TO
CLEMENT MONTGOMERY
(Inclosed in the preceding.)
Do we not create our own misery, my Clement, by this submission?—Mr. Valmont separates our persons, because he cannot separate our hearts. Oh! your reasonings were false, my love; and I was only misled when I thought I was convinced!—'But a short time,' you said, 'and Mr. Valmont shall know it all, and we will be again united.'—Why not now? I cannot feel, I cannot understand these effects of his displeasure on which you dwell. Why do you dream of future benefits, when he tells you, that you are to have none of them? when he declares to you his wealth shall not be your's? And what of that! Will joy and felicity be less ours, because we are not rich?—We know it cannot. Did you possess wealth beyond what I can name, I should share its advantages; then if poverty or disgrace be your's, I demand to participate therein. It is my right; and twenty Mr. Valmonts shall not deprive of the inestimable privilege. Let me prove by actions the boundless love I bear you. Words are feeble. Where is the language that has energy enough to describe the crowd of pleasures which rush upon my mind, while I am retracing our past scenes of happiness; or that can give its true colouring to my regret, when I call up the present separation, which bids them depart for a season?
Clement, you are dismissed that another may be introduced. The man of mystery, he whom my uncle has chosen, appears again. Say, my love! shall I tell them how useless are all their preparations?—that you and I have formed the indissoluble band? I am ready to do this. I wait but your consent. And then, if Mr. Valmont resents our conduct and will not yield me to you and your freedom, I must and shall find means to show him he has no more power over my person than my mind. I will escape him, and fly to thee.
Ever, ever, thy
SIBELLA
LETTER X
FROM LORD FILMAR
TO
SIR WALTER BOYER
Peaceful slumbers attend thee, Wat! The richer promising waking visions of expectation be mine!—A very pretty apostrophe that for a young viscount! I wonder if my father ever forgot to go to sleep when in bed, and sprang up again to write to some contemporary in same of his stratagems, intrigues, and toils?—Dear honest soul, no:—his sonorous breathings from the next chamber salute my ears in answer.—I certainly never was intended for the elder son of an Earl. Oh, I cry you mercy, Dame Nature! I read, I bow my head in obedience. A little twinkling star, Boyer, darting his ray throw the window, traces my destiny on this paper. 'When the heyday of the blood is past,' says the oracle, 'thou art to be a statesman.' So I will. Yes, a prime minister of Great Britain: and the more mischief I do before-hand, the better shall I be qualified for the duties of that high and important station.