Clara Howard in a series of letters |
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| 28. | LETTER XXVII. |
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 | Clara Howard |  |
LETTER XXVII.
Philadelphia, May 13.
My friend, we have met, but such a
meeting!....
The letters had told me of his sickness,
but I expected not to behold a figure so wan,
so feeble, so decayed. I expected much
anxiety, much conflict in his features, between
apprehension and hope; but not an
aspect so wild, so rueful, so melancholy. His
deportment and his words were equally adverse
to my expectations.
After our first tears of congratulation were
exhausted, he exclaimed in a tone of unusual
vehemence:
Why, my friend, have you thus long abandoned
and to me, and I know not how to pardon you,
except on one condition.
What is that?
That we now meet to be united by the
strongest ties, and never to part more. On
that condition I forgive you.
I was prepared for this question; but the
tones and looks with which it was accompanied,
and especially its abruptness, disconcerted
me. I was silent.
I came to this interview, resumed he, with
one determination. I will not tremble, or
repine, or upbraid, because my confidence in
the success of my efforts, is perfect, and not to
be shaken. I came to offer you the vows of
an husband. They are now offered, and received.
You have no power to decline them.
Let me then salute you as....my wife.
I shrunk back, and spread out my hand to
repulse him. I was still unable to speak.
I told you the purpose of my coming, said
he, in a solemn tone. This purpose is the
dearest to my heart. Of every other good I
am bereaved, but to the attainment of this
there can be no obstacle, but caprice, or inhumanity,
to you. If you love me, if you have regard
to my welfare, if you wish me to love, grant
me that good which is all that remains to
endear existence. If you refuse this gift, I
shall instantly vanish from society. I shall
undertake a journey, in which my life will be
exposed to numberless perils. If I pass them
in safety, I shall be dead to all the offices and
pleasures of civilized existence. I shall hasten
to embrute all my faculties. I shall make myself
akin to savages and tygers, and forget
that I once was a man.
This is no incoherent intimation. It is
the fixed purpose of my soul, to be changed
only by your consenting to be mine. Ponder
well on the consequences of a refusal. It decides
my everlasting destiny.
Have you not read my letter? Have I not
read yours and Clara's? How then can you
expect my concurrence? Have you not anticipated
my refusal?
I anticipated misery. Having found injustice
and a callous heart in another, where
I least expected to find them, I was prone, in
the bitterness of disappointment, to ascribe
rash and absurd. Mary cannot be unjust.
To whom do you impute an hard heart?
Not to you. You merit not the imputation.
You will prove yourself compassionate
and good. You will not scorn me; cast me
off; drive me into hopeless exile, and inextricable
perils. You are too good, and have been
too long my friend; the partaker of my cares;
the solace of my being; the rewarder of my
tenderness. You will not reject me, banish
me, kill me.
You know not what you say. Your thoughts
are confused. You love and are beloved by
another; by one who merits your eternal devotion
and gratitude. They are due to her,
and never will I rob her of them.
What mean you. Did not you say you
had read the pacquets? and do not these inform
you that I have no place in the affections
of any human being but yourself? Convince
me that I have, indeed, a place in yours; that
I am not utterly deserted. Consent to be
mine own, my beloved wife, and thus make
me as happy as my fate will permit.
Alas, my friend! you are not in your right
mind. Disappointment has injured your reason,
or you could never solicit me thus; you
could never charge Clara Howard with a hard
heart.
Talk not of Clara Howard. Talk only of
yourself and of me. Rid me of suspense and
anxiety, by consenting to my wishes. Make
me happy. Take away, at least, the largest
portion of my misery, by your consent. Will
you not be mine?
Never. Former objections time has rendered
more strong; but your letters would
have fixed my resolutions, had they wavered.
These shew how far the happiness of miss
Howard and your own depend upon my perseverence;
and persevere I must.
What mean you? Miss Howard's happiness,
say you, depends upon your incompliance
with her wishes? on your rejecting the prayers
she has made, with the utmost degree of earnestness?
They are generous prayers, which suppose
me weaker and more infatuated than I am.
They are prayers which counteract their own
purpose, since they exhibit an example of
cannot fail to admire and to imitate. Our
cases are, indeed, not parallel. Her love for
you is answered and returned by equal love.
To me your heart is indifferent, and I have
resolved to conquer my perverse affections, or
perish.
You have read her letters, her last letter,
and yet you talk of her love! Once, I grant,
it might have been, it was so, but that time
of affability, of softness, of yielding, is gone.
She is now rugged, austere, unfeeling. Her
preposterous abstractions and refinements have
gained force through the coldness of her heart.
There is no self-sacrifice, for she loves me not.
There is no regard for my welfare or felicity,
for she loves me not.
O, Edward! can you be so perverse; so
unjust? You merit not the love of so pure a
spirit. You merit not the happiness which
such an one is qualified to give you. But
your disappointment has disturbed your reason.
I can pity and forgive you, and will
intercede with her for your forgiveness. I see
her merits and her superior claims too clearly,
ever to consent to your separation.
