 | Randolph |  |
The next affair is a trifle in comparison. I cannot
bring myself to regard it seriously. No, Mr. Omar; I
humiliation; but I have not the weight of seduction; nay,
nor of adultery, upon my soul. For this, I thank God.
Blood, I can bear—but not the breath of deflowered innocence.
Death, I could smile at; but the writhing lip
of an abused husband, would be intolerable to me. He
might not feel—there are such men—but I, I should feel.
I should put myself into his place;—and my heart would
dissolve with sickness and affright. Would I not be
avenged?—I would.—But how?—Not by letting out the
blood of my betrayers, upon the very sheets that they had
profaned. No— that were the revenge of a boy—a fool.
No!—but I would sit down, calmly by them; call up my
children—strangle them, one by one, in her presence—
and die—die at her very feet. But not a hair of her head
would I touch, in wrath.—No—she that had once slept
upon my bosom, should never see mine heaving angrily
with her.—I should speak no loud word—shed no tear—
it may be; but, with my babes, unpolluted, upnrofaned, I
would abandon her, and go to heaven—as I might.—
But, let me return; my feelings carry me away.
It happened, one day, that I had some gentlemen to
dine with me. I was a brute and a fool, and got drunk.
They, however, were less discreet than I; for I discovered
it, and went, as I thought, to my own room, to bed.
It was late in the afternoon. While there, I had an indistinct
notion, that some woman was continually disturbing
me. I arose—made a dead set at one that I saw,
and tore the handkerchief from her bosom. She was
frightened, I dare say; broke away, and left me, sprawling,
near the fire place. The next day, I heard the truth.
I had gone to a wrong room; and a vulgar girl had
been sent to the closet for something. I made my
apology to her mistress; and all passed off very pleasantly,
until, one evening, when I saw the same girl, busying
herself in a manner that amused me, not a little, near
my chamber, in such a manner, that I was sure to see
her. I had no respect for her, and felt, I confess, rather
inclined for a game of romps. I invited her into my room,
to set a button on my collar. This, I gave, as an excuse
come in. She came, and I was rather rude to her, I confess
it—yet, it was nothing more than country girls are
bred up to—a little hugging and kissing. She made a
mighty fuss about it—to be sure—considering her vulgarity
and ugliness; but that, I have found always to be
the case—always—the least agreeable are the most unmanageable.
Her mistress too, took it up, and carried
her head pretty high, for some weeks; but it was, at last,
wisely forgotten, for just what it was, a foolish, not a
wicked frolick. No—they who know me, know this—
that if I would—that is, if I had set my heart upon such
wickedness, there would have been no arresting me in
my course. Blood—danger—death, I should have laughed
at.
The next case is quite serious; but, notwithstanding
my transgression, at first, I do contend, that, when the
whole story is known, it is honourable to me. I met with
a fine looking woman, in the stage coach. Her child was
with her. I entered into conversation with her—and,
before we arrived at Salem, in New England, where I
intended to stop, my “veins ran lightning.” I sat next
to her, upon the same seat; and, when I alighted, her
hand trembled—her frame shook—and there was a pulse
to her finger-ends. She said, in a voice scarcely audible—“Good
night!—I am sorry that you are to leave us.”
She told the truth. She was sorry. It went to my
heart. I had kept up her spirits, for many a weary mile.
I had just learnt her name, and found that I knew something
of her family. It was very respectable. It was
getting dark, and she would be nearly alone in the carriage.
I was not sorry to find, that, if I staid at all, I
must stay all the next day; a thing that I could not do;
for I was pledged to be in Boston. I entered the carriage
again. I do not tell you how I prevailed; but, I did
prevail on this woman, to consent to see me, the following
night, at a very respectable house, where she was
to introduce me, as a relation of her husband—and by
my true name—for I never use disguise at such moments.
Confidence begets confidence, even in the worthless. I
that I was about to be a villain. I was afraid to be one;
yes, afraid, to be so base a thing, as the destroyer of a
husband's honour;—so damnable a thing, as the blaster
of a family's peace. I resolved to break my promise.—
It went hard with me; harder, to break my word, than
to abstain from crime. But—look at me, Omar. I
never saw that woman afterward. To this hour, we
have never met. What think you now, of my self-command—of
my principles?
