 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO SARAH.
I shall try to be “temperate” in my reply. Whether I
shall succeed or not, will depend upon the route that my
thoughts take. At present, I feel calm, and affectionately
disposed; but you have wounded me, somewhat cruelly
Sarah, and somewhat carelessly;—and my nature may
take fire;—yet—no, my dear Sarah—I will not believe
it; it was not unkindly meant, and I cannot retalite
upon you.
Your sentiments, respecting an epistolary style, are
precisely my own. Nothing is so tiresome to me, as the
conversation of one that talks “like a book;” and what
natural, and unstudied, touching us rather, with its readiness,
and simplicity, like the playfulness of a well bred
woman, or the pleasantry of one, that—ah! I am transgressing
again, so—no more of that.
Of Molton. When he handed me your letter, I read
it; and, I am not ashamed to say, that I read it, as for the
first time. How different did it appear to me, while you
read it, with your lips quivering, and your eyes darting
fire about them, when I thought that he deserved your
keenest, deadliest invective. But when I read it in his
presence; that calm, beautiful self-possession, that gentle
and deep serenity of his, which seemed disquieted but for
a single moment, as he read, I am sure, with a convulsion
at his heart; that unmanned me; I could have wept
almost, for having so dishonoured him. Abuse me, Sarah;
I can endure it;—but the truth I must tell. When
I had done, I reached the letter back to him, without
daring to lift my eyes to his face. I was overpowered
with shame and sorrow, for the part that I had acted; and
yet I was unspeakably happy that I had not, after my nature,
abruptly insulted him, at once; and that continues
to be a great consolation to me.
But what converted me, you ask. Let me tell you.—
The repose and steadiness of his look;—the quiet, habitual
dignity of his motion;—the musick of his voice, so
manly and composed, so unlike what I looked for, from
one so emaciated and girlish. Little and effeminate men
are so apt to be petulant and waspish, you know.
He was leaning upon his hand. A silence, I should think,
of four or five minutes, followed; after which, he slowly
raised his head. His pale blue eyes had become intensely
dark; and his light, silky hair, was disordered,
strangely, by his hands, just as if he had been tearing it—
while I was looking down upon the floor.
“It is hard to bear,” said he, looking me full in the
face,—“and I have only one reply to make to it. Do you
believe that I deserve it?”
The question was so abrupt, that it disturbed me; and
I knew not what I said; but, to my last hour, Sarah, I
shall not forget what he said—no, nor what he did.
He arose, and came to me;—deliberately folded his
arms: and never changed his attitude, or voice, or look,
till I was ready to fall at his feet.
“Sir,” said he,—“I understand your embarrassment.—
I knew the cause. Your cousin Sarah, a high minded,
but very imprudent girl;—nay sir, you will hear me out,
I hope—has endeavoured to persuade herself, that I am
an accomplished villain; nay, to persuade you. You are
young and passionate, precipitate perhaps; and you adopted
her opinions. But you had never seen me. She had
never seen me. You have set with me but a few moments,
and are convinced that you have done me wrong. Is this
wise? Is it not as great an infirmity, to retract an opinion
hastily, as to adopt, or advance it, hastily? If you
are generous, I have you in my power; for, where the
generous have done wrong, their atonement is disproportionate,
enthusiastick, injudicious. I am unwilling to
take advantage of this. But I wish you to judge for yourself.
I do not ask you to go among my friends;—(his
countenance darkened—it was even melancholy) for I
have no friends; but I bid you go among my enemies.—
Listen to them,—hear their stories, examine them; and
if they be not more cunningly devised, than slander and
falsehood usually are, you will find enough there, without
hearing the other side, to set your heart at rest.—
Their stories neutralize each other. Am I so artful, as
they pretend? Then how can they, poor simpletons!—
so plainly foretel my designs?”
Am I so cautious? So difficult to elude, or detect?—
so wise too, as they pretend? Then how happens it, that
so many of my secret and portentous conspiracies, the most
subtly conceived;—the most darkly perpetrated;—are a
subject of familiar gossipping to the whole city? What
am I able to blind the good and wise; to set the laws of
my country at defiance? laugh to scorn the ministers of
justice;—baffle them all—all! except the feeble, and timid,
and shortsighted? Am I so weak, think you?—so very
weak, and foolish, as to lay bare the mysterious and hidden
operations of my heart, before women and children?
