 | Randolph |  |
HELEN TO HER MOTHER.
Oh, my poor blind mother! And can it be, that the
unnatural daughter hath made the last hours of that parent
dark, who, in the helplessness of her infancy, would
have fed her with the light of her own eyes! Can it be
my mother, that the little Helen, thine own, thine only
daughter, who was fed of thy beauty; and whom thou
wouldst have nourished with thy life-blood, hath turned
upon her mother, in the day of her bereavement; and smitten
that bosom with death, where she once nestled so innocently!—those
eyes, with blindness, that wept away
their light upon her----O, my mother! my mother! What
have I not suffered. The innocent babe, the unpractised
child, whose ways were like the thought of thine own
heart; she, who, in the morning of her days, would not
have brushed away the dust from an insect's wing, with
rudeness—she, who wept, if the bowed lily wept, or the
leaf—even she! what hath she become—an adultress!—a
murderess!—a parricide!—She hath slain more than one
husband—she hath! O, no, I dare not tell the truth.—
He, the blessed martyr, he, whom thou hast unwittingly,
so often called down the lightning upon—he, my living
husband, is the man! He is the injured—the wronged—
the broken hearted! He is dying; and I have destroyed
him. Yet hath he forgiven me—wept over me; blessed
thee, my mother, and the father that hath followed me!
O, how little thou knowest him! Would that I could tell
the whole. But the tremendous secret may not be told;
—nay, who shall tell it. I have only a faint imagining
of the truth. I cannot speak. My faculties are bound.
My husband, O, bless him, the noblest and the truest
heart that ever beat—he hath forbidden it, and my father's
eyes look awfully down upon me, in the deepest midnight,
when my heart is meditating treason to the vow;
for I would tell it—I would, if I might; and then lay me
down and die. But one day—O, it will come! Heaven
will not permit the abused to go to their graves dishonoured
—if it do, there is no justice in heaven.
He is now lying in the next apartment—nay, perhaps,
is now meditating on the devastation that I have caused, I,
whom he hath so loved! I, to whom he hath hewed down
his idols, one after the other, Love! Ambition! Revenge!
—I—Oh mercy—mercy! I, that am so wicked, and
worthless, and miserable. O Molton—thou! before whom
my spirit could not stand upright, even at our first meeting,
how will it meet thy rebuke, when thou shalt know
all!—all!—. By the throne of the Eternal, mother, the
fierce spirit that wears me, must have space and height
for its operation. It must be free. Pity me—O, pity
me—the awful mystery that encompasses me, as with
a web of darkness and fire, may not be broken by me;—
it may not, for a time! but when it is—O, my mother,
thy heart will break with it; and thou, O my husband,
my husband!—even thy great bosom will be shattered by
it! Mother, why was I born? What deadly sin hadst
thou, or thine ancestry committed, that, upon my poor
consternation!—forgive me. I know not what
I say. I am forbidden to write to thee. Father has
written, perhaps; and has told thee that I am well. Do
not believe him, mother. I am not well. There is a
weight here—a fire here—unquenchable;—a weight, that
the hand of God only can lift. Pray for me, mother; I
cannot pray. The dark, frightful countenance of Remorse
is now pressed to mine,—he sucks my breath---I
feel it now, now!—and my poor lips,—O, they are
parched to cinder. Hush! there are strange sounds at
midnight;—it is near the time now—I wonder if Edward
hears them. I don't know—it would be difficult to tell.
He betrays nothing by his words; but his hand has grown
mortally cold; nay, his whole arm, as it embraced me;
and the thick, icy sweat has started out, all at once, from
his forehead, as it lay upon my cheek—I have observed
it. He thought me asleep—a cold tremour went over him
—and he drew me closer to his bosom, like one that will
not relinquish what it most loves, though he be supernaturally
required. Ha!—nay, I hear nothing. But I
feel somebody near me. I dare not look up—I continue
writing, yet my pen will scarcely move over the paper.—
It looks over me---I feel the coldness approaching---I
have grown familiar with horrour lately---I—I
It was my dear father. “To whom are you writing
Helen?” said he, “To my mother, sir.” “Be careful not
to alarm her,” said he, impressively. I promised to obey.
Have I not kept the promise? O, mother, you are not,
you have not been alarmed, have you mother?
Ah, would that I were near you once more!---would it
not refresh this poor wasted and desolate heart? It would.
You would weep for me---love me the better, for my transgression,
as a mother loves her sick babe the more for
its sickness. Why art thou not here? Yet no---stay
there, my mother, stay there. It is wiser---for, if Molton
die---lo!---mother do thou pray for me! The very thought
struck upon my brain, like a clod upon a coffin lid. The
hollow sound is there yet. Let it not pass away. I
ceases---I am no longer accountable. Mother, pray
for me;---do you ever pray, now?—You, who were once so
good, so sweet, so constant in prayer? No, you do not
---what! not pray---woman! look at me. See what you
have brought me to—Me, Helen!---me, your only daughter.
Had you prayed-- devoutly---taught me to pray,
when my little hands had strength to join themselves together,
the blessing were now upon your own head.---
But you did not. I knew no prayer---I was spoilt. Behold
the consequences. Yet---O, my mother, I do love
you—I do. It grows darker, darker, much darker
—farewell—heaven bless you, and forgive me.
| Randolph | |