For the next, my heart bleeds. It was a shameful thing
in me. Yet I was neither guilty, nor meditated guilt.
It was merely an unhallowed curiosity; that spirit which
has twice brought me to the very brink of perdition.—
Let me beware of the third time. My good angel may
be weary, and let go her hold, at last! But the facts are
simply these. I was in the country. I had the prospect
of a dreary evening before me, at a tavern, where I had
put up. Some person happened to mention that there
was a quilting in the neighbourhood—I inquired the way;
it was some distance; and, with my usual indifference to
consequences, I hunted up the house, entered and joined,
heart in hand, with their frolicking. There were only
two rooms. Both were open, and both were crowded.
In one, was a bed, upon which those that were tired of
dancing, threw themselves, without any kind of ceremony.
I was inconceivably diverted, at the flings and
flourishes that I saw;—and the house shook as if it had
an ague. It stood high, upon four piles of block; and the
windows rattled to our dancing, like a cart of loose iron,
over a paved road. However, I shall not attempt to describe
it. I was ready for any thing, and made some advances
to the prettiest girl in the room. Her lover
sat by her, a sheepish looking, handsome fellow; and
she repulsed me with rudeness. This—from a woman,
and a pretty woman too, was never very palatable to me.
I determined to be avenged. But no opportunity occurred.
I was on the point, indeed, of abandoning her,
and going home with another warm hearted, affectionate
creature, who, as I helped her upon her horse, returned
philosophy most cruelly. But—she was pretty—and I
trembled to trespass upon her loveliness; for she had
treated me, imprudently, to be sure, but not haughtily.
I let her escape me;—and, unwilling to return to my
uncomfortable lodging, I pushed on, after the company
had gone, to a house at a distance, where I saw a light.
I entered, and met a man who knew me; a man, who had
been indelicate enough, but a few evenings before, to
leave me, deliberately, and pointedly, alone, with his
daughter, for a whole evening. He invited me to join
in a game at cards. I detest cards. Once, I loved them
—I gambled—repented, and abandoned them. I refused.
In sauntering about the house, I entered a room dimly
lighted, in which I saw a woman and a man, sitting together,
in silence, by a stove. I approached. It was the very
girl!—It was her lover! My heart beat hurriedly. Here
then was the opportunity I wanted. Some bad, very bad
thoughts went through my heart—but they rested not.
They were of evil omen—and were scared away by each
other. Yet something, I was determined to do. I prepared
my plan. * * * * I do not say how I succeeded;—
but I did succeed, as far as I wished. I persuaded that
girl, a modest, sweet girl, who had scorned me, but a
few minutes before, to abandon her lover, and enter a
remote apartment in the same building, with me, a stranger.
I will not trouble you with the particulars. I
will only say that she refused to go—and that I went,
nevertheless, and waited for her, assured that she would
come. She did come. The room was large;—the windows
were opposite to each other; and there was a piazza
in front. I was afraid of being seen, and led her to a
corner—and was laughing and whispering with her,
innocently, upon my honour, when we heard her father's
voice. He approached. She was half frightened
to death. He came to the foot of the stairs, near the door,
and called. I know not what he suspected. But my
mind was instantly made up, to an unpleasant retribution.
In such cases, I never flinch. He opened the door;
and I walked out, under his arm, under the very flambeau
The door of the opposite room was open. The man of
whom I before spoke, sat fronting it, with his hands up.
He saw me come out—and the next moment, he saw the
affrighted girl follow me. He dropped his cards. Can
you wonder at it? The thought went into his heart like
a knife. Here was I, the acquaintance of ten minutes,
found in a dark room with a girl. Could he ever forget
that he had purposely exposed his only daughter to me,
for hours?
Mr. Omar—I do reproach myself for this. I did then.
And had the father fallen upon me, on the spot, I should
scarcely have lifted my hand against him, even in defence
of my life. Yes—though my intentions were innocent—by
this I mean that I would not have wronged
the honour of that girl, yet I did what was worse. I corrupted
her heart. I blotted out her delicacy. I breathed
upon her lips—and her heart was in a thaw. For this,
I shall never forgive myself. It was cold blooded, atroeious
vanity in me. How happened it, that I prevailed?
