University of Virginia Library

LETTER XLIX.

I will imagine, my friend, that you have
read the letter[1] which 1 have hastily transcribed.
I will not stop to tell you my reflections upon it,
but shall hasten with this letter to Mrs. Fielder.
I might send it; but I have grown desperate.
A final effort must be made for my own happiness
and that of Jane. From their own lips
will I know my destiny. I have conversed too
long at a distance, with this austere lady. I
will mark with my own eyes, the effect of this
discovery. Perhaps the moment may prove a
yielding one. Finding me innocent in one respect,
in which her persuasion of my guilt was
most strong; may she not remit or soften her
sentence on inferior faults? And what may be
the influence of Jane's deportment, when she
touches my hand in a last adieu?

I have complied with Miss Jessup's wish in
one particular. I have sent her the letter which
I got from Hannah, unopened; unread; accompanied
with a few words, to this effect—

And now my friend, lay I down the pen, for
a few hours; Hours the most important, perhaps,
in my eventful life. Surely this interview
with Mrs. Fielder will decide my destiny. After
it, I shall have nothing to hope.

I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The
more nearly it approaches, the more my heart
faulters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and
stedfast spirit: but perhaps, a walk in the clear
air will be more conducive to this end, than a
day's ruminations in my chamber.

I will take a walk—

And am I then—but I will not anticipate. Let
me lead you to the present state of things without
confusion.

With what different emotions did I use to approach
this house! It still contains, thought I,
as my wavering steps brought me in sight of it,
all that I love, but I enter not uncerimoniously
now. I find her not on the accustomed sofa,
eager to welcome my coming with smiling affability
and arms outstretched. No longer is
it home to me, nor she, assiduous to please: familiarly

tender and anxiously fond: already assuming
the conjugal privilege of studying my
domestic ease.

I knocked, somewhat timorously at the door:
a ceremony which I had long been in the habit
of omitting—but times are changed. I was
afraid the melancholy which was fast overshadowing
me, would still more unfit me for what
was coming, but, instead of dispelling it, this
very apprehension deepened my gloom.

Molly came to the door. She silently led me
into a parlour. The poor girl was in tears. My
questions as to the cause of her distress drew
from her a very indistinct and sobbing confession
that Mrs. Feilder had been made uneasy
by Molly's going out so early in the morning;
Had taken her daughter to task; and by employing
entreaties and remonstrances in turn,
had drawn from her the contents of her letter to
me and of my answer.

A strange affecting scene had followed; indignation
and grief on the mother's part; obstinacy;
irresolution; sorrowful, reluctant, penitence
and acquiescence on the side of the daughter:
a determination, tacitly concurred in by
Jane, of leaving the city immediately. Orders
were already issued for that purpose.

Is Mrs. Fielder at home?

Yes.

Tell her, a gentleman would see her.

She will ask, perhaps—Shall I tell her,
who?

No—Yes: Tell her, I wish to see her.

The poor girl looked very mournfully—She
has seen your answer which talks of your intention

to visit her. She vows she will not see you,
if you come.

Go, then to Jane, and tell her I would see her
for five minutes—Tell her openly; before her
mother.

This message, as I expected, brought down
Mrs. Fielder alone. I never saw this lady before.
There was a struggle in her countenance
between anger and patience: an awful and severe
solemnity: a slight and tacit notice of me
as she entered. We both took chairs without
speaking. After a moments pause—

Mr. Colden, I presume.

Yes, madam.

You wish to see my daughter?

I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business
here chiefly lies with you, not her.

With me, sir? And pray, what have you to
propose to me.

I have nothing to solicit madam, but your patient
attention. (I saw the rising vehemence
could scarcely be restrained.) I dare not hope
for your favourable ear: All I ask is an audience
from you of a few minutes.

This preface, sir, (her motions less and less
controulable) is needless. I have very few minutes
to spare at present. This roof is hateful
to me while you are under it. Say what you will,
sir, and briefly as possible.

No, madam, Thus received. I have not fortitude
enough to say what I came to say. I
merely intreat you to peruse this letter.

'Tis well Sir, (taking it, with some reluctance,
and after eying the direction, putting it aside).
And this is all your business?

Let me intreat you, madam, to read it in my
presence. Its contents nearly concern your
happiness, and will not leave mine unaffected.

She did not seem, at first, disposed to compliance,
but at length opened and read. What
noble features has this lady! I watched them as
she read, with great solicitude, but discovered
in them nothing that could cherish my hope.
All was stern and inflexible. No wonder at the
ascendency this spirit possesses over the tender
and flexible Jane!

