Jane Talbot a novel |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
| 32. |
| 33. |
| 34. |
| 35. |
| 36. |
| 37. |
| 38. |
| 39. |
| 40. |
| 41. |
| 42. |
| 43. | LETTER XLIII. |
| 44. |
| 45. |
| 46. |
| 47. |
| 48. |
| 49. |
| 50. |
| 51. |
| 52. |
| 53. |
| 54. |
| 55. |
| 56. |
| 57. |
| 58. |
| 59. |
| 60. |
| 61. |
| 62. |
| 63. |
| 64. |
| 65. |
| 66. |
| 67. |
| 68. |
| 69. |
| 70. |
 | Jane Talbot |  |
LETTER XLIII.
Philadelphia, Dec. 7.
I hope you will approve of my design to accompany
Stephen. The influence of variety
and novelty will no doubt be useful. Why
should I allow my present feelings, which assure
me that I have lost what is indispensible,
not only to my peace, but my life, to supplant
the invariable lesson of experience, which
teaches that time and absence will dull the edge
of every calamity? And have I not found myself
peculiarly susceptible of this healing influence?
Time and change of scene will, no doubt,
relieve me, but, in the mean time, I have not
a name for that wretchedness into which I am
sunk. The light of day, the company of mankind
is, at this moment, insupportable. Of all
places in the world, this is the most hateful to
my soul. I should not have entered the city, I
should not abide in it a moment, were it not
for a thought that occurred just before I left
Baltimore.
You know the mysterious and inexplicable
calumny which has heightened Mrs. Fielder's
antipathy against me. Of late, I have been
continually ruminating on it, and especially
since Mrs. Talbot's last letter. Methinks it is
impossible for me to leave the country till I have
cleared her character of this horrid aspersion.
Can there be any harmony between mother and
child; muft not suspicion and mistrust perpetually
rankle in their bosoms, while this imposture
is believed?
Yet how to detect the fraud—Some clue must
be discernible; perseverance must light on it, at
last. The agent in this sordid iniquity must be
human: must be influenced by the ordinary
motives: must be capable of remorse or of error;
must have moments of repentance or of
negligence.
My mind was particularly full of this subject
in a midnight ramble which I took just before I
left Baltimore. Something, I know not what,
recalled to mind a conversation which I had
with the poor washwoman at Wilmington. Miss
Jessup, whom you well know by my report, passed
through Wilmington just as I left the sick
give me an “How'de'ye” and to drop some
railleries, founded on my visits to Miss Secker,
a single and solitary lady. On reaching Philadelphia
she amused herself with perplexing
Jane, by jesting exaggerations on the same subject,
in a way that seemed to argue somewhat
of malignity; yet I thought nothing of it at the
time.
On my next visit to the sick woman, it occurred
to me, for want of other topics of conversation,
to introduce Miss Jessup. Did she know
any thing, I asked, of that lady.
O Yes, was the answer. A great deal. She
lived a long time in the family. She remembered
her well, and was a sufferer by many of her
freaks.
It is always disagreeable to me to listen to
the slanderous prate of servants: I am careful,
whenever it intrudes itself, to discourage and
rebuke it; but just at this time I felt some resentment
against this lady, and hardly supposed
it possible for any slanderer to exaggerate her
contemptible qualities. I suffered her therefore
to run on in a tedious and minute detail of
the capricious, peevish and captious deportment
of Miss Jessup.
After the rhetoric of half an hour, all was
wound up, in a kind of satyrical apology, with—
No wonder, for the girl was over head and ears
in love, and her man would have nothing to
say to her. An hundred times has she begged
and prayed bim to be kind, but he slighted all
her advances, and always after they had been
shut up together, she wreaked her disappointment
and ill humour upon us.
Pray, said I, who was this ungrateful person?
His name was Talbot. Miss Jessup would
not give him up, but teazed him with letters
and prayers till the man at last, got married,
ten to one for no other reason than to get rid of
her.
This intelligence was new. Much as I had
heard of miss Jessup, a story like this had never
reached my ears. I quickly ascertained
that the Talbot spoken of was the late husband
of my friend.
Some incident interrupted the conversation
here. The image of Miss Jessup was displaced
to give room to more important reveries, and I
thought no more of her till this night's ramble.
I now likewise recollected that the only person
suspected of having entered the apartment where
lay Mrs. Talbot's unfinished letter, was no other
than Miss Jessup herself, who was always
gadding at unseasonable hours. How was this
suspicion removed? By Miss Jessup herself,
who, on being charged with the theft, asserted
that she was elsewhere engaged at the time.
It was, indeed, exceedingly improbable that
Miss Jessup had any agency in this affair. A
volatile, giddy, thoughtless character, who betrayed
her purposes on all occasions, from a natural
incapacity to keep a secret; and yet had
not this person succeeded in keeping her attachment
to Mr. Talbot from the knowledge, and
even the suspicion of his wife? Their intercourse
had been very frequent since her marriage,
and all her sentiments appeared to be expressed
with a rash and fearless confidence.
Yet, if Hannah Secker's story deserved credit,
and had placed on her lips a guard
that had never once slept.
