Caroline, I am incompetent to judge of his situation. Cares and tumults may surround him, and add to the anguish of separation.—And you, my friend, ah beware how you judge him rashly! The tender heart of Clement repels every approach of harshness.—While you seek to investigate, you forgot to soothe.—I detest your picture of my Clement's mind.—Oh! how ill do you appreciate that soul, wherein the image of Sibella lives immoveably, and eternally, undivested of her sway by any outward form or circumstance!—'Tis true, indeed, Clement does attach to success and fortune in the world a value unfelt by me who know it not at all, and prized by you, only perhaps from its more intimate knowledge. But for whose sake is it, Caroline, that he dreads my uncle's resentment, that he would shrink to see me a pennyless outcast from Mr. Valmont's favour—is it not mine?—'Tis I, that am, however distantly removed its effects from all but the discerning eye of love, I am his actuating principle!—Does he ever dismiss this one dear ultimate object from his thought?—'tis because a lesser theme mixing therewith would degrade the loved idea.—Again undisturbed, self-possessed, his ardent mind returns to the dear remembrance of past, the still dearer anticipation of future, joys—when hourly, momentarily, they shall augment with the increase of years.
Oh Clement, that love at one and the same instant created on our sympathizing hearts!—sustained, with mutual ardor, through the uniform but interesting years of childhood!—at length spurred on by dangers and denial to form its firmest, chastest tie!—is there a temptation on earth, or a horror in futurity, which could bribe or bid that love seek to extinguish its smallest hope, its least particle of enjoyment?—No! No! Never!—An impassable gulph is placed between that love and diminution.—A chasm wide, deep, immeasurable, as eternity!
How dared I reproach my love!—How dared I decide, I whose mind is almost subdued by my situation!—Think Caroline! one hour heavily creeps after its fellowed hour;—day slowly succeeds to day, barely distinguished by another name;—the sun shines one morning, and hides his beam the next;—yon tall trees who bow their heads to the wind on this side to-day may to-morrow wave them on the other: and here ends the chapter of my varieties.—Night, indeed, brings variety amidst endless confusions! Broken sleep and apalling visions create debility of mind and body for the ensuing dawn!—It is but the fainting embers of my former animation that sometimes gleam upon the darkness of my soul. And, even now, now, while I acknowledge and reprobate my folly, I could return to the horrors of apprehension, could run through volumes of dire presages affirming while I disbelieved, creating as if to be interwoven in my fate fantastic, shapeless evils from which my better reason would turn, and would pronounce the worthless offspring of misrepresentation and falsehood.
And why, Caroline, should I be thus?—there is the question, that, as often as I impose on myself, as often returns unanswered.—I knew Clement was to go; and I know he will come again. What is new in my destiny is delightful to remembrance: it is the sacred union plighted by our willing hearts in the sight of heaven, the confirmation the everlasting bond of affection, which renders every blessing of this life subordinate, from which no change of circumstance could release us, nor not even death itself shall cancel.
I heard Clement speak one day of some ceremonials which would be deemed necessary to the ratification of this covenant, when we should enter the world.—Methinks I shall be loath to submit to them. The vow of the heart is of sacred dignity. Forms and ceremonies seem too trifling for its nature. But of the customs of your world, Caroline, I am ignorant.
I write at intervals—a giddiness returns upon me continually, and air is the only remedy. The last time I quitted my pen, I was almost overpowered, and could proceed no further than the great hall door. I sat on the step and leaned my head against a pillar of the portico.—It was not swooning, for I knew I was there.—I felt the cold wind blow on my face, but my limbs had lost their faculty, and my eye-sight its power.—A chill oppressive gripe seemed to fasten on my heart.—My uncle happened to pass in from the park.—He spoke, but I could not reply. I waved my hand, which he took in his; but, while he pressed it, he reproved me in an ungentle manner, for sitting on the damp stone, and exposed to the raw air—Tears unbidden and almost unexcited, roll down my cheeks. He called Andrew; and I was borne in, and laid on a sopha in the breakfast parlour.
After I recovered, my uncle, with a kinder tone of voice, noticed an appearance of ill health in my looks, and enquired into the nature of my indisposition.—'You are too much in the cold, child,' said he.—'Go; I give you permission to sit with Mrs. Valmont. I will join you there presently.' I replied I was engaged in my most interesting employment, that of writing to you?—'Ah! child!' said my uncle, 'how much do you stand indebted to my indulgence for that liberty?—I rely on your integrity that you do not in any one instance, Sibella, abuse my confidence.'—I was going to answer, and began with your name.
'I know,' said my uncle, 'what Miss Ashburn is very well! Your friendship to her was formed by accident, and without my concurrence; but I had never suffered it to continue, had I not found something to approve in Miss Ashburn. She has sensibility and affection; that is all you ought to learn. The rest is the sad licentiousness of her education. I could have made her a charming woman. And as it is, she has too much feeling, for the companion of women of fashion; and too little reserve, for the wife of a man of delicacy. I am giving orders to Ross, Sibella. He is sending a packet to Clement. Have you any remembrances for your friend and play-fellow?'