 | Randolph |  |
Morning.—
I have just read thy letter again, Edward. It is hardly
light enough yet, to see the characters that I trace with
my pencil; and it is exceedingly cold; yet, here I am, sitting
up in my bed; my port folio before me; and the cold
day-light shining on the paper, with a feeble and sickly
lustre—poh!—I will be in better spirits. I will answer
thee, as I would that thou shouldst me, had I written
thee such a letter as thine. So—away with all despondency
and complaint. For awhile, I will be proud of
22
and alone—guilty—O God!—and, perhaps, even now,
now while I am writing, a widow indeed, abandoned,
not by her husband, not by her legitimate lord—no, but
by the spoiler of her fame—the rifler of her wretched
heart—a lover!—O, Edward! kill me, if thou wilt, I
can endure that, dear, from thy hand; but do not abandon
me—do not tell me again that thou canst—O, no—think
what thou wilt, meditate what thou wilt—but O, in mercy,
do not tell me, unless thou wouldst see me dying of a
broken heart, upon the threshold of thy dwelling, do
not tell me that thou ever couldst abandon me, whatever
may happen. No—I will not—I do not believe it. Thou
durst not—O, Edward forgive me!—I am distracted—
I know not what I say—Yet, thou durst; for thou durst
do any thing. Do not be angry with me, dear—forgive
me, and do with me what thou wilt;—yet do not tell me
so plainly that thou art dying—O, no—nor of what thou
couldst do—no, no don't do that;—do any thing but that.
That will kill me. Nothing else can. My parents, my
poor parents—they know that I am not made like other
women;—nay, why remind thee of that. Unnatural as
I was to them, thou implacable man, what have I been to
thee, but the most dutiful, the most affectionate, devout
and trembling woman? And couldst thou abandon me?
O, Edward, what have I done to thee, that thou shouldst
dare—what! dare again—indeed, I forgot myself, but
this language is so natural to me; and then, it would be
so proper, if addressed to any other human creature—than
to Edward. What wonder then, if I sometimes forget
that thou art an exception to the family of man. Edward!
come to me—I cannot answer thy letter. I meant
to; I took my pencil up for the purpose; (for the ink is
frozen) but I have been unable to see, plainly, what thou
hast written;—my eyes are dim, and blood shot—I hope
not with an evil spirit—my own writing looks unlike the
tracing of lead—it is fiery, red, and luminous. No
matter;—come to me, Edward, and I will forgive thee
all — Curse me, if thou wilt, but come to me.
M.
| Randolph | |