You are discomposed, I continued. Surely
you have been very sick. You seem to have
just risen from the grave; you are so pale;
so wan; so feeble. Your state of health has
made you unfit to judge truly of the motives
of your friend, and to adopt her magnanimity.
If you will have patience I can convince you
that it is my duty to reject your offers, and
that Clara Howard may still, if you please, be
yours.
Then, replied he, you do reject them?
Do not look so wildly. I am sure, you are
not well. You seem ready to sink upon the
floor. You are cold, very cold. Let us defer
this conversation a little while. I have much
to say on the subject of my history, since we
parted. That being known to you, you will see
reason to judge differently of my motives in rejecting
your offers. Instead of making that
rejection more difficult by importunity and
vehemence, you will see the justice of concurring
with me, and of strengthening my resolution.
Impossible, said he, that any thing has
happened to change my views. Are not your
formerly? Answer me sincerely.
I will. I have no reason for concealment.
Time has not lessened my merits, it is true,
but....
That assurance is enough for me. I will
eagerly listen to your story, but not until my
fate is decided. Have pity on that sinking
frame, and that wounded heart which you behold.
There is but one cure, and that is deposited
in your hands. To every other my
joy or sorrow; my life or death, is indifferent.
Will you take me to your bosom; shall my
image be fostered, and my soul find peace there;
or shall I cast myself upon a sea of storms
and perils, and vanish from this scene forever?
How you grieve me! I beseech you be not
so impetuous. Listen to my story first, and
then say in what manner I ought to act.
There is no room for delay. Say you will
be mine, and then I shall enjoy repose. I shall
be able to listen. Till then I am stretched
upon the rack. Answer me; will you be mine?
O no! I replied; while I have an heart not
wholly sordid and selfish, I cannot consent.
My conscience will not let me.
Find consolation, he answered, in the approbations
of that conscience, for a sentence
that has ratified the doom of one who deserved
differently from you. I perceive you are inflexible,
and will therefore leave you.
But whither are you going? Will you not
return to Clara?
To Clara! No. Far different is the path
that I am to tread. I shall never see her
more.
He now moved towards the door, as if going.
Edward! what can you mean? Stay. Do not
go till you have heard me further. I entreat
you, as you value my peace, and my life, hear
me further.
Will you then consent? said he, returning
with a more cheerful brow. How good you
are! The same dear girl; the same angelic
benignity as formerly. Confirm my happiness
by new assurances. Confirm it by permitting
this embrace.
I was compelled to avert my face; to repulse
him from my arms. To what unlooked
for trials have you subjected me! But I must
not retract my resolutions. No, Edward, the
be yours.
Never!....never!....be mine!....Well, may
the arms of a protecting Providence encircle
thee! May some other rise to claim and possess
thy love! May ye never, neither thou nor
Clara, know remorse for your treatment to
me!....Saying this, he snatched his hat from
the table, and ran out of the house. I called,
but he was gone beyond my hearing.
I was justly alarmed by this frantic demeanour.
I knew not how to account for it,
but by imagining that some remains of delirium
still afflicted his understanding. I related
this conversation to Sedley. I entreated him
to pursue Edward to his lodgings, to prevail
upon him to return hither, or to calm his mind,
by relating what his abrupt departure had prevented
me from saying.
Sedley cheerfully complied with my request,
but Hartley was not to be found at his
lodging. He waited his return till ten, eleven,
and twelve o'clock, but in vain.
Meanwhile, I found some relief in imagining
they had met; that Sedley's address and
benevolence had succeeded in restoring our
and alarm, at his return, on hearing that Hartley
had not been met with, were inexpressible.
That night passed away without repose. Early
in the morning, I again entreated Sedley to go
in search of the fugitive. He went, but presently
returned to inform me that Hartley had
set out, in the stage for Baltimore, at day-dawn.
I cannot comprehend his intimations of a
journey to the wilderness; of embruting his
faculties; of exposing his humanity, his life, to
hazard. Could he have interpreted your letters
into avowals of hatred or scorn, or even
of indifference? One, indeed, who knew you
less perfectly, might impute to you a rigour in
judging; a sternness not suitable to the merits
of this youth. Your letters are void of that
extenuating spirit, that reluctance to inflict
sufferings, which, perhaps, the wisest inflexibility
will not be slow to feel, or unwilling to
express....but Edward had sufficient knowledge
to save him from a wrong construction.
Yet that, alas! is not true. He ought to
have had that knowledge....but it was wanting.
Possibly he has not told you his designs.
He cannot inform you of the truth with respect
to me. My present situation should be
known to you, to enable you to act with propriety.
I shall not prescribe to you. I am not
mistress of your thoughts and motives. May
heaven direct you right.
A friend will go to Baltimore on Tuesday,
time enough for you to receive this, and to
write to Hartley. If sent to me, I will intrust
it to my friend. I have not time to add a
word more.
Accept the reverence and love of
| Clara Howard | |