Clara Howard in a series of letters |
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| 2. | LETTER II. |
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 | Clara Howard |  |
LETTER II.
Hatfield, March 20.
You knew my intention to stop, a few
days, at this place, to see my sisters and my old
friend. I promised to write to you, and inform
you of my welfare. I gave the promise with
coldness and reluctance, because I predicted
that no benefit would flow to either from our
correspondence. Will you believe that I was
a little sullen at our parting; that your seeming
cheerfulness was construed by my perverse
heart, into something very odious? The words
inhuman and insensible girl rose to my lips, and
had like to have been uttered aloud.
I did not reflect, that, since you have resolved
to pursue a certain path, my regard for
me to wish, that you may encounter as few
asperities as possible, and to rejoice at the
easiness of a sacrifice, which, whether difficult
or easy, must be made.
I had not left you a day, before my inconstant
disposition restored me to my virtuous
feelings. I repented of the coldness with which
I had consented to your scheme of correspondence,
and tormented myself with imagining
those pangs which my injustice must have
given you. I determined to repair my fault
as quickly as possible; to write to you often,
and in the strain worthy of one who can enter
into your feelings, and estimate, at its true
value, the motive which governs your actions.
I have, indeed, new and more urgent motives
for writing. I arrived, at this hospitable
mansion, late in the evening. I have retired,
for the first time, to my chamber, and have
instantly taken up my pen. The nature of the
tidings I send, will justify my haste. I will
relate what has happened, without further preface.
I approached my friend's door, and lifted
the latch without giving any signal of my approach.
his pipe, near the fire, and looking placidly on
the two girls, who were busy at draughts, for
which they had made squares on the pine table,
with chalk, and employed yellow and red grains
of corn in place of pawns.
They started at my entrance, and, seeing
who it was, threw themselves into my arms,
in a transport of surprise and delight. After
the first raptures of our meeting had passed,
Mr. Hickman said to me; Well, my boy, thou
hast come just in time. Godfry Cartwright
has just carried away letters for thee. He goes
to town to-morrow, and I gave him a pacquet
that has lain here for some time, to put into
the office for thee.
A pacquet? For me? From whom?
When thou knowest the truth, thou wilt be
apt to blame us a little, for our negligence; but
I will tell thee the whole affair, and thou shalt
judge how far we are culpable. A week ago,
I was searching the drawers in my cherry-tree
desk, for the copy of a bond which old Duckworth
had placed in my hands for safe-keeping,
when I lighted on a bulky pacquet, sealed up,
and inscribed with thy name. I thought it
found in my possession, and looked at it again
and again before I could comprehend the mystery.
At last I noticed, in the corner, the words
“By Mr. Cartwright.” Cartwright, thou
knowest is the man we employ to take and
bring letters to and from the city. Hence, I
supposed it to be a pacquet brought by him on
some occasion, and left here for thee; but by
whom it was received, when it was brought,
and how it should chance to repose in this
drawer, I could not guess. I mentioned the
affair to my sister, but she had no knowledge
of the matter. At length, after examining the
pacquet and comparing circumstances, she
gradually recollected its history.
Alack-a-day! cried she, I do remember
something of it now. Cartwright brought it
here, just the same evening of the very day
that poor Edward left here and went to town.
I remember I put it into that drawer, supposing
that to be as good a place as any to keep it
safe in, till we should hear from the lad, and
so have some inkling whereabouts to send it
to him; but, as I am a living soul, I forgot all
about it from that day to this.
Such is the history of your pacquet, which,
you see, was mislaid through accident and my
sister's bad memory.
This pacquet instantly connected itself, in
my fancy, with the destiny of poor Mary. It
came hither nearly at the time of her flight
from Abingdon. It, no doubt, came from
her, and contained information of unspeakable
moment to our mutual happiness. When I
reflected on the consequences of this negligence,
I could scarcely restrain my impatience.
I eagerly inquired for the pacquet.
Not an half-hour ago, said Hickman, I
delivered it to Cartwright, with directions to
put it into the post-office for New-York. He
sets out early in the morning, so that thou wilt
receive it on thy return to New-York.
Cartwright lives five miles from this house.
The least delay was intolerable; and, my horse
not being yet unsaddled, I mounted him immediately,
and set out, in spite of expostulation
and intreaty. The night was remarkably
gloomy and tempestuous, and I was already
thoroughly fatigued; but these considerations
were forgotten.