I'll tell you. A modest woman has no experience
in the ways of men. She is therefore more submissive,
and obedient. What I demanded of this poor girl, was
demanded with that air of consummate ease, which cannot
be resisted, by the inexperienced. Ask a woman for any
favour, as if you are not sure of it, and she will refuse
you, of course; but demand it, as if you have not the
slightest thought of refusal, and it is ten to one that she
grants it, as a matter of course. If she be inexperienced,
she fancies that it would be ill-bred. Take an example. If
you kiss her lips without making any fuss about it—she
bears it patiently. But if you ask leave, or tremble,—
or look at her with half-shut eyes—she will never yield.
Why?—in the first place, she feels that there is guiltiness
in it; and in the next, she thinks, that you expect resistance.
She is obliged to resist therefore, and always does resist,
just as far as she imagines that you expect resistance.—
If you consider it a mighty favour, she does, too. If
you take it, as a rational contribution, she pays it with
the same carelessness. Thus, in the childish pastime of
innocent lips, and soft eyes, are profaned by a succession
of greasy slobbering rascals, without emotion or shame.
Yet the same girls will go deadly sick at the heart, and
feel themselves irretrievably dishonoured, if you should
ravish a kiss from them, alone, in the dark. So true it
is, that we value most things, just as we see others value
them.
The next matter,—I know not what to say to it. It
is a false and cruel slander; but, I have heard it before,
and it is my duty to put an end to it. I loved. The
woman that I loved, married another. I never saw her
husband. Years had passed, since I had seen her. By
accident, however, I heard that she was on a visit near
me. I was willing to see her—but not secretly. To the
house where she dwelt, I would not go. I had said so,
and kept my promise. There was one evening—one, that
I knew she would remember. It was that, on which,
I had always met her, whenever I met her at all. I went,
on that evening, to the house of a friend. I expected her;
and she came. She had been to church, but passed me
on the way. She went to the church, but could not stay
there. We met. I was just as composed, as self-possessed,
as at this moment. I spoke to her as I was wont. Yet
my voice trembled not. I took her hand for a moment;
mine did not shake—but hers did. I spoke of her husband,—her
child; I desired to see them both. He was
not in town; and her babe, I could not see, unless she
would send him where we then were; for I would not,
she knew that well, set my foot within the door of the
house where she dwelt. She promised to send her babe,
where I desired. The next day, I went there—I found
the child, and the mother. I sat with them; and was
constantly in the presence of the nurse, and one or two ladies.
This was our assignation! Out of that friendly
and affectionate interview, during which we were not
alone for a single moment, (nor have we been since her
marriage,) has been fabricated a story of tremendous emphasis.
It is said that we were utterly overcome;—that we
wept, and perhaps embraced;—that I took her babe, and
of this passionate self abandonment; by some part of our
conversation. She had beautiful hair, and eyes, dark
and melancholy;—her husband's eyes and hair, and complexion
were all dark and masculine. But the eyes of
the child were blue, like mine;—his hair the bright colour
of raw silk, and his complexion transparent. Some
fool spoke of it. I felt the allusion; and, to spare her distress,
immediately observed aloud, that I did not believe
she loved her boy the less for his blue eyes and yellow
hair. I promised, in the same tone, to adopt him. We
parted. Was she imprudent? No—so entirely circumspect
was she, that I never so thoroughly and heartily
respected her, as then. Nay—the very evening before,
when she was about to leave the house, it was altogether
more convenient that she should go alone, with me; yet, she
had the wisdom to insist upon another lady's going with
us. She was right, our walk would have been innocent;
innocent in thought, word and deed—for the truth of this,
I can appeal to our Maker—but she had a husband. He
might have heard af it,—and might have been disturbed.
Nay—there were other reasons. I was told, and I believe
it, that her husband never had heard my name pronounced;
that he knew not of my love for his wife, when
it was lawful to love her. There was yet something else,
something that I learnt from one that knew her well, and
slept with her—something that, after her marriage
to another, I ought never to have known—but enough
to make it wise, that we should never meet, however happy
she might be, or however assured and confident I
might be.
Yet—we have met since—met, under circumstances,
that the wicked of heart, may as easily misinterpret.—
But another was with me. I met her as a friend;—my
heart heaved, to be sure, for there were many deep and
passionate recollections in it;—my fingers thrilled when
our hands met, and the maturity and dignity of the woman
had not entirely overcome the witchery and fascination
of the girl.—Let her beware. She is yet in peril.