I determined to stop at Wilmington next day,
on my journey to you, and glean what further
information Hannah could give. I ran to her
lodgings as soon as I alighted at the inn.
I enquired how long and in what years she
lived with miss Jessup; what reason she had for
suspecting her mistress of an attachment to
Talbot; what proofs Talbot gave of aversion to
her wishes.
On each of these heads, her story was tediously
minute and circumstantial. She lived with
miss Jessup and her mother, before Talbot's
marriage with my friend; after the marriage,
and during his absence on the voyage which occasioned
his death.
The proofs of miss Jessup's passion were continually
occurring in her own family, where she
suffered the ill humor, occasioned by her disappointment,
to display itself without controul.
Hannah's curiosity was not chastised by much
reflection, and some things were overheard
which verified the old maxim, that “Walls have
ears.” In short, it appears that this poor lady
doated on Talbot; that she reversed the usual
methods of proceeding and submitted to his
mercy; that she met with nothing but scorn
and neglect; that even after his marriage with
Jane, she sought his society, pestered him with
invitations and letters, and directed her walks
in such a way as to make their meeting in the
street occur as if by accident.
While Talbot was absent she visited his wife
very frequently, but the subjects of their conversation
and the degree of intimacy between the
two ladies were better known to me than to
Hannah.
You may think it strange that my friend never
suspected or discovered the state of Miss Jessup's
feelings. But, in truth, Jane is the least suspicious
or inquifitive of mortals. Her neighbour
was regarded with no particular affection:
her conversation is usually a vein of impertinence
or levity; her visits were always unsaught
and eluded as often as decorum would permit;
her talk was seldom listened to, and she and all
belonging to her were dismissed from recollection
as soon as politeness gave leave. Miss Jessup's
deficiencies in personal and mental graces
and Talbot's undisguised contempt for her, precluded
every sentiment like jealousy.
Jane's life, since the commencement of her
acquaintance with Miss Jessup, was lonely and
secluded. Her friends were not of her neighbours
cast, and these tattlers who knew any
thing of Miss Jessup's follies were quite unknown
to her. No wonder, then, that the troublesome
impertinence of this poor woman had
never betrayed her to so inattentive an observer
as Jane.
After many vague and fruitless inquiries, I
asked Hannah if Miss Jessup was much addicted
to the pen.
Very much. Was always scribbling. Was
never by herself three minutes but the pen was
taken up: would write on any pieces of paper
that offered: was frequently rebuked by her mother
cause of a great many quarrels between them:
the old lady spent the whole day knitting: supplied
herself in this way, with all the stockings
she herself used; knit nothing but worsted,
which she wore all the year round: all the surplus
beyond what she needed for her own use,
she sold at a good price to a Market street shopkeeper:
Hannah used to be charged with the
commission: always executed it grumblingly:
the old lady had stipulated with a Mr. H—
to take at a certain price, all she made: Hannah
was dispatched with the stockings, but was
charged to go beforehand to twenty other dealers,
and try to get more. Used to go directly
to Mr. H—, and call on her friends by the
way, persuading the old lady that her detention
was occasioned by the number and perseverance
of her applications to the dealers in hose: till,
at last, she fell under suspicion; was once followed
by the old lady, detected in her fraud, and
dismissed from the house with ignominy. The
quondam mistress endeavoured to injure Hannah's
character by reporting that her agent had
actually got a higher price for the stockings
than she thought proper to account for to her
employer; had gained, by this artifice, not less
than three farthings a pair, on twenty-three
pairs: all a base lie as ever was told—
You say that miss Jessup was a great scribbler.
Did she write well: fast: neatly?
They say she did: very well. For her part,
she could not write; and was therefore no
judge, but Tom, the waiter and coachman, was
very fond of reading and writing, and used to
Tom used to carry all her messages and letters;
Was a cunning and insinuating fellow; cajoled
his mistress by flatteries and assiduities: got
many a smile: many a bounty and gratuity,
for which the fellow only laughed at her behind
her back.
What has become of this Tom?
He lives with her still, and was in as high
favour as ever. Tom had paid her a visit, the
day before, being in attendance on his mistress
on her late journey. From him, she supposed
that Miss Hetty had gained intelligence of
Hannah's situation, and of her being succoured,
in her distress, by me.
Tom, you say, was her letter carrier. Did
you ever hear from him with whom she corresponded?
did she ever write to Talbot?
O yes. Just before Talbot's marriage, she
often wrote to him. Tom used to talk very
freely in the kitchen about his mistress' attachment,
and always told us, what reception he met
with. Mr. Talbot seldom condescended to write
any answer.
I suppose, Hannah, I need hardly ask whether
you have any specimen of Miss Jessup's writing
in your possession?
This question considerably disconcerted the
poor woman. She did not answer me till I had
repeated the question.
Why—yes—she had—something—she believed.
I presume it is nothing improper to be disclosed:
if so, I should be glad to have a sight
f it.
She hesitated: was very much perplexed.
Denied and confessed alternately that she possessed
some of Miss Jessup's writing; at length
began to weep very bitterly.
After some solicitation on my part, to be explicit,
she consented to disclose what she acknowledged
to be a great fault. The substance
of her story was this:
Miss Jessup, on a certain occasion, locked
herself up for several hours in her chamber.
