 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO FRANK.
I have been with Molton every hour, night and day,
since you left us. He is yet in a very critical way; but
whence, if it be not from the sustaining power of a well
governed mind, and a conscience untroubled and unpolluted,
can be preserve this great serenity, at such
a time? I know not what to think of him. I have spoken
of his past life; and he has acknowledged that his
conscience is not clear; that there is a heaviness about
his heart, and a darkness upon his understanding, at
times, from the recollection of much evil that he hath
caused and done. Yet, he says, that there is not the
weight of one deliberately cruel, or wicked deed, upon his
memory. It was impossible not to believe him. His
sins have been those of suddenness, or of mistaken, but
generous, imprudence. His passions have been tremendous;—but
they are now, one would believe, utterly
subjected to his mastery.
There was a consultation, last night; and the result
would have been unknown, had not Molton demanded,
in a tone of solemn authority, that they should not deceive
him. “How dare you trifle with a dying man?” said he.
“Am I in a very perilous situation? Speak! Tell me
so, like men. I shall bear it like a man. Do you fear for the
agitation? You little know me. Were you to tell me this
moment, that I should be a dead man, when that hand
points at twelve, you would perceive no change in my
countenance; none in my voice; none in my pulse.—
What! should I not feel it? I should. But the spasm
would be over, instantly. There would be no outward
sign. Do your duty. Tell me the truth. What is my
a thousand?—What! no answer! is my death so certain,
as that—not one chance in a thousand! You shake your
heads. Speak, will you? You are not dealing with a
child. Tell me my fate, at once, and let me go to sleep.
I am weary of this anxiety. Would you have me bear
witness against you, to-morrow or next day, for deception
—before God.”
They refused to declare their opinion; but entreated
him not to disquiet himself. He smiled; and, looking at
me, calmly observed, “you see now the efficacy of that
rule. Were I not accustomed to the contemplation of death,
his nonsense alone, would be enough to jar me to dissolution.
What! am I such a simpleton, as not to know
that, when doctors and surgeons consult together, by
their own consent, the case must be extremely critical;
and that, when a consultation has once been held, if
they have anything pleasant to communicate, any hope,
any chance, however small, it is always told? No, Mr.
Omar,—I know the truth. The terrible pains that I
had felt this morning; the sudden cessation of those pains
have told me the truth. A mortification has begun.—
Very well. I expected it. The inflammation justified me
in expecting it. Let them be as silent as they will, were
I a weaker man than I am, it would be a dastardly policy.
Would not any patient conclude that such silence
as this, was the doom of death, most emphatically pronounced,
by them, from whom there is no appeal? Well,
gentlemen,—since you are unwilling to tell me
that I am a dead man, will you allow me to ask you,
how long it is possible for me to be a living one?” They
were earnestly whispering together at the window.—
The elder advanced, and took his hand. “Are you prepared
for the worst?” said he. “Yes, for the worst,” said
Molton. “Will you submit yourself entirely to us?”—
“Entirely. Do with me as you will, while the breath is
in me—and then, you are welcome to my bones—and
all, but my heart. That were a study that would terrify
you. Nay—on second thought, I recal that. You shall
not have my body. I have reasons for it.” The medical
man shook his serene old head, as if he suspected, that
result,” said he. “There is yet some hope.” Molton's
countenance fell.—What! was life appalling to him.—
“But the chance is small, indeed. We shall abandon the
ball; but a very painful operation is indispensible, or
your hope is truly desperate.”—Molton looked him
steadily in the face. “Spoken like a man!” said he.
“That is right. That is the way that wise men will act,
when dealing with creatures, about to appear before the
judgment seat against them.—Do with me as you will.”
The operation was then performed. It was frightful, and
he fainted—the blood spun out of his breast;—his hair
was wet and soaked in his own sweat; yet he never
breathed a loud word. He is better now. “Are you
willing to die?” said I. He was silent—I repeated it. “No”
he replied, “No!--No man is willing to die, if, by that, you
mean, that he would not save himself, if he could.”—
“Are you resigned?”—“I do not understand the word,”
said he, “but I am proud, too proud, to flinch—and,
when I reflect on what I must endure, if I recover, I declare
to you, that I am more intimidated at the sudden
thought of life, than death. The pain of death is nothing.