And it were no light matter for such a woman, one who
a hair's breadth, from the inflexible line. We may never
meet again. It is probable that we never shall.—
But there are others, more dangerous to a proud spirit.
But why dwell upon the memory of the past. It is cloudy
and cold, to the eye. And I care not how soon it is
forgotten.—One thing, I forgot. It is true that she did
arise from her bed, to receive me. But why---I was not
alone, nor was it late. But she was wearied, and had
thrown herself down for a few moments, to recruit herself
for the duties of a sick chamber. See how the world
will torture the blessedest and sweetest movement of the
heart.
The next girl—how shall I speak of her? I did not
love her; but, in time, I might have loved her. She
was a child, inexperienced, affectionate, and so far as I
could judge, from a short acquaintance, had a good mind.
I treated her like a sister. I was willing to be useful
to her;—and, after some conversation with her, about a
course of reading, I offered to direct her in it. But—
how should I proceed? She had a father, a rough, plain
man, who was very dear to her, and of whom she was
the idol. I wrote to him, and enclosed a letter for his
daughter, desiring his permission to correspond with her.
There was no mystery; nothing unfair in my thought.—
I dealt plainly with him, and, as an honest man. I
knew that I could be of use to his child, and I was willing
to be. I told him that I should not mention love in my
letters, nor attempt to be sentimental;—they should all
pass through his hands; that I liked his daughter, but that
before I could love her, I must know more of her. To do
this, there were only two ways;—to visit her, or to correspond
with her. The first I could not do;—and the
latter was the surest, and most secret. I gave him references
too, for his own security.
The good man could not comprehend me, it seemed.—
He had no idea of a rational correspondence by letter;—
a conversation, on paper, between a man and woman, who
had not made up their minds to be married outright.—
So he told me, very plainly, that he could not understand
his daughter, I must come upon the ground.
My reply was very brief. I told him, that he had
misunderstood me—that I had no idea of addressing his
daughter, and would not go upon the ground.
It was a pity. She afterwards ran away, and married—no
matter how. I never spoke to her again; and
I hope that the father has never yet had reason to repent
of his conduct to me.—Yet, her mother believes that she
loved me, more than her husband, even when she married
him. Some things have came to my knowledge, however,
that I think must disturb him, at times. I have seen
his daughter since---more than once---but I did not
speak with her; for I had ceased to respect her. I pitied
her, in my heart, and would have done much for her happiness;
but there were many reasons why I should avoid
her. Beside, she was afraid to meet me; I know that
she was; and, much as she desired to see me, after her
marriage, I know that she would have trembled from
head to foot, to meet my eye; for she knew my sentiments
on that subject. She had heard me reprobate
these runaway matches---with no matter whom. They
are never happy. The element of happiness is polluted;
that confidence, which, like the pure spring water,
wells out of the young heart, when it is first smitten,---
that is defiled at the source---when disobedience to a
parent hath once mingled with it.---It is that infidelity,
which, in its eating cruelty, causes the heartstrings to relax
and decay, in silence.—It was that—that, which
made Othello doubt his love. She had deceived her father—the
kindest father!—What might a husband look
for?---no, Omar, no. Wo, to the man that sleeps upon
a pilfered heart.—It is liable to dissolve, and pass away,
in a midnight vapour, at the first approach of temptation;
or—if its pulse be faithful, there will be distrust;
and distrust will work that, in time, which sensuality,
temptation, and death, itself, might never have wrought
together---an entire corruption at the core—a wish for
freedom. When that wish is once felt---no matter how
secretly, in the deep places of the heart, that instant
the body perisheth, without blossom or fruit; but---the
thought hath sinned; and the flower is bloody, and polluted
therewith, from that moment, as effectually, as if
the man, who slept upon her chains, and sentinelled her
spirit, had been strangled, sleeping, with her own
hands.
I say nothing of her imprudences. I know nothing of
them. The world are forever busy with invention; and
I have had sufficient experience already, never to depend
upon any report. She is young, and if she be kindly
treated, may yet make an exemplary woman—
good night.”—Here we parted for a time.
Thursday Evening.---I was to go to a ball this evening,
dear Frank, but I am weary of dancing, and glad of
an opportunity to renew the narrative of Molton. We
are nearly through now.---He proceeded as follows.
