 | Randolph |  |
THE LAST.
I have just read the manuscript that you left with me,
and thank you, in sincerity of heart, for this mark of
your continued esteem and confidence. I rejoice that
you have been able to extricate Mr. S. How he must
have felt! Situated as he is, I do sincerely hope that this
may be the termination of all his difficulties, and all his
sufferings. I have much to say to you, my dear friend,
of my own concerns. I feel a melancholy gratification
in making you acquainted with all my trial and trouble.
No human being knows of them except yourself.
You have seen me appear cheerful and happy, since my
return,—to the world I mean. But O, how different
bitterly, so shamefully—* * * * * *
Never before has there been such indifference, such
unkindness, so unprovoked, so deliberate and habitual,
shown to me. During my absence, I never received a
line;—and a letter from one that was dear to me—
You see what an opinion that friend has of my married
state—she is my relation,—but I would not have
her know, for the world, what I suffer. I cannot bear to
be pitied. * * * * *
You seem to think that I have enjoyed some happy hours
since my ill-fated marriage. Never—never; unless it be
from the happiness that my dear little ones have afforded
me. I have never known any other. My life has been
a continual martyrdom. Not an hour have I known,
when my heart could approve of his conduct. Our
minds, and pursuits, and feelings, and sentiments, are
diametrically opposite. But this heartless indifference is
even worse than hatred. Yet I am now determined to
bear up against it all, and not suffer it to make such an
impression on me, as it has done—heretofore. I feel that
I shall be supported through it all; for the All-wise Disposer
of events never lays more upon us, than we are
able to bear. While you visited us, I lived comparatively
happy. The respect and attention, with which
you invariably treated me, made a transient impression
on him; but it soon passed away. Do not write to me—
I charge you. This requires no answer. It is written
on the spur of the moment, after having read the
manuscript; beside, there is a fascination in your writing,
which I do not wish to feel. I try to banish you
from my mind, as much as possible. This, you will
say is kind—but it is the simple truth, and I cannot tell
you anything else. Farewell.”
There, my dear brother—the whole of his life is now
before you. What think you of Molton, now?
| Randolph | |