Do not again call me inexorable, dear Miss Ashburn. I have yielded greatly indeed to you. I consulted a physician at Barlowe-Hall. As we are so speedily to meet, it would be useless to conceal from you that, wherever it had its beginning, the disorder is not now confined to my mind. Youth, the physician said, was in my favour. The continent might do me service. He ordered some medicine; regulated my diet; and, when I told him of my leaving the Hall immediately, he shook my hand:—Conviction speaking from his countenance, that it was his last salute to me.
A few restorative medicines furnished me with strength to reach the farm.—Here my purpose nerves me.—But why do you bid me fortify my heart? Oh, my dear madam, it has been long since fortified! From the fatal night when she gave herself to the arms of Clement, my heart became callous, impenetrable to the dart of any new calamity.
And sometimes too I smile, Miss Ashburn. It is amazing into what familiar habits of intimacy I and the misery that abides with me have fallen.
Fear me not, madam.—In this enterprise, I have all the determination of will—all the vigour of health.—Everything is prepared—last night, accompanied by Richardson, who from his zealous apprehensions for my safety, would not suffer me to go alone, I visited the rock.—No interrupters have been there. The cell, the stone, and the passage are still at our devotion.—Richardson is too honest to make an improper use of the secret of this Ruin; nay, he was the first to remind me, it would be just when our purpose was effected to give Mr. Valmont its description.
Again I repeat, every thing is prepared—I only wait for you to inform me of the nearest connection between her apartments and the armoury. A blunder might be fatal. When you have given me this necessary information, quit London to meet us instantly; for the night succeeding the receipt of your letter Sibella shall bid adieu to her oppressor's dungeon. Direct to Richardson—Stantorfarm, W——.
A. MURDEN
N.B. You blame, with great justice, the little power I possess of detaching myself from the affairs of my heart.—Last time I wrote, it escaped me till my letter was gone, and now I have torn open the seal to tell you that Mademoiselle Laundy is an abandoned woman, Montgomery's mistress in Paris; and, though I have no positive proof, I venture to assert she holds the same station in London. If it suits you to inform Mrs. Ashburn of her companion's principles, on the authority of my name, it is wholly at your service.