 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO SARAH.
How long it is, dear Sarah, since I have written to
you! But you will forgive me, knowing, as you do, my
propensity for doing such matters, by fits, and starts;
beside, Frank has become your correspondent; and, I
dare say, that you—no, I won't say what I was going
to. It would have been affectation. I take it for granted,
that my letters are acceptable to you; and that, when
they are not, you will tell me so.
Frank is another man, of late. He is strangely affected----with
what, I know not; but he has grown very
pale; and I find him constantly in company with a couple
of strangers, an old man, and a young one, whose
countenance has something very pleasant, though very
fiery, in it; the manner of the old man is noble and
erect; but he seems to be feeble, and, I should think, very
sore at the heart. How is it, cousin? I ask you, because
I have reason to believe, that you know them both. Did
you not introduce them to Frank? Nay, I do not blame
you. My numberless indiscretions have offended you;
or is it because I am younger, a very little, by the way,
though, than Frank---that you dared not trust to me?---
But, no matter. There is my hand. I forgive you. Your
reasons are good, I am sure. Take your own good time
to explain them; and believe, meanwhile, that your secret,
though you dared not trust me with it, is safe. I know
not if these men are watched; but I have some reason to
suspect it; and, if you are any way concerned in the matter,
you can apprise Frank of it. I cannot. We have
quarrelled, lately, and I shall not be the first to advance.
They never go out, I find, except after night;
Nay, cousin, seriously, if you were not concerned in the
affair; or, if I had met them alone, and seen their movement,
such as I saw last night, when somebody followed
me to my very door---stopped, when I stopped---retreated,
and went on, just as I did, like the echo of my
own footsteps---evidently, as I have reason to believe,
while mistaking me for the younger of these two---I
should inform the police, immediately, and have them
both taken into custody.
Juliet—(cousin, I feel a sense of suffocation now—but
—it must come.) Juliet will not listen to me. I know
not whom she loves;—but, be it whom it will,—it is a love
that will carry her to her grave. It is unchangeable—
immortal. Nay—more than this,—there is somewhat
inexplicable in the deportment of Molton toward her.
Am I his confidant? I believe that I am. At one time,
I thought that I could read his heart. He appears to
have no disguise. I am obliged to believe him; for there
is no trick, no subterfuge, no artifice about him. If I
ask him a question, he either answers it, at once; or says
plainly, that he cannot, or will not. I find, too, that he
has not been so intimate with her, as I supposed. Tell
me, Sarah,—tell me, my dear cousin? Do you believe
that it is Molton, whom she loves? Tell me plainly.
I can bear it—I am sure I can. It may kill me in time;
because, with him for a rival, I have no hope;—but it
will not do it immediately. If she do not,—how is it, that
his name—his very name, so agitates her? I have seen
her colour to the eyes,—and then become so deathly pale,
that I had not the strength to touch her—she was like a
corpse—at the sound of his voice, as he passed, one day
in the street. If I thought so—by heaven, I would blast
him forever. What!—O, no—no—no! He is all that is
noble. He is in my power, Sarah;—and I cannot use it
ungently. But no—no!—I am the veriest blockhead in
the world. Is not her emotion natural enough, when
she hears the voice of her destroyer;—William, alas, thou
wast dearly loved, too dearly perhaps, for thine own
peace,—but who would not have died, as thou didst, to be
so lamented!—
You know that Maria or Mary Howard is not his sister.
But do you know, who she is? It is in vain to conceal
it any longer. Perhaps you know it all; for Frank
did, I believe, as soon as it happened. I have determined
to sound Molton's heart,—I have had a terrible suspicion
sometimes,—but he is inaccessible to me. He only
smiles, looks me in the face, and shakes his head—as
much as to say; “Forbear—my heart has no door for the
suspicious.” I speak of Juliet. He betrays no emotion.
I even mention Helen;—the colour of his troubled blue
eye deepens, but his voice changes not. Gracious heaven;
what a woman she is;—so beautiful, so mournfully and
touchingly beautiful!—O, I feel sometimes, when she sings,
as if I could lay down my head in her lap, and weep
there forever, at the sound of her voice; and then, her dark,
lustrous eyes—at times they are fastened upon the face of
Molton, as he sits by her, and reads—(O, would that
you could hear him read—there is no musick like it—so
impassioned—so solemn—so thrilling)—with an expression,
that is—no, it is not love—it is not tenderness
—it is something more terrible. At such moments, I
knew not what to think of her. I am the only visiter.
Nobody else is admitted; and I go there, I know not why,
—perhaps, as I went to the dramas of Germany—to be
agitated, and alarmed. Shall I ever be able to read his
heart, as he does mine? I fear not!—yet he is but little
older, a very little older than I am. Where has he learnt
his art?—it is that of a long apprenticeship to — death,
I was near saying—but, certainly, to calamity and trial;
if not to somewhat yet more dreadful. Nothing seems
to appal him. I have seen a pistol held to his breast—
and the agitated finger of a man, choking with passion,
was upon the trigger. Was he so well prepared for
death? He smiled;—he never put out his hand,—he
would'nt deign to put it aside from his heart;—and
yet, upon my forehead, and I was only a spectator, the
sweat stood in large drops.