I arrived at Cartwright's hovel, in less than
an hour, and having gotten the pacquet, I returned
with equal dispatch. Immediately after,
I retired to my chamber and opened the pacquet,
on which I instantly recognised the
well-known hand of Miss Wilmot. I will wave
all comments, and send you the letter.
Abingdon, Nov. 11.
I need not tell you, my friend, what I
have felt, in consequence of your silence. The
short note which I received, a fortnight after
you had left me, roused my curiosity and my
fears, instead of allaying them. You promised
me a longer account of some mysterious
changes that had taken place in your condition.
This I was to receive in a few days. At the
end of a week I was impatient. The promised
letter did not arrive. Four weeks passed away,
and nothing came from you.
Your pacquet has at last put an end to suspense:
But why did you not send it sooner?
at least, tell me, in half a line, how you were
employed, and what occasioned your delay?
Why did you not come yourself? Edward, I
am displeased; I was going to say, angry with
you. You have sported with my feelings. I
ought to lay down my pen while I am in this
humour. The pangs your negligence has given
me, have not yet been soothed to rest, and
when I find that so much unhappiness has been
given through mere heedlessness, I can scarcely
keep my patience.
I was sitting on a bench in the garden, when
a country lad entered the enclosure. As soon
as I caught a glimpse of him, and observed
that his attention was fixed upon me, and his
right hand already in his pocket, my heart whispered
that this was the bearer of tidings from
you. I attempted to rise and meet him, but
my knees trembled so much, that I was obliged
to give up my design. He drew forth his pacquet
and threw it into my lap, answering, at the
same time, my inquiries, respecting you, by
telling me that you were well, and that you
had been busy, for a long time, night and day,
in writing that there letter to me. He had stopt
merely to receive three lines from me, informing
you of my health.
You do not deserve the favour. Besides,
my fingers partake the flutterings of my heart.
A tumult of joy and vexation, overpowers me.
But, though you do not merit it, you shall
have a few lines. This paper was spread upon
my lap, and I had taken the pen to write to my
aunt Bowles, but I will devote it to you, though
my tremors, you see, will scarcely permit me
to write legibly.
Your messenger chides my lingering; and
I will let him go with nothing but a verbal
message, for on second thoughts, I will defer
writing till I have read your long letter.
Nov. 15.
Yes; the narrative of Morton is true. The
simple recital which you give, leaves me no
doubt. The money is his, and shall be restored
the moment he demands it. For what I have
spent, I must a little while be his debtor. This
he must consent to lose, for I never can repay
it. Indeed, it is not much. Since my change
of fortune, I have not been extravagant. An
out, and some of this has been in furniture
which I shall resign to him.
Be under no concern, my friend, on my
account. Think not how I shall endure the
evils of my former condition, for I never shall
return to it. Thy Mary is hastening to the
grave, with a very quick pace. That is her only
refuge from humiliation and calamity, and to
that she looks forward with more confidence
than ever.
I was not fashioned of stubborn materials.
Poverty, contempt, and labour, are a burden
too great for me. I know, that for these only,
am I reserved, and this interval of better prospects
was no comfort to me. I always told you
my brother had no just claim to this money,
and that the rightful claimant would sooner or
later appear. You were more sanguine, and
were willing to incur, even on grounds so imperfect,
the irrevocable obligations of marriage.
See into what a gulf your rashness would
have hurried you, and rejoice that my obstinacy
insisted on a delay of half a year.
You know my motives for accepting, and
on what conditions I accepted your proffered
love. What my penetration easily perceived,
your candour never strove to conceal. Your
indifference, your freedom from every thing
like passion, was not only to be seen in your
conduct, but was avowed by your lips. I was
not so base as to accept your hand, without
your heart. You talked of gratitude, and duty,
and perfect esteem. I obtained, you told me,
your entire reverence, and there was no female
in the world whom you loved so much. It was
true that you did not love me, but you preferred
me to all other women. Union with me was
your supreme desire. Your reason discerned
and adored my merits, and the concurrence of
the heart could not but follow.
Fondly devoted to you as I was, and urged
as these arguments were, with pathetic eloquence,
I could not be deceived for more than
a moment. My heart was filled with contradictory
emotions. I secretly upbraided you for
obduracy in withholding your love, while I,
at the same time, admired and loved you the
more for your generosity. Your conduct rendered
the sacrifice of my happiness to yours
the more difficult, while it increased the necessity,
I could not discover the probability, that marriage
would give birth to that love which previous
tenderness and kindness had been unable
to produce. I doubted not your fidelity, and
that the consciousness of conferring happiness
would secure your contentment; but I felt that
this was insufficient for my pride, if not for
my love.
