 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO FRANK.
Molton is gradually recovering from the wound; but
there is some incurable disease, of which his physicians
are forbidden to speak, that will inevitably carry him to
his grave. What can it be? Can it be the “perilous
stuff” that a troubled conscience will engender? I know
not. But this I know, that the oldest and wisest of his
physicians, when he spoke of Molton, to me, but the other
day, spoke of him with feeling and affection; and, when
I alluded to this hidden disease,—his face altered amazingly—a
strange expression, compounded of horrour and
doubt, it appeared to me, passed athwart it. I pursued
my inquiries; but he looked at me kindly, shook his
head, and departed. My curiosity was unappeasable.
I assailed the other two, in succession; but with precisely
the same success, except that the younger, a free
hearted, noble fellow, about my own age, added, as he left
me, these words—“Edward Molton is no common man.”
Helen is perpetually by his bed side;—it is not a moment
since I left him, sitting up, supported by pillows; the air
gently stirring the white drapery of the bed; and just light
enough in the room, for all the shutters were drawn, and
on a low stool by him; her face uplifted to him, with
such an expression of awe and delight, of pity and passionate
love—with a dash too, of gentleness and melancholy—ah!
the delirious brightness of her half-shut eyes!
—the eager parting of her sweet lips!—her short, quick,
deep breathing—her dark tresses, wreathed and undulating
brightly, from her upturned forehead of transparent
clearness—every breath a sob!—O, by heaven, brother,
to have such a creature wait and feed upon my countenance,
for one minute, like that, I would consent to
die.
How do I stand toward Molton? Simply and truly
thus—I love him, I respect him, more than I ever believed
that I could love and respect any man but you, Frank.
I feel a constantly augmenting attachment. Every hour
makes me more familiar with him; yet, every hour, I find
him more august. There is a terrible simplicity in the operation
of his mind, when we are once admitted behind the
curtain. I do not pretend to understand him. I feel that
I cannot. There is more longitude and latitude, more
elevation and depth in his thought, than I am yet able to
conceive. At times I have thought that I was near to the
secret fountain of his strength; that his foundations were
uncovered. I was mistaken—the springs lay deeper,
and the pillars were sunken where I dared not penetrate.
And, at last, the sum of all my discovery is, that, the
nearer we approach him, the more we are oppressed with
a sense of his amplitude. It is like journeying in the
highlands,—the elevations that you have passed, are only
stepping stones to what is before you, no matter how
long you have travelled, or how wearily;—and the prospect
enlarges with your ascent.—Good night.
| Randolph | |