The same severe quiet spirit, he carries forever. He
was riding through Connecticut, Helen says, not long
since—when several good people came out against him,
with staves, thinking to take him,—dead or alive, for
gather round, until they were ready to unharness his carriage;
when he leisurely drew his pistol—looked to the
priming;—“gentlemen,” said he, “you profess to be citizens;
but my notion is that you are highwaymen, and I
shall not consent to be stopped under such a pretence.”
The good people instantly abandoned the horses, and
took to their heels; but, willing to quicken their pace,
Molton made deliberate aim at one of them, and shot
away a part of his camblet cloak, in mere wantonness.
The other day, too—but why recapitulate such things.
He is a man of iron. He has none of the attributes of
humanity. He is dying, I believe—but he forbids me to
allude to it, or to observe it before Helen; for she appears to
feel every change in him, like the touch of death upon
her own heart. I have seen her faint away;—and lie,
like a dead creature, for hours, when he happened to
grow suddenly pale, and put his hand to his side. There
is a ridiculous rumour about, which some experience of
my own, makes me regard more seriously, than I would.
It is said that the house is haunted!—and I am sure that
I heard noises there (in the room too, where Molton
sleeps, and where I used to sleep) last night,—that—I
knew not why, affected me in an unaccountable manner.
I felt as if somebody were near me * * * * ah—a groan
* * * What! * * * * * * * * * It is
Molton himself. * * * I went to the door, and spoke to
him—but either his voice had changed, or I was more
disturbed than I am willing to believe; for, when he replied,
my terrour amounted almost to phrensy. The
voice was not his. It was sepulchral. What could possess
me?—I smote at the door—It yielded; and I fell at my
full length.—The only thing, that I recollect, distinctly,
is, that Molton stood, as if death struck—pale—ghostly
pale, and shivering, with his arms outstretched, as I entered!--and
that he exclaimed--or at least, the words rang
in my affrighted ears, all night long-“William! William!”
The light fell from his hand, and we lay together in
darkness, till they came to relieve us.—How long
we were so, I know not. But, it appears to me that we
saw Molton sitting at his table—a naked sword lay upon
it—and a pair of pistols.—Helen was sitting beside him,
in her night dress, and clinging to him, O, with such
distracted eyes, and bloodless lips, that my veins ran
cold in looking at her.
Molton never spoke nor moved. I waited like a culprit,
willing to hear his voice:—and not daring to trust
my own. But his brow was calm and immoveable,
as the coldest marble. I was fain to begin—I faltered—
I mentioned the sound, the groan—he awoke, all at once
then. as from a trance. “I heard the same,” said he;
“was that all! We are children, indeed. Good night,
John”—I obeyed, like a child. I went, and left them
together—I went to my bed; but I could not sleep.—
All night long, I heard, as in the issuing air, whispers,
and sobbing, as of some unhappy creature.—Do not
laugh at me, Sarah—call these things childish or not, they
are very terrible. Realities are not more so? Who
does not suffer in his dreaming, more than he could, were
he awake. Yet that is imaginary. But, O! how these
pangs of the imagination, the spirit, how infinitely, they
transcend, the gross corporal suffering of the body!
Do you believe in spirits? Tell me, plainly. Doctor
Johnson did—wiser men, and better men, still do. The
belief is universal too, among islanders, holding no communication
with the rest of the world? Whence is this, says
Dr. Johnson, too; “they, who deny it by their words,
confess it by their fears.”`How many serious, sensible
persons are living now, who do believe—really believe,
that they have seen a spirit. Allow all that you can
for a weak imagination—deceit—falsehood, and our love
of the marvellous, there are still some things, at the mention
of which, the blood thrills. Do we not all believe
more than we are willing to confess? If not—whence
the painful interest, with which we sit and listen to the
preternatural. Nay, whence the spirit that sets us exploring
into mystery and horrour. If we were sure that there was
nothing supernatural in either, we should disdain to enter
their dominion. All people, ancient and modern, have
believed in them. I need not mention the witch of Endor;
rose, and whose flesh crept thereat; nor the belief of the
Jews, at the time of our Saviour, that evil spirits inhabited
the bodies of men, and went forth at his bidding;—but I
must remind you of the belief of his own disciples, who
saw him after his resurection. They took him for his own
spirit.
It is no argument Sarah, that, being unsubstantial
creatures, spirits, if they came to us, would be unseen,
unheard, and unfelt.—That may all be, and yet a spirit
might be as distinctly before us, as are the images of madness,
or dreaming. Nay---do we not often feel, what is
not---a ring upon the finger, after it is gone; pain even
(as anatomists inform us) in a limb that we have lost?--
Do we not hear our name called in the woods; whispers in
the wind?--And our sight and touch, how often are they
deceived by optical delusion, and sleight of hand?---
we learn to distrust our senses, after repeated deception.
Where then is there any difficulty in supposing, that a
spirit may be manifest to us, by some correspondent
deception? Sarah I feel strangely solemn, as I write this
---I feel as if I were appointed to plead it as a matter of
truth and soberness; nay, is it not--in our sleep for instance?
And why may not the death of a dear friend, afar off, be
thus communicated, at the instant, to the surviver, if he
be asleep? and if asleep, why not awake? There is no
greater difficulty in it. He may be operated upon, when
his eyes are shut, or made to believe that they are open.
My opinion is—I cannot say that it is a belief yet—
that such things are. The reason, I dare not tell; but
something has happened to alarm me---and greatly, too.
Adieu—
| Randolph | |