LETTER XXII.
To Jane Talbot.
Baltimore, October 31.
You had reason to fear my reproaches, yet
you have strangely erred in imagining the
cause for which I should blame you. You are
never tired, my good friend, of humbling me
by injurious suppositions.
I do, indeed, reproach you for conduct that
is rash; unjust; hurtful to yourself; to your
mother; to me; to the memory of him who,
whatever were his faults, has done nothing to
forfeit your reverence.
You are charged with the blackest guilt that
can be imputed to woman. To know you guilty
produces more anguish in the mind of your
accuser, than any other evil could produce,
and to be convinced of your innocence, would
be to remove the chief cause of her sorrow, yet
you are contented to admit the charge: to
countenance her error by your silence. By
stating the simple truth, circumstantially and
fully; by adding earnest and pathetic assurances
of your innocence; by shewing all the
letters that have passed between us, the contents
of which will shew that such guilt was
impossible; by making your girl bear witness
to the precaution you used on that night, to
preclude misconstructions, surely you may hope
to disarm her suspicions.
But this proceeding has not occurred to you.
You have mistrusted the power of truth, and even
are willing to perpetuate the error. And why?
because you will not blast the memory of the
dead. The loss of your own reputation: the
misery of your mother, whom your imaginary
guilt makes miserable, are of less moment in
your eyes than—what? let not he, my girl,
who knows the best, have most reason to blush
for thee.
Talbot, you imagine, forged this calumny. It
was a wrong thing and much unhappiness has
flowed from it. This calumny, you have it, at
length, in your power to refute. Its past effects
cannot be recalled, but here the evil may end,
the mistake may be cleared up, and be hindered
from destroying the future peace of your mother.
Yet you forbear from tenderness to his memory,
who, if you are consistent with yourself, you
must believe to look back on that transaction with
remorse, to lament every evil which it has
hitherto occasioned, and to rejoice in the
means of stopping the disastrous series.
My happiness is just of as little value. Your
mother's wishes, though allowed to be irrational
and groundless, are to be gratified by the disappointment
of mine, which appear to be just
and reasonable, and since one must be sacrificed,
that affection with which you have inspired me;
and those benefits you confess to owe to me;
those sufferings believed by you to have been incurred
by me for your sake, do not, it seems, entitle
me to preference.
On this score, however, my good girl, set
your heart at ease. I never assumed the merits
you attributed to me. I never urged the claims
you were once so eager to admit. I desire not
the preference. If, by abjuring me, your happiness
could be secured; if it were possible for
you to be that cheerful companion of your mother,
which you seem so greatly to wish: if, in
her society, you could stifle every regret, and
prevent your tranquillity from being invaded by
self-reproach, most gladly would I persuade
you to go to her, and dismiss me from your
thoughts forever.
But I know, Jane, that this cannot be. You
never will enjoy peace under your mother's
roof. The sighing heart and the saddened
features, will forever upbraid her, and bickering
and repining will mar every domestic scene.
Your mother's aversion to me is far from irreconcileable,
but that which will hasten reconcilement
will be marriage. You cannot forfeit her love
as long as you preserve your integrity, and
those scruples which no argument will dissipate,
will yield to reflection on an evil (as she will
regard it) that cannot be remedied.
Admitting me, in this respect, to be mistaken,
your mother's resentment will ever give you
disquiet. True, but will your union with me,
console you nothing? in pressing the hoped-for
fruit of that union to your breast; in that tenderness
which you will hourly receive from me,
will there be nothing to compensate you for sorrows
in which there is no remorse, and which,
indeed, will owe their poignancy to the generosity
of your spirit?
You cannot unite yourself to me, but with
some view to my happiness. Will your contributing
to that happiness be nothing?
Yet I cannot seperate my felicity from your's.
I can enjoy nothing at the cost of your peace.
In whatever way you decide, may the fruit be
content.
I ask you not for proofs of love; for the sacrifice
of others to me. My happiness demands
it not. It only requires you to seek your own
good. Nothing but ceaseless repinings can follow
your compliance with your mother's wishes;
but there is something in your power to do.
You can hide these repinings from her, by living
at a distance from her. She may know you
only through the medium of your letters, and
these may exhibit the brightest side of things.
She wants nothing but your divorce from me,
and that may take place without living under
her roof.
You need not stay here. The world is wide
and she will eagerly consent to the breaking of
your shackles by change of residence. Much
and the best part of your country you have never
seen. Variety of objects will amuse you,
and new faces and new minds eraze the deep
impressions of the past. Colden and his merits
may sink into forgetfulness, or be thought
of with no other emotion than regret that a being
so worthless was ever beloved—But I wander
from the true point. I meant not to introduce
myself into this letter—Self! That vile
debaser whom I detest as my worst enemy, and
who assumes a thousand shapes and practises a
thousand wiles to entice me from the right path.
Ah! Jane. Could thy sagacity discover no
other cause of thy mother's error than Talbot's
fraud? Could thy heart so readily impute to him
so black a treachery? Such a prompt and undoubting
conclusion, it grieves me to find thee
capable of.
How much more likely that Talbot was himself
deceived. For it was not by him that thy
unfinished letter was purloined. At that moment
he was probably some thousands of miles
distant. It was five weeks before his return
from his Hamburg voyage, when that mysterious
incident happened.
Be of good cheer, my sweet girl. I doubt
not all will be well. We shall find the means
of detecting and defeating this conspiracy, and
of re-establishing thee in thy mother's good opinion.
At present, I own, I do not see the
means; but to say truth, my mind is clouded by
anxieties; enfeebled by watching and fatigue.
You know why I came hither. I found my
friend in a very bad way, and have no hope but
that his pangs, which must end within a few
days, may, for his sake, terminate very soon.
He will not part with me, and I have seldom left
his chamber since I came.
Your letter has disturbed me much, and I
seize this interval when the sick man has gained
a respite from his pain to tell you my thoughts
upon it. I fear I have not reasoned very clearly.
Some peevishness, I doubt, has crept into
my style. I rely upon your wonted goodness
to excuse it.
I have much to say upon this affecting subject,
but must take a future opportunity.
I also have received a letter from Mrs. Fielder,
of which I will say no more, since I send
you enclosed that, and my answer. I wish it
had come at a time when my mind was more at
ease, as an immediate reply seemed to be necessary.
Adieu.