At length she came out, and went to the street
door, apparently with an intention of going
abroad. Just then an heavy rain began to fall.
This incident produced a great deal of impatience,
and after waiting some time, in hopes of
the shower's ceasing, and frequently looking at
her watch, she called for an umbrella. Unhappily,
as poor Hannah afterwards thought, no
umbrella could be found. Her own had been lent
to a friend the preceding evening, and the mother
would have held herself most culpably extravagant
to uncase hers, without a most palpable
necessity. Miss Hetty was preparing to go out
unsheltered, when the officious Tom interfered,
and asked her if he could do what she
wanted. At first, she refused his offer, but the
mothers importunities to stay at home becoming
more clamorous, she consented to commission
Tom to drop a letter at the post office.
This he was to do with the utmost dispatch, and
promised that not a moment should be lost.
He received the letter, but instead of running
off with it immediately, he slipped into the kitchen,
just to arm himself against the storm by
an hearty draught of strong beer.
While quaffing his nectar, and chattering with
his usual gaiety, Hannah, who had long owed
a grudge both to mistress and man, was tempted
to convey the letter from Tom's pocket,
where it was but half deposited, into her
own. Her only motive was to vex and disappoint
those whose chief pleasure it had
always been to vex and disappoint her. The
tankard being hastily emptied, he hastened
away to the post office. When he arrived
there, he felt for the letter. It was gone: dropped,
as he supposed, in the street. In great confusion
he returned, examining very carefully the
gutters and porches, by the way. He entered
the kitchen in great perplexity, and enquired of
Hannah, if a letter had not fallen from his pocket
before he went out.
Hannah, according to her own statements, was
incapable of inveterate malice. She was preparing
to rid Tom of his uneasiness, when he was
summoned to the presence of his lady. He
thought proper to extricate himself from all
difficulties by boldly affirming that the letter had
been left according to direction, and he afterwards
endeavoured to persuade Hannah that it
had been found in the bottom of his pocket.
Every day encreased the difficulty of disclosing
the truth. Tom and Miss Jessup, talked
no more on the subject, and time, and new
provocations from her mistress, confirmed Hannah in her resolution of retaining the paper.
She could not read, and was afraid of trusting
any body else with the contents of this epistle.
Several times she was about to burn it,
but forbore from the persuasion that a day
might arrive when the possession would be of
forgotten, in the bottom of her crazy chest.
I rebuked her with great severity, for her
conduct, and insisted on her making all the
atonement in her power, by delivering up the
letter to the writer. I consented to take charge
of it for that purpose.
You will judge my surprise, when I received
a letter, with the seal unbroken, directed to
Mrs. Fielder of New-York. Jane and I had
often been astonished at the minute intelligence
which her mother received of our proceedings:
at the dexterity this secret informant had
displayed in misrepresenting and falsely construing
our actions. The informer was anonymous,
and one of the letters had been extorted
from her mother by Jane's urgent solicitations.
This I had frequently perused and the penmanship
was still familiar to my recollection. It bore
a striking resemblance to the superscription of
this letter, and was equally remote from Miss
Jessups ordinary hand writing. Was it rash to
infer from these circumstances that the secret
enemy, whose malice had been so active and
successful, was at length discovered?
What was I to do? Should I present myself
before Miss Jessup with this letter in my
hand, and lay before her my suspicions, or
should I carry it to Mrs. Fielder, to whom it
was directed? My curiosity was defeated by
the careful manner in which it was folded, and
this was not a case in which I deemed myself
authorized to break a seal.
After much reflection, I determined to call
upon Miss Jessup. I meant not to restore her
should take, made it proper. I have already
been at her house. She was not at home. I am
to call again at eight o'clock in the evening.
In my way thither I passed Mrs. Talbot's
house. There were scarcely any tokens of its
being inhabited. No doubt, the mother and
child, have returned together to New-York.
On approaching the house, my heart, too heavy
before, became a burthen almost insupportable.
I hastened my pace, and averted my
eyes.
I am now shut up in my chamber at an Inn.
I feel as if in a wilderness of savages, where all
my safety consisted in solitude. I was glad not
to meet with an human being whom I knew.
What shall I say to miss Jessup when I see
her. I know not. I have reason to believe her
the author of many slanders, but look for no
relief from the mischiefs they have occasioned,
in accusing or upbraiding the slanderer. She has
like wise disclosed many instances of guilty conduct,
which I supposed impossible to be discovered.
I never concealed them from Mrs. Talbot,
to whom a thorough knowledge of my character
was indispensible; but I was unwilling
to make any other my confessor. In this, I cannot
suppose her motives to have been very benevolent,
but, since she adhered to the truth,
it is not for me to arraign her motives.
May I not suspect that she had some hand in
the forgery lately come to light. A mind like
hers, must hate a successful rival. To persuade
Talbot of his wife's perfidy, was at least
to dissolve his alliance with another; and since
after his marriage, is it not allowable to question
the delicacy and punctiliousness, at least, of her
virtue?
