LETTER XXV.
What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence
over me so absolute? No resolution of
mine can stand against your remonstrances. A single
word, a look, approving or condemning, transforms
me into a new creature. The dread of
having offended you, gives me the most pungent
distress. Your “Well done” lifts me above all
reproach. It is only when you are distant, when
your verdict is uncertain, that I shrink from contumely,
that the scorn of the world, though unmerited,
is a load too heavy for my strength.
Methinks I should be a strange creature, if left
to myself. A very different creature, doubtless,
I should have been, if placed under any other
guidance. So easily swayed am I by one that is
the lord of my affections. No will, no reason
have I of my own.
Such sudden and total transitions! in solitude
I ruminate and form my schemes. They seem
to me unalterable, yet a word from you scatters
all my laboured edifices, and I look back upon
my former state of mind, as on something that
passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming.
It is but a day since I determined to part with
you; since a thousand tormenting images engrossed
my imagination; yet now am I quite
changed: I am bound to you by links stronger
than ever. No, I will not part with you.
Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to
my mother? I have told her that I would come
to her, that I waited only for her directions as to
the disposal of her property. What will be her
disappointment when I tell her that I will not
come: when she finds me, in spite of her remonstrances,
still faithful to my engagements to
thee.
Is there no method of removing this aversion?
of outrooting this deadly prejudice? And must
I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her affection.
And now this dreadful charge! no wonder that
her affectionate heart was sorely wounded by
such seeming proofs of my wickedness.
I thought at first—shame upon my inconsistent
character! my incurable blindness! I should
never have doubted the truth of my first thoughts,
if you had not helped me to a more candid conjecture.
I was unjust enough to load him with
the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined
there was duty in forbearing to detect it.
Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet
how my friend shall I unravel this mystery?
my heart is truly sad. How easily is my woman's
courage lowered, and how prone am I to
despond.
Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved.
Decide and act for me, and be my weakness
fortified; my hope restored by thee. Let
me lose all separate feelings, all separate existence,
and let me know no principle of action,
but the decision of your judgment; no motive
or desire but to please; to gratify you.
Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement
with my mother. Do you think so?
then let it take place, my dear Hal. Heaven
permit that marriage may tend to reconcile;
but let it reconcile or not, if the wish be your's,
it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The
time, the manner, be it your's to prescribe. My
happiness, on that event will surely want but
little to compleat it, and if you bid me not despair
of my mother's acquiescence, I will not despair.
I am to send your letter, after reading, to my
mother, I suppose. I have read it, Hal, more
than once. And for my sake thou declinest her
offers. When you thus refuse no sacrifice on
my account, shall I hesitate, when it becomes
my turn? shall I ever want gratitude, thinkest
thou? shall I ever imagine that I have done
enough to evince my gratitude?
But how do I forget thy present situation.
Thy dying friend has scarcely occurred to me.
Thy afflictions, thy fatigues, are absorbed in my
own selfish cares.
I am very often on the brink of hating myself.
So much thoughtlessness of others; such calousness
to sorrows not my own: my hard heart
has often reproached thee for sparing a sigh or a
wish from me: that every gloom has not been
dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth,
against my majesty, and the murmurs that delighted
love should breathe, to welcome thy return,
was changed into half vindictive reluctance;
not quite a frown, and upbraidings in which tenderness
was almost turned out of door by anger.
In the present case, for instance, I have
scarcely thought of thy dying friend once. How
much thy disquiets would be augmented by the
letters which I sent thee never entered my
thoughts. To hide our sorrows from those who
love us, seems to be no more than generous.
Yet I never hid any thing from thee. All was
uttered that was felt. I considered not attending
circumstances. The bird, as soon as it was
scared, flew into the bosom that was nearest, and
merely occupied with dangers of its own, was
satisfied to find a refuge there.
And yet,—See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate,
entering with his—And yet. Would I
listen to him, what a world of palliations and
apologies would he furnish. How would he remind
me of cases in which my sympathy was always
awakened with attention. How often—
But I will not listen to the flatterer.
And now I think of it, Hal, you differ from
me very much in that respect. Every mournful
secret must be wrung from you. You hoard
up all your evil thoughts, and brood over them
alone. Nothing but earnest importunity ever
got from you any of your griefs.
Now this is cruel to yourself and unjust to
me. It is denying my claim to confidence. It
is holding back from me a part of yourself. It
is setting light by my sympathy.
And yet—the prater Vanity once more, you
see—but I will let him speak out this time.
Here his apology is your's, and myself am only
flattered indirectly.
And yet when I have extorted from you any
secret sorrow, you have afterwards acknowledged
that the disclosure was of use. That my
sympathising love was grateful to you, and my
counsel of some value: that you drew from my
conduct on those occasions new proofs of my
strength of mind, and of my right, a right
which my affection for you gave me, to share
with you all your thoughts.
Yet on the next occasion that offers, you are
sure to relapse into your habitual taciturnity,
and my labours to subdue it, are again to be repeated.
I have sometimes been tempted to retaliate
and convince you, by the effects of my
concealments upon you, of the error of your
own scheme.
But I never could persist, in silence, for five
minutes together. Shut up as the temple of
my heart is, to the rest of mankind, all its
doors fly open of their own accord, when you
approach.
Now am I got into my usual strain: in which
I could persevere forever. No wonder it charms
me so much, since, while thus pursuing it,
I lose all my cares in a sweet oblivion, but I
must stop, at last, and recall my thoughts to a
less welcome subject.
Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I
will do it now, and send you my letter. I will
endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive, a salutary
distrust of myself, and do nothing without your
approbation and direction. Such submission
becomes thy