...... sir... I leave you to judge of me, for yourself.”......
“You have been cautioned against me.
intended to;—nay,—for it has been a common expedient
with that extraordinary woman, your cousin, the bitterest
enemy that I have on earth, I believe, and perhaps the
most to be dreaded... You have been told... yes, I
see that you have... your emotion betrays you,...
your conscience is in your face—you have wronged
me, Sir! What then? Do I reproach you for it? No.
I forgive you....... Nay, as I was about to say,
you have been cautioned against me, as a being of consummate
address—(I started, and looked him full in the
face;—but he betrayed no emotion. Was it chance? or
how was it that he used your very words?) One whom,
it would he fatal to your faculties... to your liberty,
to approach!..... Did you believe her? Did she
believe it herself? No sir, she did not. Perhaps it was
the rhetorick of the sex... pray, do not be offended
with me—I know your cousin Sarah, better than you do—
(What did he mean by that, Sarah? Has he ever seen you?
It could not be an idle boast; such men do not boast;..
nay, it was rather a threat, delicately uttered to be sure;
but, nevertheless, a threat, which I should have resented
on the spot, but for what followed.) She is a generous,
heroick girl; but she has wronged me, and shall one day
confess it. (This was said, in a tone of such solemnity,
that my blood thrilled... it was really awful... it
sounded like prophecy.)
“No Sir. She did not believe it. But she knew this,
that a man must be magnanimous indeed, who would
dare to be the friend of another, whom he had heard called
a villain;—nay, of one, whom he himself, it may be, had
called a villain,—after he had been told too, that such was
the power and authority of that villain, that no man could
withstand, or resist him!.... Is it not so? She affected
to believe that you were convinced—when you were
not—when you only suspected it—of my evil nature—
and she predicted, nevertheless, that you would become
my friend, the moment that I opened my mouth... O,
it was indeed a masterly contrivance!... for, no matter
what proof I offered, there is not one man in a thousand,
nay, in ten thousand, who after such a prediction
and still less, is there one that would dare to avow it.
I have done—Farewell, Sir.”
This was, as nearly as I can relate it, dear Sarah, the
substance of our conversation. But his manner, that it
was, which oppressed me. I felt humble and heart smitten
while he spoke,.... I forgot the little difference
in our ages; and I listened to him, I declare to you, like
one who hears patiently, some much older, and wiser,
and better man, upbraiding and admonishing him, with
the voice of compassionate authority... What did I,
when he had done?.... Ask me Sarah, ask me, if thou
durst... I gave him my hand;—and I would have
fallen upon his neck.... and I would have wept, but
for the shame that I felt to weep before such a noble creature.
I awoke, as from a trance, when he had finished; and
all the echo of his deep solemn voice had died away. I saw
his great heart heave, as I took his hand; and there was
a motion of his fingers, after they passed hurriedly through
his beautiful hair, and over his hollow clear temples,
just as if he dashed away a tear with them. There—I
have made my defence. Despise me, if thou canst.—
Scorn me, trample on me; but remember, there will be a
day of retribution for thee. Sarah! I can see thee weeping...
Gracious God—surely I do see something...
............... I left off
abruptly Sarah, for my candle was very low; and, perhaps,
the painful agitation, in which I have been kept for
a whole week, together with the unpleasant, strange solitude,
about this old house, was the cause of a singular
deception—hark!—........
Again!.. it is very strange... I
could have sworn that some one was breathing near me;
and, as I turned, there was a soft sound, that, to my ear,
seemed like naked feet... passing secretly away
from my elbow... I wish that I was out of this
uncomfortable old mansion,—these fancies are very childish,
to be sure; and yet, they agitate me, as if I were some
fooolish girl, shut up in one of the old haunted ruins of
... but this will never do... On looking
back, I find that I was about saying that I could almost
bitterness, for what thou hast said of Molton. Good
night!.. It is dark as Egypt already; and these last
words are scribbled by chance; and all connected together,
for I dare not lift my pen from the paper, lest I
should put it down in the wrong place.
Good Night.
| Randolph | |