LETTER LI.
To James Montford.
December 13.
Is not this strange, my friend! Miss Jessup,
it seems, has denied her own letter. Surely
there was no mistake—no mystery. Let me
look again at the words in the cover.
Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses!
Yes. It is plain. Miss Jessup repented her of
her confession. Something in that unopened
letter—Believing the contents of
that known,
there were inducements to sincerity which the
recovery of that letter, and the finding it unopened,
perhaps annihilated. Pride resumed its
power. Before so partial a judge as Mrs. Fielder,
and concerning a wretch so worthy of discredit
as I, how easy, how obvious to deny—
and to impute to me the imposture charged on
herself?
Well, and what is now to be done? I will once
more return to Miss Jessup. I will force myself
into her presence, and then—but I have not
a moment to lose—
And this was the night, this was the hour that
was to see my Jane's hand wedded to mine.
That event providence, or fate, or fortune stepped
in to forbid. And must it then pass away
like any vulgar hour?
It deserves to be signalized, to be made memorable.
What forbids but sordid, despicable
cowardice! Not virtue; not the love of universal
happiness; not piety; not sense of duty to my
God or my fellow creatures. These sentiments,
alas! burn feebly or not at all within my bosom.
It is not hope that restrains my hand. For
what is my hope? Independence, dignity, a
life of activity and usefulness, are not within
my reach—And why not? What obstacles arise
in the way.
Have I not youth, health, knowledge, talents?
Twenty professional roads are open before me,
and solicit me to enter them—but no. I shall
never enter any of them. Be all earthly powers
combined to force me into the right path—
the path of duty, honor and interest—they strive
in vain.
And whence this incurable folly? This rooted
incapacity of acting as every motive, generous
and selfish, combine to recommend? Constitution;
habit; insanity; the dominion of some
evil spirit, who insinuates his baneful power between
the will and the act.
And this more congenial good; this feminine
excellence; this secondary and more valuable
self; this woman who has appropriated to herself
every desire, every emotion of my soul—
what hope remains with regard to her? Shall
I live for her sake?
No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted
out of existence. Let me unfold myself to myself;
Let me ask my soul—Canst thou wish to
be rejected, renounced, and forgotten by Jane?
Does it please thee that her happiness should be
placed upon a basis absolutely independant of
thy lot. Canst thou, with a true and fervent
zeal, resign her to her mother.
I can. I do.
I wish I had words, my friend—yet why do I
wish for them. Why sit I here, endeavouring to
give form, substance and duration to images, to
which it is guilty and opprobrious to allow momentary
place in my mind? Why do I thus
lay up for the few that love me, causes of affliction?
Yet perhaps I accuse myself too soon. The
persuasion that I have one friend, is sweet. I
fancy myself talking to one who is interested in
my happiness, but this shall satisfy me. If
fate impell me to any rash and irretrievable act,
I will take care that no legacy of sorrow shall
be left to my survivors. My fate shall be buried
in oblivion. No busy curiosity, no affectionate
zeal shall trace the way that I have gone.
No mourning footsteps shall haunt my grave.
I am, indeed, my friend—never, never before,
spiritless, and even hopeless as I have sometimes
been, have my thoughts been thus gloomy.
Never felt I so enamoured of that which seems
to be the cure-all.
Often have I wished to slide obscurely and
quietly into the grave; but this wish, while it
saddened my bosom, never raised my hand
against my life. It made me willingly expose
my safety to the blasts of pestilence: it made
me court disease, but it never set my imagination
in search after more certain and speedy
means—
Yet I am wonderfully calm. I can still reason
on the folly of despair. I know that a few
days; perhaps, a few hours, will bring me
some degree of comfort and courage; will make
life with all its disappointments and vexations,
endurable at least.
Would to heaven, I were not quite alone.
Left thus to my greatest enemy, myself, I feel
that I am capable of deeds which I fear to
name.
A few minutes ago I was anxious to find Miss
Jessup: to gain another interview with Mrs.
Fielder. Both the one and the other have left
the city. Jane's dwelling is deserted. Shortly
after I left it, they set out upon their journey,
and Miss Jessup, no doubt, to avoid another interview
with me, has precipitately withdrawn into
the country.
I shall not pursue their steps. Let things
take their course. No doubt, a lasting and
effectual remorse will sometime or other, reach
the heart of Miss Jessup, and this fatal error
will be rectified. I need not live, I need not exert
myself, to hasten the discovery. I can do
nothing.