“My accuser is indefatigable---yet there is an air of
candour in his representation, which is very imposing,
I confess. The next in order, if I recollect right---but
here are my minutes---yes, the next in order, is the
most disgraceful affair of my whole life. Yet it shall
be told; and told too, without embellishment. I found a
woman, of singular power, in distress, desolate, afflicted
and desperate.
She told me her story. I did not believe her; but, an
accident happened soon after, to make me pay attention
to it; and I took some pains to discover the truth. I
found that she was of an excellent family; that I knew
some of her relations; and, in short, after a correspondence,
into which I entered with a cousin of hers, I found
so much to confirm and corroborate her story, with nothing
to contradict it, that I determined to save her, if I
could.—If you have the patience, I will detain you, a moment,
upon her story. From her very childhood, she had
been fond of her destroyer. He pursued her, until he
was forbidden the house. She lived with her uncle.
She had been to the wedding of a female relation, one
evening; and met him, for the first time, after many
weeks, while she was returning. He proposed an elopement.
say, that he prevailed; and, that she consented to make it,
that very night. She returned to her uncle's. It was the
custom of the family, to assign a particular lamp to each
member. Hers was a little brass one. I mention these
trivial incidents, because they made an impression upon
me, and gave an air of circumstantial reality to her story.
She was disturbed—and, when her uncle kissed
her, as was his habit, and bade her good night, she took
up his lamp, instead of her own, in her disorder, and ran
up stairs. She was just entering her room, when she
heard his voice. Yes!—he was calling to her. She could
have fallen upon her face, in her terrour, and confessed
the whole—for she was sure that the secret purpose of
her mind, had been, in some unaccountable manner, revealed
to him. She obeyed the summons. Her heart
smote her; and she stood before her venerable uncle.—
“Why Lucy,” said he, “thy wits must be wool-gathering.—Thee
has got my lamp.” It was true. Her plan
was not discovered; and she was like one restored to life.
She went to bed, cheerfully, confirmed and established
in her plan. When all was still, so still, that she could
hear the beating of her own heart, she took her shoes in
her hand, and prepared to descend. But, how was she
to escape? If she passed out the front way, there was
her uncle's door, always left open; and he awake, if a
mouse stirred. That would not do. But the back way;
she must pass through the servants' room, if she went
that way. But, that way she went. She passed the
sleepers on tip-toe; one awoke, and asked “who's there?”
But, she hushed her heart, and held her breath, till all
was quiet again—and pursued her way. She came to
the bath-house; it was protected by venetian blinds. She
pushed one open, and got out, and stood upon a pump.
From the pump, she stepped down upon the ground.
And here, she had well nigh fainted. A great dog, of
which she was terribly afraid, arose and shook himself,
near her; but he appeared instantly to recognize her, and
lay down again, with a sullen growl. She came to the
gate. It was fastened—a thing that she might have
was a hole cut through, to let the dog out and in, however;
and, through that hole, literally upon her face, she finally
squeezed herself. Her lover was at hand. They
ascended the carriage, and were soon beyond the reach
of pursuit. Search warrants, under the state authority,
were taken out; and the whole country was ransacked
for her. She fell sick with terrour and fatigue. It was
impossible that she could be married in that state; and
it was necessary, in her timidity, that he should pass for
her husband, to justify their being together; and that
they should sleep, at least, in the same room, during her
illness. She recovered—but her ruin was accomplished.
He spoke of marriage;—but, perhaps it was fancy—she
thought that his eyes contradicted his words; and she
refused to marry him. They lived together. She bore
him two children. But, the arrow of remorse was in
her heart. She besought a reconciliation. She was accepted—returned
to her home. But there was no comfort.
Their very kindness was a reproach to her. Yet,
she bore it;—bore the solitude of shame and desolation,
for a long time, till she was insulted—insulted!—and,
desperate with passion, she abjured her home, forever;
and fled again, to the bosom of her destroyer.
It was then, that I met her. She was delirious—beset
on all sides—and ready to raise her hand against
her own life. I determined to interpose. But how?—
There was only one way. I must acquire an absolute
dominion over her. I must make her love me—love me,
better than aught in heaven, or earth. I succeeded.—
But, before I tell you what were the consequences, allow
me to relate one or two anecdotes. It will show you the
character of her mind and temper. When quite a child,
she took her little sweetheart by the hand, and journied
with him, all over the city, after a man to marry them!
