LETTER XLV.
Ah! my friend! In what school have you
acquired such fatal skill in tearing the heart of
an offender? Why under an appearance of self
reproach, do you convey the bitterest maledictions.
Why with looks of idolatry, and accents
of compassion, do you aim the deadliest contempts,
and hurl the keenest censures against
me.
“You acquit me of all shadow of blame.”
What! in proving me fickle; inconsistent; insensible
to all your merit; ungrateful for your
generosity; your love. How have I rewarded
your reluctance to give me pain: your readiness
to sacrifice every personal good for my
sake? By reproaching you with dissimulation:
By violating all those vows, which no legal
ceremony could make more solemn or binding,
and which the highest, earliest, and most sacred
voice of heaven has ordained shall supersede
all other bonds: By dooming you to feel
“an anguish next to despair.” Thus have I
requited your unsullied truth; your unlimited
devotion to me!
By what degrading standard do you measure
my enjoyments! “In my mother's tenderness
and gratitude: in the affluence and honour which
her regard will secure to me” am I to find consolation
for unfaithfulness to my engagements:
for every evil that may befall you. You whom
every hallowed obligation; every principle of
human nature has placed next to myself: whom
it has become, not a fickle inclination, but a
sacred duty, to prefer to all others: whose happiness
ought to be my first and chief care, and
from whose side I cannot sever myself without
a guilt inexpiable.
Ah, cruel friend! You ascribe my resolution
to a disinterested regard to your good. You
wish me to find happiness in that persuasion.
Yet you leave me not that phantom for a comforter.
You convict me, in every line of your
letter, of selfishness and folly. The only consideration
that had irresistible weight with me,
the restoration of your father's kindness, you
prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy it
without mercy!
Can you forgive me, Henry? Best of men!
Will you be soothed by my penitence for one
more rash and inconsiderate act?—But alas!
My penitence is rapid and sincere, but where
is the merit of compunction that affords no security
against the repetition of the fault. And
where is my safety?
Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible
expostulations. I cannot—cannot withstand
her tears. Let me find in your arms, a
refuge from them. Let me no more trust a resolution
which is sure to fail. By making the
tie between us such as even she will allow to be
irrevocable: by depriving me of the power of
compliance, only can I be safe.
Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front door at ten
this night. My Molly will be my only companion.
Be the necessary measures previously
taken, that no delay or disappointment may
occur. One half hour and the solemn rite may
be performed. My absence will not be missed,
as I return immediately. Then will there be
an end to fluctuation for repentance cannot undo.
Already in the sight of heaven, at the tribunal
of my own conscience, am I thy wife, but somewhat
more is requisite to make the compact
universally acknowledged. This is now my resolve.
I shall keep it secret from the rest of
the world. Nothing but the compulsion of
persuasion, can make me waver, and concealment
will save me from that, and to-morrow
remonstrance and entreaty will avail nothing.
My girl has told me of her interview with
you: and where you are to be found. The
dawn is not far distant, and at sun rise she
carries you this. I shall expect an immediate,
and (need I add, when I recollect the invariable
counsel you have given me?) a compliant answer.
And shall I?—Let me, while the sun lingers,
still pour out my soul on this paper—Let me
indulge a pleasing, dreadful thought—Shall I,
ere circling time bring back this hour, become
thy—
And shall my heart, after its dreadful langours,
its excruiating agonies, know once more,
a rapturous emotion? So lately sunk into despondency:
so lately pondering on obstacles
that rose before me like Alps, and menaced eternal
opposition to my darling projects: so
lately the prey of the deepest anguish, what
spell diffuses through my frame this ravishing
tranquillity?
Tranquillity, said I? That my throbbing heart
gainsays. You cannot see me just now, but the
palpitating heart infects my fingers and the unsteady
pen will speak to you eloquently.
I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No
doubt—let me see—ten minutes after four—No
doubt you are sound asleep. Care has fled away
to some other head. Those invisible communicants;
those aerial heralds whose existence,
benignity and seasonable succour are parts,
thou knowest, of my creed, are busy in the
weaving of some beatific dream. At their bidding,
the world of thy fancy is circumscribed by
four white walls, a Turkey-carpeted floor, and
a stuckoed cieling. Didst ever see such before?
was't ever, in thy wakeful season, in the same
apartment? never. And what is more, and
which I desire thee to note well, thou art not
hereafter to enter it except in dreams.
A poor taper burns upon the toilet: just bright
enough to give the cognizance of something in
woman's shape, and in negligent attire scribbling
nearit. Thou needst not tap her on the shoulder;
she need not look up and smile a welcome to the
friendly vision. She knows that thou art here,
for is not thy hand already in her's, and is not
thy cheek already wet with her tears? for thy
poor girl's eyes are us sure to overflow with joy,
as with sorrow.
And will it be always thus, my dear friend?
will thy love screen me forever from remorse?
will my mother's reproaches never intrude
amidst the raptures of fondness and poison my
tranquillity?
What will she say when she discovers the
truth? my conscience will not allow me to dissemble.
It will not disavow the name, or withhold
the duties of a wife. Too well do I conceive
what she will say; how she will act.
I need not apprehend expulsion from her
house. Exile will be a voluntary act.—“You
shall eat, drink, lodge, and dress as well as ever.
I will not sever husband from wife, and I find no
pleasure in seeing those whom I most hate,
perishing with want. I threatened to abandon
you, merely because I would employ every
means of preventing your destruction, but my
revenge is not so sordid as to multiply unnecessary
evils on your head. I shall take from you
nothing but my esteem: my affection: my society.
I shall never see you but with agony:
I shall never think of you without pain. I part
with you forever, and prepare myself for that
grave which your folly and ingratitude have dug
for me.
You have said, Jane, that having lost my favour,
you will never live upon my bounty. That will
be an act of needless and perverse cruelty in
you. It will be wantonly adding to that weight
with which you have already sunk me to the
grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option.
While I live, my watchful care shall screen you
from penury in spite of yourself. When I die,
my testament shall make you my sole successor.
What I have shall be yours, at least,
while
you live.
I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening
you with loss of property. I should have
known you better than to think that a romantic
head like yours would find any thing formidable
in such deprivations. If other considerations
were feeble, this would be chimerical.
Fare you well, Jane, and when you become a
mother, may your tenderness never be requited
by the folly and ingratitude which it has been
my lot to meet with, in the child of my affections.”
Something like this has my mother already
said to me, in the course of an affecting conversation,
in which I ventured to plead for you. And
have I then resolved to trample on such goodness.
Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene
like this? into thy arms? and shall I find comfort
there? can I endure life, with the burthen
of remorse, which generosity like this will lay
upon me?
But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have
nothing but evil to chuse. There is but one
calamity greater than my mother's anger. I cannot
mangle my own vitals. I cannot put an impious
and violent end to my own life. Will it be mercy
to make her witness my death, and can I live
without you? if I must be an ingrate, be her
and not you the victim. If I must requite benevolence
with malice, and tenderness with hatred,
be it
her benevolence and tenderness, and
not
yours that are thus requited.
Once more, then, note well. The hour of
ten; the station near the door: a duly qualified
officiator previously engaged;—and my destiny
in this life fixed beyond the power of recall—
the bearer of this will bring back your answer.
Farewell; remember.