Mrs. Fielder's aversion to me, is chiefly founded
on a knowledge of my past errors. She thinks
them too flagrant to be atoned for, and too inveterate
to be cured. I can never hope to subdue
perfectly that aversion, and though Jane
can never be happy without me, I, alone, cannot
make her happy. On my own account,
therefore, it is of little moment what she believes.
But her own happiness is deeply concerned
in clearing her daughter's character of
this blackest of all stains.
Here is some one coming up the stairs, towards
my apartment. Surely it cannot be to
me that this visit is intended—
Good Heaven! What shall I do?
It was Molly that has just left me.
My heart sunk at her appearance. I had made
up my mind to separate my evil destiny from
that of Jane; and could only portend new trials
and difficulties from the appearance of one
whom I supposed her messenger.
The poor girl, as soon as she saw me, began
to sob bitterly, and could only exclaim—O, sir!
O, Mr. Colden.
This behaviour was enough to terrify me. I
trembled in every joint while I faultered out—
I hope your mistress is well.
After many efforts, I prevailed in gaining a
distinct account of my friend's situation. This
good girl, by the sympathy she always expressed
and constant proofs of discretion and affection,
had gained Mrs. Talbot's confidence;
yet no farther than to indulge her feelings with
less restraint in Molly's presence than in that of
any other person.
I learned that the night after Mrs. Fielder's
arrival, was spent by my friend in sighs and
restlessness. Molly lay in the same chamber,
and her affectionate heart was as much a stranger
to repose as that of her mistress. She frequently
endeavored to comfort Mrs. Talbot, but
in vain.
Next day she did not rise as early as usual.
Her mother came to her bed-side, and enquired
affectionately after her health. The visit was
received with smiling and affectionate complacency.
Her indisposition was disguised, and
she studied to persuade Mrs. Fielder that she
enjoyed her usual tranquillity. She rose, and
attempted to eat, but quickly desisted, and after
a little while retired and locked herself up in her
chamber. Even Molly was not allowed to follow
her.
In this way, that and the ensuing day past.
She wore an air of constrained cheerfulness in
her mother's presence; affected interest in common
topics; and retired at every convenient interval
to her chamber, where she wept incessantly.
Mrs. Fielder's eye was watchful and anxious.
She addressed Mrs. Talbot in a tender and maternal
accent; seemed solicitous to divert her
attention by anecdotes of New-York friends;
and carefully eluded every subject likely to recall
present. The daughter seemed grateful for
these solicitudes, and appeared to fight with her
feelings the more resolutely because they gave
pain to her mother.
All this was I compelled to hear from the
communicative Molly.
My heart bled at this recital. Too well did I
predict what effect her compliance would have
on her peace.
I asked if Jane had not received a letter from
me.
Yes—Two letters had come to the door at
once, this morning; one for Mrs. Fielder and
the other for her daughter. Jane expected its
arrival, and shewed the utmost impatience when
the hour approached. She walked about her
chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound;
continually glanced from her window at the
passengers.
She did not conceal from Molly the object of
her solicitude. The good girl endeavored to
sooth her, but she checked her with vehemence.
Talk not to me, Molly. On this hour depends
my happiness—my life. The sacrifice my mother
asks, is too much or too little. In bereaving
me of my love she must be content to take my
existence also. They never shall be separated.
The weeping girl timorously suggested that
she had already given me up.
True, Molly, in a rash moment, I told him
that we meet no more: but two days of misery has
convinced me that it cannot be. His answer
will decide my fate as to this world. If he accept
my dismissal, I am thenceforth undone.
a less stubborn child, I will die.
These last words were uttered with an air the
most desperate, and an emphasis the most solemn.
They chilled me to the heart, and I was
unable longer to keep my seat. Molly, unbidden,
went on.
Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive
it. Mrs. Fielder was at the street door before
me, but she suffered me to carry my mistress'
letter to her. Poor lady! She met me at
the stair-head, snatched the paper eagerly, but
trembled so she could not open it. At last she
threw herself on the bed, and ordered me to
read it to her. I did so. At every sentence
she poured forth fresh tears, and exclaimed,
wringing her hands—O! what—what an heart
have I madly cast away.
The girl told me much more, which I am unable
to repeat. Her visit was self-prompted.
She had caught a glympse of me as I passed the
door, and without mentioning her purpose to
her mistress, set out as soon as it was dusk.
Cannot you do something, Mr. Colden, for my
mistress? continued the girl. She will surely
die if she has not her own way; and to judge
from your appearance, it is as great a cross to
you as to her.
Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but
the choice of dreadful evils. Jane is the mistress
of her own destiny. It is not I that have
renounced her, but she that has banished me.
She has only to recall the sentence, which she
confesses to have been hastily and thoughtlessly
me from her side.
Molly asked my permission to inform her
mistress of my being in the city, and conjured
me not to leave it, during the next day, at least.
I readily consented, and requested her to bring
me word in the morning in what state things
were.
She offered to conduct me to her then. It
was easy to affect an interview without Mrs.
Fielder's knowledge: but I was sick of all clandestine
proceedings, and had promised Mrs.
Fielder not to seek another meeting with her
daughter. I was likewise anxious to visit miss
Jessup, and ascertain what was to be done by
means of the letter in my pocket.
Can I, my friend, can I, without unappeasible
remorse, pursue this scheme of a distant voyage.
