning countenance, whose profusion of dress sat heavy on an insignificant form. I turned away scornfully; for I thought it a profanation of the term to call this being the friend of my father.
How long he staid I cannot exactly tell—too long I thought then. He seemed to talk of me to Mr. Valmont; but to me he said little; and, owing perhaps to my dislike of the man, that little I did not rightly understand, and never attempted to answer.
When I saw Andrew in the evening, I ventured a few questions; and, with difficulty, learned there was company in the castle who were not expected to go away till late. I desired him to inform me as soon as they had departed; and, accordingly, a little, before twelve, Andrew opened my door, gave three distinct nods, shut it after him, and departed.
I understood his signal. Never had I passed a day in the house before; and I almost panted for the enjoyment of fresh air. The night was calm and serene; and the moon shone with a frosty brightness in a clear unclouded sky.
Wrapping myself in a cloak, I descended with a quick and joyful step. Neither light nor sound existed in the castle; and, unbarring the heavy doors, I sallied out in defiance of cold, to enjoy the lightness I then felt at my heart. The moonbeam directed my course; and I turned up the hill at the back part of the castle where no trees intercepted the partial light.
Standing on the summit, I looked around and my eye caught the glittering surface (made resplendent by the moon's reflection) of that small and beautiful lake which you may remember rises on the skirts of my wood. Thither I hastened; and, seated on the bank, I became enraptured with the scene. All seemed in union with my mind; only, that an undisturbed serenity reigned through nature; and, with the peace in my breast, a tumult of delight claimed its share.
I sang. I gave vent to my pleasure in words; in exclamations!—till at length the sound of two, from some very distant bell, floated through the air, and I rose to regain the castle.
Never in day time did I quit the park without visiting our oak; and now, when my heart bounded high with hope and pleasure, it would have been impious thus to have departed.
As I passed the rock, its dark shade, with the gloom in which the tall trees inclosed me, gave a new colour to my emotions. A pensive, but not a painful, tenderness stole on me. My breast began to heave, my lip to tremble: and, having reached the oak, I threw myself on the ground and sobbed. Still I felt no unhappiness. An impressive kind of awe took place of my former rapture, and dictated that I should dry my tears, and offer up a prayer for Clement.
At the foot of our oak, I knelt and audibly prayed. Still was I kneeling: still were my clasped hands raised: I uttered a deep sigh: and, close behind me, reverberated a prolonged sigh, if possible more deep, more forcible.
My taper emits its last rays. The moon is withdrawn; and total darkness compels me to seek rest—Adieu!
The sigh was distinct. It struck upon my ear. It almost reached my heart, Caroline. Dizzy, benumbed, I could scarcely rise; and, as I walked slowly along the open path from the monument, I really tottered. I believe I had proceeded fifty yards, and I began to tread with firmness and to consider if the sound could be real, when something whizzed past me and I perceived a little white ball fall to the ground and roll back as it was on the descent till it stopped at my feet. Equally surprised, but less affected, I turned quickly round. I looked every way: but the rock, the trees, the monument, and their respective yet mingling shadows, were the only objects I could discern.
I do not remember stooping for the ball; yet I felt it in my hand as I returned to the castle. I had left my light burning in the hall; but did not attempt to examine my possession, till I had shut myself in my own chamber.
The ball consisted of several folds of paper, with a small pebble in the middle, to give it weight I suppose. The inner fold contained lines, written with a pencil: the character neat, but uneven; and, in places, scarcely legible. These were the contents.
'Art thou instructed, beauteous nymph, that those planets to which thou now liftest thine eyes contain worlds whose myriads of inhabitants differ in their degrees of perfection according to the orb to which they belong? Some approach to immortality. Others are, as yet, farther removed: but all are in a progressive state toward the angelic nature. Even the lowest orb ranks above thy world.'
'From one of these latter planets, I descend—part mortal and part etherial. The former subjects me to pain and grief; but the latter can exalt me to bliss too ecstatic for the confined sense of mere mortality.—My spiritual nature places few bounds to my wishes, gives me invisibility, and brings the world before me at a view. I can see into the human bosom; and art cannot baffle me. In this world, I am permitted to seek a friend: and thee, hallowed inhabitant of this lower orb, I claim.'
'Set thy desires before thee. If they be many, chose the essential: if they be few, name all. To-morrow, after sunset, place the paper wherein thou hast written thy wishes on the tomb, and retire. If another mortal claim a share of those wishes, my power ceases; but if they relate only to thyself, fair creature, some one I may gratify. Thus may we communicate. To approach is forbidden. To be visible to thy eyes is denied me. Fly not then from the spirit, which will protect, but cannot harm, thee.'
Whither does recollection bear you, Caroline?—To the hermit of the wood and armoury, doubtless. The mysterious and whimsical stile of this written paper corresponds with the first address of that hermit. I wonder I did not remember it last night: but Clement's fears, and the mode to overcome them, have been objects of such magnitude in the heart of Sibella that curiosity has ceased to intrude its train of remembrances and suppositions.
Clement was right. Who, but through my uncle's means, could find entrance into this region of caution and confinement? Yes; Clement judged rightly! It is the man to whom Mr. Valmont says I must be united.
Will you, Caroline, give the inclosed to my Clement? Read it also; and judge with him for me. I wait your decision—but I wait unwillingly.
SIBELLA