They met an aged Friend. “Please to tell us, sir,” said
she, sobbing, “where the man lives, that marries people?”
The good man put them on their way, in the simplicity
of his heart, without further questioning. But
they were lost. It grew dark; and she and her little
together, upon some steps—and crying lustily, were
found by an older cousin, who was passing, on horseback.
“Why, in the name of wonder!” said he, “children,
where have you come from? what are you doing?”
“We have been to—to—to get ma—ma—ri—ed!” was
the reply.
The other anecdote follows. She lived alone, in a deserted
house. A murder had been committed in the
next room. She dreamt, one night, that the devil appeared
at her bed side, and bade her awake, and get up;
for he wanted some conversation with her. She was
a good deal frightened, at first; though the devil was a
handsome, gentlemanly looking fellow, enough; but he
bade her be quiet; and assured her, that he had no other
business, than a little chat with her. She arose, went
into the next room—kindled a roaring fire; and the devil
placed a chair for her, in one corner; and another, for
himself, opposite. He was quite facetious, for a time.
“Now, really,” said she, “I cannot believe that you are
the devil. Let's see your foot;—come—up with your
hoof.” He gave a sort of a whisk, and put his hoof in
her lap. “Lord!—as I am alive—so it is!—Well—you
are the devil, sure enough; but, after all, quite an agreeable
one—so—.” “Stop—” said he.—“Do you see
that brick?—mark it.” She obeyed. She took a nail,
and scratched it. “Under that brick,” said the devil,
“is a pot of money.—Good night.” He arose, and stood
in the door-way, holding on, by the top of the door, which
was partly open. The light shone on his face. It was
very terrible. “In that room,” said he, “there—in that
further corner—” she was afraid to look—“a man dies,
every night. At twelve o'clock, I come to meet him,—
It is now nearly twelve.”
She awoke; a bright fire was burning, in the next room,
where there was no fire, and no wood, when she went
to bed!—There were the two chairs!—placed exactly
as she dreamt.—She looked for the brick. It was
marked with the nail;—and the watchman, that instant,
cried twelve o'clock, under her window!
She crept into bed, in an agony of fear. She lay there,
quaking, with flashes of fire and smoke, passing before
her shut eyes, continually, until day light; when she
arose, and took up the brick, and dug, till the foundations
of the chimney were loosened, and she expected it to
fall upon her head, every moment. But, she found no
money, and never slept in the house afterward.
I studied her mind. I formed a plan, full of peril for
her, and a matter of life and death to me. She acceded.
I revealed it, distinctly, to the dearest friend that I had,
on earth; but I showed her the letter. “No,” said she.
“Here is my last trial. Every thing in heaven and earth,
for me, depends upon this throw. I will never make it,
unless with the front of innocence. If your friend know
the truth, how can I meet him? He may not have the
charity for me, that you have;—he may have his friend,
too;—and my shame is publick, the moment that I appear.
No—abandon me, if you will. I have no claim.
upon you. You have saved my life, it is true; and I am
ready to lay it down, at your bidding. But I will never
advance a step, in this plan, unless you consent to conceal
my history.” I did consent. Wo to me, that I did!
I am naturally ingenuous. I hate mystery. Stratagem
is my abhorrence. For all that relates to myself, I am
candid to a fault. I never did that deed in my life, which
I would not have avowed, openly, in the light of heaven,
had I not been deterred by my regard for others. Yet, I
consented to conceal the truth; nay, in carrying on this
concealment—for who can say where mystery shall
end, and falsehood begin—I used deception and falsehood.
But why? I was not conscious of it. I had gone
on, step by step, with insinuation and inuendo, until I
ended in assertion. Yet this was my comfort. “I shall
prevail,” said I. “I shall restore an extraordinary woman,
a mother, a child, a sister, to her own respect—to
happiness, and to virtue. Shall I not be forgiven, then?
Will not all, that have had any hand in the work of redemption,
bless me for having admitted their agency?—
They will. Nay, Omar, they would. But—it failed. It
failed, as every such rash project must; and no matter what
I might have done, by perseverance—I thank God that I
peril and disappointment. Yet, I plead guilty to it all.