I sought your happiness. To be the author
of it was the object of inexpressible longings.
To be happy without you was impossible, but
the misery of loneliness, however great, was
less than that of being the spectator of your
misery, or even that of defrauding you of the
felicity, attending marriage with a woman
whom you could truly love. Meanwhile, our
mutual poverty was itself an insurmountable
bar to marriage.
My brother's death put me in seeming possession
of competence. Circumstances were
now somewhat changed. If no claimant appeared,
I should be able, by giving myself to
you, to bestow upon the object of my love that
good, the want of which nothing can compensate.
your sisters and yourself from indigence and
dependence. What I was willing to share with
you, you would not share with me on any
terms but those of wedlock.
Too well did I see on what weak foundations
was built this scheme of happiness. This
property was never gained by my brother's own
industry, and how could I apply to my own use
what I could not doubt belonged to another,
though that other should never appear to claim
it at my hands.
My reluctance was partly subdued by your
urgency. I consented, waveringly, and with a
thousand misgivings, to be yours at the end of
six months, if no one should appear, meantime,
to make out a good title to this money. I
listened to your arguments and suppositions,
by which you would fain account for my
brother's acquisition of so large a sum consistently
with honesty, and for his silence as to his
possession of it. I was willing to be convinced,
and consented to sacrifice my peace by marrying
the man I loved, because this marriage
would secure to him the competence, which I
could not enjoy alone.
This end cannot now be effected. New
reasons have sprung up for foregoing your
affection, even had Morton perished at sea. A
friend has returned to you, who is far more
able to relieve your poverty than I should be.
It is easy to see on what conditions this relief
is intended to be given. He has a daughter,
whom he deems worthy of his adopted son. He
knows your merit, and cannot fail of perceiving
that it places you on a level with the most lovely
and accomplished of human beings.
I see how it is. This Clara will be yours.
That intelligence, that mien, that gracefulness,
which rustic obscurity cannot hide, which the
garb of a clown could never disguise, accompanied
with the ardent commendations of her
father, will fascinate her in a moment. I cannot
hesitate what to wish, or how to act. That passion
which a form, homely and uncouth like
mine, tarnished and withered by drudgery and
sorrow, and by comparative old age, for I am
nine years older than you; which a mind, void
of education, and the refinements of learned
and polished intercourse was incapable of wakening,
cannot fail to be excited by the youth
and beauty, the varied accomplishments and
you happiness, and wealth, and honour, and
you will accept them at her hands.
As for me, I cannot be yours, because I am
not my own. My resolution to be severed from
you is unalterable; but this is not necessary to
insure our separation. It cannot take place,
even if all my wishes were in favour of it.
Long before the expiration of the half year, I
shall be removed beyond your reach. This is
not the illusion of despair. I feel in my deepest
vitals, the progress of death. Nature languishes
within me, and every hour accelerates my
decay.
My friend, thou must not parley with me;
thou must not afflict me with arguments or intreaties,
by letters or visits. I must see thee,
and hear from thee no more: but I know thy
character too well to expect this from thee.
As soon as thou receivest this letter, thou wilt
hasten hither, and endeavour to shake my purpose.
I am not doubtful of my own constancy,
but I would save myself and thee from a trial
that will answer no end. I shall leave this place
early to-morrow. Whither I am going must
inquiries will be incessant and anxious, but the
measures I have taken for eluding thy search,
will defeat all thy efforts. I know that these
assurances will not dissuade thee from making
them, and I sorrow to reflect on the labours
and anxieties to which thou wilt subject thyself
for my sake; but I shall derive consolation
from the belief, that my retreat will never be
discovered.
I enclose an order on the bank for the money
that remains in it, drawn in favour of
Morton, and an assignment to him of the few
tables and chairs that furnish my lodgings here.
These thou wilt faithfully deliver into his
hands. I likewise return you your papers and
letters.
And now....Edward....best and most beloved
of men!....and is it come to this? Must I
bid thee farewel forever?
Do not, I beseech thee, think hardly of me
for what I have done. Nothing but a sense of
duty, nothing but a supreme regard to thy happiness,
could suggest my design. I cannot
faulter in the execution, since I could not
of my weakness, that hinders me from pronouncing
my last farewel.
Make haste to forget the unhappy Mary;
make haste to the feet of your new friend, and
to secure that felicity which an untoward fate
denied me the power of bestowing.
| Clara Howard | |