LETTER XXIII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Baltimore, November 2.
Madam.
It would indeed be needless to apologize for
your behaviour to me. I not only acquit you of
any enmity to me, but beg leave to return you
my warmest thanks for the generous offers
which you make me in this letter.
I should be grosly wanting in that love for
Mrs. Talbot which you believe me to possess,
if I did not partake in that gratitude and reverence
which she feels for one, who has performed
for her every parental duty. The esteem of
the good is only of less value in my eyes than
the approbation of my own conscience. There
is no price which I would not pay for your good
opinion, consistent with a just regard to that of
others and to my own.
I cannot be pleased with the information
which you give me. For the sake of my friend,
I am grieved that you are determined to make
her marriage with me, the forfeiture of that
provision which your bounty has hitherto supplied
her.
Forgive me if I say that in exacting this forfeiture
you will not be consistent with yourself.
On her marriage with me, she will stand in
much more need of your bounty than at present,
and her merits, however slender you may deem
them, will then be, at least, not less than they
now are.
If there were any methods by which I might
be prevented from sharing in gifts bestowed upon
my wife, I would eagerly concur in them.
I fully believe that your motive in giving me
this timely warning was a generous one. Yet,
in justice to myself and your daughter, I must
observe that the warning was superfluous, since
Jane never concealed from me the true state of
her affairs, and since I never imagined you
would honour with your gifts a marriage contracted
against your will.
Well do I know the influence of early indulgences.
Your daughter is a strong example of
that influence, nor will her union with me, if,
by that union she forfeit your favour, be any
thing more than a choice among evils, all of
which are heavy.
My own education and experience sufficiently
testify the importance of riches, and I should
be the last to despise r depreciate their value.
Still, much as habit has endeared to me the
goods of fortune, I am far from setting them
above all other goods.
You offer me, Madam, a large alms. Valuable
to me as that sum is, and eagerly as I would
accept it in any other circumstances, yet, at
present, I must, however reluctantly, decline
it. A voyage to Europe and such a sum, if
your daughter's happiness were not in question,
would be the utmost bound of my wishes.
“Shall I be able to compensate her—” you
ask.
No, indeed, Madam, I am far from deeming
myself qualified to compensate her for the loss
of property, reputation and friends. I aspire to
nothing but to console her under that loss, and
to husband as frugally as I can, those few meagre
remnants of happiness which shall be left to us.
I have seen your late letter to her. I should
be less than man if I were not greatly grieved
at the contents; yet, Madam, I am not cast
down below the hope of convincing you that
the charge made against your daughter is
false. You could not do otherwise than believe
it. It is for us to show you by what means, you,
and, probably, Talbot himself, have been deceived.
To suffer your charge to pass, for a moment,
uncontradicted, would be unjust, not more to
ourselves than to you. The mere denial will
not, and ought not to change your opinion. It
may even tend to raise higher the acrimony of
your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a
generous spirit to deny, without the power of
disproving, but a tacit admission of the charge
would be unworthy of those who know themselves
innocent.
Beseeching your favourable thoughts, and
grateful for the good which, but for the interference
of higher duties, your heart would
prompt you to give, and mine would not scruple
to accept,