Suppose some fatal dispair should seize
my friend. Suppose—it is impossible. I will
not stir till she has had time to deliberate; till
resignation to her mother's will, shall prove a
task that is practicable.
Should I not be the most flagrant of villains
if I deserted one that loved me. My own happiness
is not a question. I cannot be a selfish
being and a true lover. Happiness, without her,
is indeed a chimerical thought, but my exile
would be far from miserable, while assured of
her tranquillity, and possession would confer no
peace, if her whom I possessed, were not happier
than a different destiny would make her.
Why have all these thoughts been suspended
for the last two days. I had wrought myself up
to a firm persuasion that marriage was the only
the favor of her mother would be most likely to
succeed, when that which she endeavored to
prevent, was irretrievable. Yet that persuasion
was dissipated by her last letter. That convinced
me that her lot would only be made miserable
by being united to mine. Yet now—is
it not evident that our fates must be inseperable?
What a phantastic impediment is this aversion
of her mother? And yet, can I safely and
deliberately call it phantastic? Let me sever
myself from myself, and judge impartially. Be
my heart called upon to urge its claims to such
affluence, such love, such treasures of personal
and mental excellence as Jane has to bestow.
Would it not be dumb. It is not so absurd as
to plead its devotion to her, as an atonement for
every past guilt, and as affording security for
future uprightness.
On my own merit I am, and ever have been
mute. I have plead with Mrs. Fielder not for
myself but for Jane. It is her happiness that
forms the object of my supreme regard. I am
eager to become hers, because her, not because
my happiness, though my happiness certainly
does, demand it.
I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be
deliberate. I will not biass her by prayers or
blandishments. Her resolution shall spring
from her own judgment, and shall absolutely
govern me. I will rivet myself to her side, or
vanish forever according to her pleasure.
I wish I had written a few words to her by
Molly, assuring her of my devotion to her will:
And yet, stands she in need of any new assurrances.
to fly. She recalls me, and it is impossible to
depart.
I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the
pen ('tis my sole amusement—)when I return—
I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter
in my pocket: my mind confused: perplexed:
sorrowful: wholly undertermined as to the manner
of addressing her, or the use to be made of
this important paper. I designedly prolonged
my walk in hopes of forming some distinct conception
of the purpose for which I was going,
but only found myself each moment, sinking into
new perplexities. Once I had taken the resolution
of opening her letter and turned my
steps towards the fields, that I might examine
it at leisure, but there was something disgraceful
in the violation of a seal, which scared me
away from this scheme.
At length, reproaching myself for this indecision
and leaving my conduct to be determined
by circumstances I went directly to her
house.
Miss Jessup was unwell; was unfit to see
company: desired me to send up my name. I
did not mention my name to the servant but replied
I had urgent business, which a few minutes
conversation would dispatch. I was admitted.
I found the lady, in a careless garb, reclining
on a sofa, wan, pale and of a sickly aspect. On
recognising me, she assumed a languidly smiling
air, and received me with much civility. I
took my seat near her. She began the talk.
I am very unwell; Got a terrible cold, coming
from Dover: been laid up ever since; a teazing
cough; no appetite: and worse spirits than I
ever suffered: Glad you've come to relieve my
solitude: not a single soul to see me; Mrs.
Talbot never favours a body with a visit. Pray
how's the dear girl? Hear her mother's come;
heard, it seems, of your intimacy with Miss
Secker: Determined to revenge your treason to
her goddess! vows she shall, henceforth, have
no more to say to you.
While waiting for admission, I formed hastily
the resolution in what manner to conduct
this interview. My deportment was so solemn,
that the chatterer glancing at my face in the
course of her introductory harangue, felt herself
suddenly chilled and restrained.
Why what now? Colden. You are mighty
grave methinks. Do you repent already of your
new attachment. Has the atmosphere of Philadelphia,
reinstated Jane in all her original
rights?
Proceed, madam. When you are tired of
raillery, I shall beg your attention to a subject
in which your honour is deeply concerned: to
a subject which allows not of a jest.
Nay, said she, in some little trepedation, if
you have any thing to communicate, I am already
prepared to receive it.
Indeed Miss Jessup, I have something to
communicate. A man of more refinement and
address than I can pretend to, would make this
communication in a more circuitous and artful
manner; and a man, less deeply interested in
the establishment of truth, would act with more
plead: no forgiveness to ask, for what I am
now going to disclose. I demand nothing from
you, but your patient attention, while I lay before
you the motives of my present visit.
You are no stranger to my attachment to
Mrs. Talbot. That my passion is requited is
likewise known to you. That her mother objects
to her union with me, and raises her objections
on certain improprieties in my character
and conduct, I suppose, has already come
to your knowledge.
You may naturally suppose that I am desirous
of gaining her favour, but it is not by the
practice of fraud and iniquity, and therefore I
have not begun with denying or concealing my
faults. Very faulty: very criminal have I been:
to deny that would be adding to the number of
my transgressions, but I assure you, Miss Jessup,
there have been limits to my follies: there
is a boundary beyond which I have never gone.