I deceived more than one noble heart. I abused the
proudest confidence. I had well nigh broken and shattered
one brain; and sent a sister, and perhaps a mother,
ashamed and weeping, to their grave. For—would you
believe it—it was a part of my plan, to give this helpless
creature, an asylum in the mansion of my own mother;
and give her, too, for her companion, the purity of my
own sister. It was well that I did not;—it would have
killed them. Yet, let me do her justice. It was no fault
of mine, that all this did not happen. My plans were
matured—my promises made—and I put the question
fairly to her, without flinching. She determined wisely.
“No,” said she, “I cannot enter the house of innocence—
I cannot pollute the abiding place of purity and affection.
Henceforth I have done with all this dreaming. You
have abandoned me. I expected it. You have not deceived
me. You told me exactly what you would do;
what you could do; and you have done all that you promised,
like a man, without flinching. God will reward
you for it. I have been slandered—but I was innocent.
I long to meet you once more—to throw myself into your
arms—to weep away, forever, it may be, the shame and
oppression that I feel at the heart;—but why should I
wish it? I have been too long a burden to you. I will
be so no longer. I will return in the path that you have
opened for me. I will go to my home. I will become
penitent and humble; and, perhaps, as you have so kindly
said, and so often, too, perhaps—God will forgive me,
and I may yet die in peace, supported upon the bosom of
a child, whose mother was forgiven for her love of that
child. Farewell!”
Omar, you see the extent of my indiscretion. I do not
pretend to justify, or to palliate it. I only say, that, when
I sinned, my heart did not reproach me. There was no
deliberate wickedness in my disposition. But, I was a
fool. I was blotting and smearing my own senses—
dashing the perfumed censer—and shattering the pictured
vase of the imagination;—profaning the loveliness,
not love, then. Had I loved—righteous God!—as soon
would I have rolled with the festering leper---fed, and
drunk, and slept, in poison, and death, and rottenness,
as permit aught of impurity, to come near my heart.—
That has always been my temper---always will be. I
had not even the plea of passion or habitude, in my favour.
No---my mind was above such things. I hated
and loathed the wanton. There were high and holy
places in my thought, upon which nothing of earth, and
such earth, least of all, had ever trod;---places, within my
heart, where no unclean thing had ever nestled. There
are such places, yet---untrodden, but by God---unvisited,
but by angels. There have I enshrined the woman that
I love. Darkness may be there, and silence---but there
is no licentiousness---no sensuality.
Yes---although it is not true that I have pursued any
woman, steadily, for a time; or any one, without success,
or without obtaining what I sought---yet, it is true, that
one had the spirit, the heroism, to trample upon my power,
even in its excess. Peace be to her bosom! It was
a gentle one. She was unwise; but her meaning was
wisdom;---and she plucked out my image, from her gentle
heart, like a cancer, by the roots. Is it wonderful
that her bosom is bleeding and sore yet? No!---and to
the last breath that she draws, it will bleed, with every
sob, and every swell. Do I not grieve for her? I do,
for she was the only woman that I had ever truly loved. I
observe your eyes. I make no exception;---and I reveal
not her name. I leave you to imagine who it may be; but
I leave it to your imagination alone. You will never know
aught from me. I shall never mention her again. Yes,
I loved her. I put myself in her power. She might have
used it more gently, for I have a proud heart, Omar; and
it well nigh sunders, when jarred unkindly, by one that
it beats gently for. My voice trembles—I am aware of
it—and the light of the candle dashes athwart my eyes,
unpleasantly—perhaps they are wet. It may be—but it
is for the last time. I loved that woman. I would have
made her happy. I could—happier than any man, upon
this earth. But that hour is past now. I could weep for
to be my wife, she would never have had reason to lament
it; but—let us leave the subject. She is a noble
creature, and I wish her all the happiness in the world;
yet, my heart is heavy, when I think of her. Married
or unmarried, desolate she must be, for she is learning,
every hour, that I told her the truth, and that I was
mightily dealt with, for one so haughty and devoted.
But who is she, with whom I now live? It is my wife.
I have no further answer. Let that question pass, then.