She read with visible eagerness. The varying
emotion played with augmented rapidity
over her face. Its expression became less severe,
and some degree of softness, I thought
mixed itself with those glances which reflexion
sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens
somewhat revived my languishing courage.

After having gone through it she returned:
read again and pondered over particular passages.
At length, after some pause, she spoke,
but her indignant eye scarcely condescended to
point the address to me.

As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice
at this discovery. To find my daughter less
guilty, than appearances led me to believe, cannot
but console me under the conviction of her
numerous errors. Would to heaven she would
stop here, in her career of folly and imprudence.

I cannot but regard you, sir, as the author of
much misery. Still it is in your power to act, as
this deluded woman, Miss Jessup, has acted.
You may disist from any future persecution.
Your letter to me gave me no reason to expect

the honor of this visit, and contained something
like a promise to shun any farther intercourse
with Mrs. Talbot.

I hope, madam, the contents of this letter
will justify me, in bringing it to you.—

Perhaps it has, but that commission is performed.
That, I hope, is all you proposed by
coming hither, and, you will pardon me, if
I plead an engagement for not detaining you
longer in this house.

I had no apology for prolonging my stay, yet
I was irresolute. She seemed impatient at my
lingering: again urged her engagements: I
rose: took my hat: moved a few steps towards
the door: hesitated.

At length, I stammered out—Since it is the
last—the last interview—if I were allowed—
but one moment.

No, no, no—what but needless torment to
herself and to you can follow? What do you expect
from an interview?

I would see, for a moment, the face of one,
whom—whatever be my faults, and whatever be
hers, I love.

Yes. You would profit, no doubt, by your
power over this infatuated girl. I know what
a rash proposal she has made you, and you
seek her presence to insure her adherence to
it.

Her vehemence tended more to bereave me
of courage than of temper, but I could not forbear
(mildly however) reminding her that if I
had sought to take advantage of her daughter's
offer, the easiest and most obvious method was
different from that which I had taken.

True, (said she, her eyes flashing fire,) a secret
marriage would have given you the destitute
and portionless girl, but your views are far
more solid and substantial. You know your
power over her: and aim at extorting from
compassion for my child what—but why do I
exchange a word with you? Mrs. Talbot knows
not that you are here. She has just given me
the strongest proof of compunction for every
past folly and especially the last. She has
bound herself to go along with me. If your
professions of regard for her be sincere,
you will not increase her difficulties. I command
you, I implore you to leave the house.

I should not have resisted these entreaties on
my own account. Yet to desert her—to be
thought by her to have coldly and inhumanly
rejected her offers!

In your presence, madam—I ask not privacy
—let her own lips confirm the sentence—be renunciation
her own act—for the sake of her
peace of mind—

God give me patience, said the exasperated
lady. How securely do you build on her infatuation.
But you shall not see her. If she
consents to see you, I never will forgive her.
If she once more relapses, she is undone. She
shall write her mind to you—let that serve—I
will permit her—I will urge her to write to
you—let that serve.

I went to this house with a confused perception
that this visit would terminate my suspense.
One more interview with Jane, thought I, and
no more fluctuations or uncertainty. Yet I was
now far as ever from certainty. Expostulation

was vain. She would not hear me. All my
courage, even my words were overwhelmed by
her vehemence.

After much hesitation, and several efforts
to gain even an hearing to my pleas, I yielded
to the tide. With a drooping heart, I consented
to withdraw, with my dearest hope unaccomplished.

My steps involuntarily brought me back to
my lodgings. Here am I again at my pen.
Never were my spirits lower, my prospects
more obscure, my hopes nearer to extinction.

I am afraid to allow you too near a view of
my heart—at this moment of despondency. My
present feelings are new even to myself. They
terrify me. I must not trust myself longer alone.
I must shake off or try to shake off this excruciating—this
direful melancholy. Heavy:
heavy is my soul: comfortless and friendless
my condition. Nothing is sweet but the prospect
of oblivion.

But, again I say, these thoughts must not lead
me. Dreadful and downward is the course to
which they point. I must relinquish the pen.
I must sally forth into the fields. Naked and
bleak is the face of nature at this inclement
season—but what of that? dark and desolate
will ever be my world—but I will not write another
word—

So, my friend, I have returned from my walk
with a mind more a stranger to tranquillity
than when I sallied forth. On my table lay the
letter, which, ere I seal this, I will enclose
to you. Read it here.