Mrs. Fielder imagines me much more criminal
than I really am, and her opinion of me,
which if limited, in the strictest manner by my
merits, would amply justify her aversion to my
marriage with her daughter, is, however, carried
further than justice allows.
Mrs. Fielder has been somewhat deceived
with regard to me. She thinks me capable of
a guilt, of which, vicious as I am, I am yet incapable.
Nay, she imagines I have actually
committed a crime, of which I am wholly innocent.
What think you, madam (taking her hand,
and eying her with stedfastness) she thinks
made the wife unfaithful to the husband: I have
persuaded Mrs. Talbot to forget what was due to
herself, her fame, and to trample on her marriage
vow.
This opinion is not a vague conjecture on
suspicion. It is founded in what seems to be
the most infallible of all evidence: the written
confession of her daughter. The paper appears
to be a letter which was addressed to the seducer
soon after the guilty interview. This paper
came indirectly into Mrs. Fielder's hands. To
justify her charge, against us, she has shewn it
to us. Now madam, the guilt imputed to us, is
a stranger to our hearts. The crime which this
letter confesses, never was committed, and the
letter which contains the confession, never was
written by Jane. It is a forgery.
Mrs. Fielder's misapprehension, so far as it
relates to me, is of very little moment. I can
hope for nothing from the removal of this error
while so many instances of real misconduct continue
to plead against me, but her daughter's
happiness is materially affected by it, and for
her sake I am anxious to vindicate her fame
from this reproach.
No doubt, Miss Jessup, you have often asked
me in your heart since I began to speak, Why
I have stated this transaction to you. What interest
have you in our concerns? What proofs
of affection or esteem have you received from
us, that should make you zealous in our behalf?
Or, what relation has your interest in any respect
to our weal or woe. Why should you be
called upon as a counsellor or umpire, in the
mother?
And do indeed these questions rise in your
heart, Miss Jessup? Does not memory enable
you to account for conduct which, to the distant
and casual observer, to those who know not
what you know, would appear strange and absurd.
Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment
to recall the past. Think over all that has occurred
since your original acquaintance with
Mrs. Talbot or her husband, and tell me solemnly
and truly whether you discern not the
cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you know
not the unhappy person, whom some delusive
prospect of advantage, some fatal passion has
tempted to belie the innocent.”
I am no reader of faces, my friend. I drew no
inferences from the confusion sufficiently visible
in Miss Jessup. She made no attempt to
interrupt me, but quickly withdrew her eye
from my gaze; hung her head upon her bosom:
an hectic flush now and then shot across her
cheek. But these would have been produced
by a similar address delivered with much solemnity
and emphasis, in any one however innocent.
I believe there was no anger in my looks.
Supposing her to have been the author of this
stratagem, it awakened in me not resentment
but pity. I paused: but she made no answer
to my expostulation. At length, I resumed
with augmented earnestness, grasping her hand.
“Tell me, I conjure you what you know.
Be not deterred by any self regard—but, indeed,
a mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for
whom you have always possessed a friendly regard.
Will your own integrity or reputation be
brought into question. In order to exculpate
your friend, will it be necessary to accuse yourself.
Have you been guilty in withholding the
discovery. Have you been guilty in contriving
the fraud? Did your own hand pen the
fatal letter which is now brought in evidence
against my friend. Were you, yourself, guilty
of counterfeiting hands, in order to drive the
husband into a belief of his wife's perfidy?”
A deadly paleness overspread her countenance
at these words. I pitied her distress and
confusion, and waited not for an answer which
she was unable to give.
“Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern
in this transaction. I mean not to distress you:
I mean not to put you to unnecessary shame: I
have no indignation or enmity against you. I
come hither not to injure or disgrace you, but to
confer on you a great and real benefit: to enable
you to repair the evil which your infatuation
has occasioned. I want to relieve your conscience
from the sense of having wronged one
that never wronged you.
Do not imagine that in all this, I am aiming
at my own selfish advantage. This is not the
mother's only objection to me, or only proof
of that frailty she justly ascribes to me. To
prove me innocent of this charge, will not reconeile
her to her daughter's marriage. It will
reconciliation with her daughter.
Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many
steps from this spot. Permit me to attend you
to her. I will introduce the subject. I will tell
her that you come to clear her daughter from
an unmerited charge, to confess that the unfinished
letter was taken by you, and that, by additions
in a feigned hand, you succeeded in
making that an avowal of abandoned wickedness,
which was originally innocent, at least, though,
perhaps, indiscreet.”
All this was uttered in a very rapid, but
solemn accent. I gave her no time to recollect
herself: no leisure for denial or evasion. I
talked as if her agency was already ascertained
and the feelings she betrayed at this abrupt and
unaware attack, confirmed my suspicions.
After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were,
for utterance, she faultered out—Mr. Colden—
you see, I am very sick—this conduct has been
very strange—nothing—I know nothing of what
you have been saying. I wonder at your talking
to me in this manner—you might as well
address yourself, in this style, to one you never
saw. What grounds can you have for suspecting
me of any concern in this transaction!
Ah! madam! replied I, I see you have not
strength of mind to confess a fault. Why will
you compel me to produce the proof that you
have taken an unauthorised part in Mrs. Talbot's
concerns. Do you imagine that the love
you bore her husband: even after his marriage:
the efforts you used to gain his favour; his contemptuous
you imagine that these things are not known?