Yes, it is true. A young, and, I believe, innocent creature,
did put herself into my way, with tears. I did not
betray her. Yet I might. I did not debauch her; yet I
did wrong her; for I trifled with the hidden tenderness
of her heart. I am sorry for it. I wrought there, more
foully, more wickedly, more like a determined and experienced
scoundrel, than in any other case. Yet, when
she was utterly mine, I forbore. I deserve no praise for
this. It is no praise to forbear from blood, after pilfering,
to excess. There is no merit in withholding the blow of
death, when but one blow is wanted, for the consummation.
The story of the nunnery; and of my being shot by
the brother of one, whom I had betrayed, is a lie. Yet, it
is a lie of my own coining. It arose out of a simple frolick;
but it continued, constantly augmenting in seriousness,
till I told a deliberate falsehood to support it. The
whole of that story is a fabrication.
The next is a singular affair—to this moment an unaccountable
one to me. I was on a friendly and familiar
footing with an intelligent woman. It had continued for
some time. I met her, as usual, one evening. I saw no
change, nor shadow of change; but, the next day, I received
the following note:—
“Since we last met, circumstances of a peculiar character
have occurred, that render thy future visits improper.
Do not ask me why;—but be assured (that) I
shall ever remember, with interest, our past acquaintance.”
“Oblige me by not acquainting S, or any one else,
with the contents of this.”
There, Mr. Omar, you now know as much of this mysterious
affair, as I, myself, know. I dare not even conjecture
the cause; yet, that there is one, and an efficient
one, I can readily believe; for she was a prudent, sensible,
and high-minded woman. There is one thought, and
one alone, which lies buried in my heart, that would
seem to throw some light upon the matter. But that
thought is for no other eye, than my Maker's---not even
for hers. It is, possibly, the true one. I replied to her
note. I asked no questions. I only appealed to her generosity.
If I were slandered, it was her duty, if it were
proper, to hear my defence. We have never met, since.
I shall always respect her—always; and I am sure that
she can never cease to respect me. Her name is not to
he told; nor would I mention aught of the circumstance,
were it not that, my own conduct may appear capricious
and unaccountable to some that know me. I was intimate
in the family. I suddenly ceased to see, or speak to
them. This ought to be accounted for.
Yes, it is also true that I have been the cause of jealousy
and uneasiness to more than one married bosom;—
but, on what ground, as heaven is my witness, I cannot
conjecture. For myself, in one, and the strongest case,
I can aver, that I did not even suspect that any human
being could be jealous of me. It came upon me, like a
thunderclap, at last; and I put myself, instantly, beyond
all suspicion. Mr. Omar—I have made more than one
such sacrifice in my time, to the idle and wicked terrour
of husbands. More than one woman, that was dear to
me, as a friend, almost as a sister;—more than one, with
whom the extent of my familiarity, was a shake of the
hand—have I abandoned, merely in complaisance to the
boyish jealousy of some husband. How little they knew
me! Their safety was in my principles—in my heart;—
not in distance, absence, or coldness. But, it was my
duty to have compassion on their infirmities; and I obeyed
the impulse. But, believe me, there never was a man
more innocent of unlawful acquaintance, with the forbidden
upon no wedded lips—(at least, not to
my knowledge)—no!—but I have always reverenced
both, however unworthily assorted they might be; however
my heart might beat, or my eyes ache, for the unnatural
intercourse that I have seen, between intellect
and earth—spirituality and appetite. Yet, I have seen
such things, and lamented them; but it was not for me
to reform—what?—the abuses of heaven!
Judge you of my truth. There are three or four letters
from a woman, whom I knew abroad. We were passengers
in the same ship—inhabitants of the same boarding
house, for a time. I loved her, as a sister. She was unkindly
treated. I taught her fortitude, forbearance, resignation.
My dealing with her was sincere and high.
If she hath been troubled in spirit, it was no fault of
mine. I did all that a brother could have done, to soothe
and sustain her. There is one, to whom these things,
that I now tell you, if she heard them, would approach
with a power that will appal her. Let her be faithful to
the high and holy confidence, that I have shown in her.
To her, alone, is the secret entrusted. She will understand
me. The secret is in her keeping; and while her
noble heart hath life in it, I need not implore her silence.
Heaven bless her, forever and ever. May she sleep quietly,
when I am no more. That is all my prayer for her.
But, for the letters. There they are;---read them. They
are all; and they are very precious to me.”
As he concluded, he gave them to me. I will transcribe
them for you, Frank, in order.
| Randolph | |