LETTER I.
TO CLARA HOWARD.
New-York, March 7.
Why do I write? For whose use do I
pass my time thus? There is no one living who
cares a jot for me. There was a time, when a
throbbing heart, a trembling hand, and eager
eyes were always prepared to read, and ruminate
on the scantiest and poorest scribble that
dropped from my pen, but she has disappeared.
The veil between us is like death.
Yet why should I so utterly despair of finding
her? What all my toils may not accomplish,
may be effected at a moment the least expected,
and in a manner the least probable. I may
travel a thousand miles, north and south, and
not find her. I may lingeringly and reluctantly
give up the fruitless search, and return home.
A few hours after, I may stroll, in melancholy,
hopeless mood, into the next street....and meet
her. By such invisible threads is the unwitting
man led through this maze of life.
But how will she be met? Perhaps....horrid
thought!...she may have become vile, polluted;
and how shall I endure to meet her in that
condition. One so delicate, carrying dignity
to the verge....beyond the verge of pride; preferring
to starve rather than incur contempt.
But that degradation is impossible.
Yet, if she dreaded not my censure, if she despaired
not of my acquiescence in her schemes,
why conceal from me her flight? Why not
leave behind her a cold farewel. Could she
be insensible to the torments and inquietudes
which her silence would entail upon me. Could
she question the continuance and fervency of
my zeal for her welfare? What have I done
to estrange her heart, to awaken her resentment?
She does not live with Sedley. That question
Mr. Phillips's report has decided. Atleast
she does not live with him as his wife. Impossible
that Mary Wilmot should be allied to any
man by a different tie. It is sacrilege so much
as to whisper to one's heart the surmise. Yet
have I not written it? Have I not several times
pondered on it? What has so often suggested
these frightful images?
This mysterious, this impenetrable silence
it is, that astounds and perplexes me. This
evident desire, which her conduct betrayed,
to be not sought after by me, and this departure
in company with Sedley; the man whom
so long a devotion, so many services had not
induced her to suffer his visits. To sever herself
thus abruptly and forever from me, to
whom she had given all her tenderness, with
whom she had divided all her cares, during
years; to whom the marriage promise had been
solemnly pledged, and trust herself, on some
long and incomprehensible journey with one,
whom she had thought it her duty to shun; to
exclude, on all occasions, from her company;
is beyond my comprehension.
But I am tired of the pen already; of myself;
of the world.
Ah, Clara! can so groundless a punctilio
govern thee? The settled gloom of thy aspect;
thy agitation, when too tenderly urged by me;
thy tears, that, in spite of heroic resolutions,
will sometimes find way, prove thy heart to be
still mine.
But I will urge thee, I will distress thee no
more. Thy last words have put an end to my
importunity. Can I ever forget them, or the
looks and gestures with which they were
spoken?
“I never will be yours! Have I not heard
all your pleas; all your reasonings? And am
I not now furnished with all the means of a
right judgment. I have listened to you twenty
times upon this topic, and always patiently.
Now listen to me.
“I never will be yours, while Mary's condition
is unknown. I never will be yours while
she is single; unmarried to another and unhappy.
I will have no intercourse with you.
I will not grant you even my esteem, unless
you search for her; find her; and oblige her
to accept your vows.
“There is now no obstacle on account of
fortune. I have enough for several, and will
give you half. All that my parents have, and
you know they are rich, they will either divide
between you and me, or will give entirely to
me. In either case, competence, and even
abundance shall be hers and yours.”
'Tis nine months since I first entered this
house: not on the footing of a stranger or a
guest; but of a child. Yet my claims upon my
revered friend are not filial. He loves me,
because all the virtues I possess are of his own
planting and rearing. He that was once the
pupil has now become the son.
How painful and how sweet is the review
of the past year. How benign were the auspices
under which I entered this house. Commended
to the confidence and love of their
daughter, treated with complacency, at first;
then with confidence by that daughter; and,
finally, honoured with her love. And yet, a
single conversation; the mention of one unhappy
name, has reversed totally my condition.
I am still beloved by Clara; but that passion
produces nothing but her misery and mine.
I must go, she tells me; and duty tells me
that I must go in search of the fugitive. I will
not rest till I have ascertained her destiny. Yet
I can forbode nothing but evil. The truth,
whatever it be, will avail me nothing.
I set out to-morrow; meanwhile Clara shall
have this scribble: perhaps, she will not spurn
it. Wilt thou, Clara? Thou once lovedst me:
perhaps, dost love me still: Yet of that I must
entertain some doubts. I part with thee tomorrow,
perhaps, forever. This I will put into
thy hands at parting.