Why you should endeavour to defraud the
wife of her husband's esteem, is a question
which your own heart only can answer. Why
you should watch Mrs. Talbot's conduct, and
communicate your discoveries in anonymous
letters and a hand disguised, to her mother, I
pretend not to say. I came not to inveigh
against the folly or malignity of such conduct.
I come not even to censure it. I am not entitled
to sit in judgment over you. My regard for
mother and daughter makes me anxious to
rectify an error fatal to their peace. There is
but one way of doing this effectually, with the
least injury to your character. I would not be
driven to the necessity of employing public
means to convince the mother that the charge
is false, and that you were the calumniator:
means that will humble and disgrace you infinitely
more than a secret interview and frank
confession from your own lips.
To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is
to be expected from one capable of acting as
you have acted, but it will avail you nothing. It
will merely compel me to have recourse to
means less favourable to you. My reluctance to
employ them arises from regard to you, for I
repeat that I have no enmity for you, and propose,
in reality, not only Mrs. Talbot's advantage,
but your own.
I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment
which these words occasioned. Tears afforded
her some relief, but shame had deprived her of
all utterance.
Let me conjure you, resumed I, to go with
me this moment to Mrs. Fielder. In ten
minutes all may be over. I will save you the
pain of speaking. Only be present, while I explain
the matter. Your silent acquiescence will
be all that I shall demand.
Impossible! she exclaimed, in a kind of agony,
I am already sick to death. I cannot move a
step to such a purpose. I don't know Mrs.
Fielder, and can never look her in the face.
A letter, then, replied I, will do, perhaps, as
well. Here are pen and paper. Send to her, by
me, a few lines. Defer all circumstance and
comment, and merely inform her who the author
of this forgery was. Here, continued I, producing
the letter which Talbot had shewn to Mrs.
Fielder, here is the letter in which my friend's
hand is counterfeited, and she is made to confess
a guilt to the very thought of which she has
ever been a stranger. Inclose it in a paper, acknowledging
the stratagem to be yours. It is
done in a few words, and in half a minute.
My impetuosity overpowered all opposition
and remonstrance. The paper was before her;
the pen in her reluctant fingers; but that was
all.
“There may never be a future opportunity of
repairing your misconduct. You are sick, you
say, and indeed your countenance bespeaks some
deeply rooted malady. You cannot be certain but
that this is the last opportunity you may ever enjoy.
When sunk upon the bed of death, and unable
to articulate your sentiments, you may unavailingly
regret the delay of this confession.
You may die with the excruciating thought of
and of having sown eternal discord between mother
and child.”
I said a good deal more in this strain, by
which she was deeply affected, but she demanded
time to reflect. She would do nothing then;
she would do all I wished by tomorrow. She was
too unwell to see any body, to hold a pen, at
present.
All I want, said I, are but few words. You
cannot be at a loss for these I will hold: I will
guide your hand: I will write what you dictate.
Will you put your hand to something which I
will write this moment in your presence, and
subject to your revision.
I did not stay for her consent, but seizing the
pen, put down hastily these words.
“Madam; the inclosed letter has led you into
mistake. It has persuaded you that your daughter
was unfaithful to her vows: but know, madam,
that the concluding paragraph was written
by me. I found the letter unfinished on Mrs. Talbot's
desk. I took it thence without her knowledge,
and added the concluding parapraph, in
an hand as much resembling hers as possible,
and conveyed it to the hands of her husband.”
This hasty scribble I read to her, and urged
her by every consideration my invention could
suggest, to sign it. But no; she did not deny
the truth of the statement it contained, but she
must have time to recollect herself. Her head
was rent to pieces by pain. She was in too
much confusion to allow her to do any thing
just now deliberately
I now produced the letter I received from
compel me to preserve no measures with you.
There is a letter which you wrote to Mrs. Fielder.
Its contents were so important that you
would not at first trust a servant with the delivery
of it at the office. This however you were
finally compelled to do. A fellow servant however
stole it from your messenger, and instead
of being delivered according to its address it
has lately come into my hands.
No doubt (shewing the superscription, but
not permitting her to see that the seal was unbroken)
no doubt you recognize the hand; the
hand of that anonymous detractor who had previously
taken so much pains to convince the
husband that his wife was an adultress and a
prostitute.
Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure
would have had, I should have hesitated. After
a few convulsive breathings, she fainted. I was
greatly alarmed and calling in a female servant,
I staid till she revived. I thought it but mercy
to leave her alone, and giving directions to the
servant where I might be found, and requesting
her to tell her mistress that I would call again
early in the morning, I left the house.
I returned hither, and am once more shut up
in my solitary chamber. I am in want of sleep,
but my thoughts must be less tumultuous before
that blessing can be hoped for. All is still
in the house and in the city, and the “cloudy
morning” of the watchman tells me that midnight
is past. I have already written much, but
must write on.
What my friend, can this letter contain? the
writer discovered, produced strange effects.
I am afraid there was some duplicity in my conduct.
But the concealment of the unbroken
seal, was little more than chance. Had she enquired
whether the letter was opened I should
not have deceived her.
