Oh, Caroline, had you ever loved!—but love itself without separation could not have taught you the omnipotent value a lover's heart affixes to time, place, and memory! Who, in revisiting the hallowed ground of affection, can describe that slow eagerness of step, that still tumult of delight, which restrains while it impels, purchasing delay?—If these are not the happiest moments of life, at least, they are most worthy living for. The soul expands into a new existence. The body's encumbering mass seems no longer her organ.
Even now, Caroline, the charm returns, infusing itself through every vein, sending life's best blood in thrills to the heart, enkindling pleasure into agony!
I cannot proceed.—Will not Clement write me one line?—Another letter shall inform you, in what manner I discovered him; for the personated hermit is your Mr. Murden.
SIBELLA
LETTER IV
FROM THE SAME
TO
THE SAME
I know not precisely where to begin, nor how much of the adventure I told you in my last. Did I not say, that, while yet at my oak, Nina entered the wood a little below the tomb and without observing me began to climb the rock? But I think I broke off before I had mentioned her swift return at my call, and the irresolution she betrayed by running backward and forward from me to the rock, and from the rock back again to me. Desirous to know what her manner portended, I arose as if to follow, and away she bounded, taking the path up to the hermitage. As she ascended much swifter than I could, she waited on the outer side of the ruin till I also arrived; and then bent her course round to the farther part, which being the most perfect of the building I imagined she had chosen for the purpose of sheltering her young ones. It is called the chapel. Standing on a projecting point of the rock, it is difficult of access, for the path is cumbered with loose stones, from one to the other of which runs in perplexing branches the twining ivy. High grass and clusters of bramble choak the wild flowers that shed their inviting fragrance on part of the lower side of the rock, nor do I remember ever but twice before to have gone beyond the unroofed cell, where Clement and I, one happy spring morning, raised a seat of stone, and plucked away the weeds that new springing grass might mingle with our mossy foot-stool. There too we planted a woodbine, rose, and jassamine, but the cell refused nourishment to our favorites. Foiled in our attempt to make the ruin bloom a garden, it had no longer for us any attractions.
Nina's wistful look as she again stopped at the chapel's entrance now tempted me on, but it could tempt me no farther. At the stairs my curiosity or at least all inclination to gratify it terminated. In one corner of this small chapel where the wall is yet undecayed, remains a kind of altar. Some stones in front have falled away and discover a flight of dark narrow steps, I concluded Nina had concealed her young in the vault below, for she would not return when I called: but I could not think of encountering I knew not what damp and darkness in the hope of finding them. Both suppositions were erroneous. The cell is superior in dimensions and dryness to those above ground, nor had my fawn any offspring there. This place, Caroline, was Mr. Murden's abode. Thence he ascended followed by Nina, and stood before me the original of your painting, and the same who once in the wood started from every appearance of feeble age into youth and vigour.
He named himself. 'Miss Valmont,' said he, 'I no longer bear a borrowed character. Henceforward, should you ever think of me, know I am Murden, the friend of Clement Montgomery, and the acquaintance (I dare not say more) of your Miss Ashburn. Already the victim of unsuccessful love, by all my hopes of heaven, I came hither only to seek your consolations. The world cannot find time to sooth a breaking heart. You in solitude might. But you have no pity, no friendship. An accident keeps me here this day, or I had now been gone for ever. Do not Miss Valmont, do not set your people of the castle to hunt me; for I am desperate.'