I have suffered more than that twenty times over;
nay, I have been dead, to all appearances, more than once.
The coming to, was death. It was like the rush of a
whirlwind of powdered glass into my lungs—my arteries
were distended—all the vessels of my heart were
ruptured; and I could have raised my hands, and wept,
to be left alone; but I had not the power. My mind only
moved—my body was at their mercy; and they tortured
it back to life. No—I should be sorry to die; but, if
I must die, there is no martyr of them all, that ever died,
more self collected, passionless and undisturbed, than
Edward Molton will. The time has been, when death
was terrible to me. The career of ambition was then
open to me. The blood beat into my heart like a tide;
and a mighty spirit arose, self-engendered, self-created,
self-compounded, in the uproar and agitation of its elements—the
fierce alchymy of fire and blood—a spirit,
that would have died, with the harness upon its back,
though it died, scaling the bastions of heaven. Woman
Then, life was dear to me! It is so no longer.
My ambition is extinct. My love has burnt down. My
heart is in cinders. Now, why would I live?—Faith,
it were difficult to tell.—Perhaps to be a better man---
perhaps, to be revenged on some, that have thought evil
of me;---perhaps, to prove to them, when their faces are
in the dust, and my foot is upon their neck, that---I never
asked more, than to have my power acknowledged.
Acknowledge it, and I will never use it. Deny it---and
what follows? I must thunder about your ears with the
proof. Behold the secret of my disposition—the whole
secret of my crimes.”
What am I to think of such a man? and then, his wife—
O Frank! to be so loved; so worshipped; so ministered
to, by a creature like that; Ah, I should go distracted at
the thought of losing her. By the way—I must not forget,
that the father is unaccountably kind to Molton,
now—and that his manner toward him, is rather that
of one, who has injured another, than been injured by
him. His look too, is “more in sorrow, than in anger.”
I cannot understand it; yet so it is; and I have actually
caught the old man weeping upon Molton's hand, with
Helen by, her beautiful eyes upturned, in her idolatry
to her lord's—when I entered unexpectedly; and I have
paused—and wished that I had put off my shoes—for the
ground that I trod upon, I felt, was holy.
O—You are held pledged to secrecy for all, that transpired,
while you were present. I have promised it, so
that these reports may all die away, now that the husband
has gone.
May not this marriage have been the secret that changed
Juliet? Mention it to Sarah. Nay, I have some notion
that, that was what he communicated to her, when I
left them alone, for a moment.
I am afraid of the consequences. I don't like this
Grenville, yet he appears to be on a very familiar footing
there; and, what is exceedingly provoking, although
I have taken a great deal of pains, I have been unable to
hear one word against him. The whole world seemed
to be leagued against me. I am very serious; for, though,
be a good and great man; yet I have my fears of both.—
But fears are not enough;—if my brother, my noble
hearted brother is to be supplanted by anybody, it should
be by a man.—Nay, I should not be much pleased by
the comparison. But what can she do? There never
were such a set of children and gawkies, with their impudent
familiarity too—about any woman of sense, since
the world was made. I wonder if they have the assurance
to believe that they understand her value. The devil
take them!—there is not one among the whole, that can
fathom her heart, or her understanding. All that they
know, is, that she is gentle and sweet tempered, and sings
well; and that two or three fine fellows have been in love
with her. But this Mr. Greenville—he has more sense—
not much to be sure, for he does not, cannot know her.
His compliments are often direct and barbarous; and, did
I not know that he is a man of property, his pretensions
to it, and his indirect, ingenious way of boasting of his
wealth; and announcing his desire of obtaining a wife,
would make me tuck away my watch chain, if I sat near
him. His fondness too, is childish at times. But after
all—I am obliged to own that I think Juliet likes him.—
If so—persecuted as she is—helpless as she is, with Jane
and Matilda about her—her pride and soreness—God
help her!
| Randolph | |