Perhaps however, I ascribe too much to this
discovery. Miss Jessup was evidently very ill.
The previous conversation had put her fortitude
to a severe test. The tide was already so high,
that the smallest increase sufficed to overwhelm
her. Methinks I might have gained my purpose
with less injury to her.
But what purpose have I gained? I have effected
nothing, I am as far, perhaps farther
than ever from vanquishing her reluctance. A
night's reflection may fortify her pride, may furnish
some expedient for eluding my request.
Nay, she may refuse to see me, when I call on
the morrow, and I cannot force myself into her
presence.
If all this should happen, what will be left for
me to do? That deserves some consideration.
This letter of Miss Jessup's may possibly contain
the remedy for many evils. What use shall
I make of it? How shall I get at its contents?
There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs.
Fielder, and deliver it to her, to whom it is addressed.
Carry it myself? Venture into her
presence, by whom I am so much detested? She
will tremble with mingled indignation and terror,
at the sight of me. I cannot hope a patient
audience. And can I, in such circumstances,
rely on my own equanimity? How can
a demon; who, not content with hating me for
that which really merits hatred, imputes to me
a thousand imaginary crimes.
Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his
reputation. Having once been guilty, the returning
path to rectitude is forever barred against
him. His conduct will almost always be liable
to a double construction; and who will suppose
the influence of good motives, when experience
has proved the influence, in former cases,
of evil ones?
Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress,
provided she retain the favor of her adopted
mother, of a splendid fortune. I am poor, indolent,
devoted, not to sensual, but to visionary
and to costly luxuries. How shall such a man
escape the imputation of sordid and selfish motives?
How shall he prove that he counterfeits no
passion; employs no clandestine or illicit means
to retain the affections of such a woman. Will
his averments of disinterested motives be believed?
Why should they be believed? How easily
are assertions made, and how silly to credit
declarations contradicted by the tenor of a
man's whole conduct.
But can I truly aver that my motives are disinterested.
Does not my character make a plentiful
and independent provifion, of more value
to me, more necessary to my happiness than
to that of most other men? Can I place my
hand upon my heart, and affirm that her fortune
has no part in the zeal with which I have
cultivated Jane's affections. There are few tenants
undesirable, and very few whose actual poverty,
whose indolent habits, and whose relish for expensive
pleasure, make it more desirable than
to me.
Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's
wishes. While this aversion endures, marriage,
instead of enriching me, will merely reduce
my wife to my own destitute condition.
How are impartial observers, how is Mrs. Fielder
to construe my endeavors to subdue this
aversion, and my declining marriage till this
obstacle is overcome? Will they ascribe it merely
to reluctance to bereave the object of my
love, of that affluence and those comforts without
which, in my opinion, she would not be happy.
Yet this is true. My own experience has
taught me in what degree a luxurious education
endears to us the means of an easy and elegant
subsistence. Shall I be deaf to this lesson?
Shall I rather listen to the splendid visions of
my friend, who thinks my love will sufficiently
compensate her for every suffering: Who seems
to hold these enjoyments in contempt, and describes
an humble and industrious life, as teeming
with happiness and dignity.
These are charming visions. My heart is
frequently credulous, and is almost raised by
her bewitching eloquence, to the belief that, by
bereaving her of friends and property, I confer
on her a benefit. I place her in a sphere where
all the resources of her fortitude and ingenuity
will be brought into use.
But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation.
More sober views are sure to succeed.
mine? Because I trust to the tenderness
of her mother. That tenderness will not allow
her wholly to abandon her beloved child, who
has hitherto had no rival, and is likely to have
no successor in her love. The evil, she will
think, cannot be repaired; but some of its consequences
may be obviated or lightened. Intercession
and submission shall not be wanting.
Jane will never suffer her heart to be estranged
from her mother. Reverence and gratitude will
always maintain their place. And yet—confidence
is sometimes shaken; doubts insinuate
themselves. Is not Mrs. Fielder's temper ardent
and inflexible? Will her anger be so easily
appeased? In a contest like this, will she allow
herself to be vanquished? And shall I, indeed,
sever hearts so excellent? Shall I be the author
of such exquisite and lasting misery to a woman
like Mrs. Fielder; and shall I find that misery
compensated by the happiness of her
daughter? What pure and unmingled joy will
the daughter taste, while conscious of having
destroyed the peace, and perhaps hastened the
end of one, who, with regard to her, has always
deserved and always possessed a gratitude
and veneration without bounds. And for whom
is the tranquillity and affection of the mother
to be sacrificed? For me, a poor unworthy
wretch; deservedly despised by every strenuous
and upright mind; A fickle, inconsiderate,
frail mortal, whose perverse habits no magic
can dissolve.
No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget
and abandon me; to adhere to her mother; Since
change Mrs. Fielder's feelings with regard to
me: since I shall never obtain, as I shall never
deserve, her regard, and since her mother's
happiness is, and ought to be dearer to Jane
than her own personal and exclusive gratification.
God grant that she may be able to perform
and cheerfully perform her duty.
But how often my friend, have I harped on
this string—Yet I must write, and I must put
down my present thoughts, and these are the
sentiments eternally present.
| Jane Talbot | |