 | Randolph |  |
I am much better, now, dear Sarah; and my heart,
bleeding and exhausted as it is, hath forgiven you. At
first, I was unable to answer you, at all—or, even to
meditate upon the subject. Your anger was too suddenly
announced, for my poor nerves—it fell upon them,
like a clap of thunder. I have, always, been accustomed
to indulgence and tenderness, as you know, my dear,
rash friend; and, even where affliction hath, sometimes,
laid her hand upon me, it hath always been with gentleness.
Death came, too—but, there was little terrour in
his aspect;—his countenance was mournful, and his tone,
like that of a departed friendship, in our dreaming, was
very pleasant, even while it made me weep. Judge,
then, how little I was prepared for such a letter as yours.
Sarah, I do not reproach you; I love you too much for
that; but you may believe me, when I declare, that, I
have never suffered so rude a pang, since my birth, as
that letter caused me. But, it has given me courage; I
am not long for this earth, my sweet friend;—another
season of flowers, will find me, I am sure, beneath that
beautiful tree, which I chose, long, long since, for my
place of rest;—another year, and all my infirmities will
be forgotten.—Why should I be angry, then? why should
I forbear to do the little good, that is left to me? and how
shall I best do it?—
After much reflection, I have made up my mind to communicate
a few thoughts, to my dear Sarah; thoughts that,
if I had lived and been happy, from my natural timidity
and unwillingness to give pain, even when my judgment
approves of it, she would never have heard uttered
them from mine, than from the harsher ones of the
world.
Sarah, you judge too precipitately. You deceive
yourself; and mislead others. You are kind of heart,
high of spirit, and truly pious; but your piety goes for
nothing, beloved Sarah, where it interferes, directly,
with either your head or heart.... Your temper, too, is
violent, and unforgiving; not implacable, perhaps, but
unforgiving.
Remember these words. When I am gone, Sarah, they
will be found true. I know that they look unkind; but,
they are not so. I have often observed these faults in
my friend. I could recall many illustrations; and cite
many authorities, among them that best know you—but
I prefer dealing more plainly. I prefer telling you, in
the plainest possible words, my dear friend, of your besetting
sins. And, having done that much, I will now proceed,
as well as—a trembling hand—and eyes nearly
blind with weeping, will permit, to answer your charges.
Yes, Sarah, I have wept; for it is a constitutional
weakness, of mine, to weep at unkindness, even when
assured, by my own heart, that I do not merit it.
But let me enter on my defence, as patiently and delicately
as I can. You have been deceived, you say. I
can believe it. I know your disposition too well, Sarah,
to suppose that you would have wilfully contributed to the
distress of Mr. Omar. But the question still recurs.
By whom were you deceived? by what? Not by me.—I
am sure that you will deliberately acquit me of that. Not,
I hope, by any circumstances, that a little more charity,
(it is a cruel thing, perhaps, to say this, Sarah, but it is
exactly what I feel, at this moment,) and a little more
caution in you, might not have explained, by some other
hypothesis, at least as amiable, as that which was
adopted by you. Did I ever manifest aught, in word or
deed, Sarah, before you, resembling love for Frank Omar?
—What, then, were the facts? But, let me begin
with your earlier symptoms of precipitation in such matters.
There was poor William. What made you imagine,
for a time, that he was the legitimate and chosen
doubt, though you may have forgotten it now. What
were the facts? The chief one, I am sure, was, my distress,
my agony and delirium, at the time of his death.
You thought, and so did others, many others, perhaps,
after that mysterious event, that my heart was buried
with him. Did you not? And, then, another suspicion
arose. Why did you always couple the expression of
your sympathy with me, with that of hatred and detestation
of his destroyer. Nay, has not he, that same
Molton, has he not been publickly called the destroyer
of William and me? But how of me? The charge is
terrible, let it bear what countenance it may. It implies,
that I am either base, or dying; dishonoured by the love
of him, that you believe to be a monster of perfidy and
wickedness;---or, broken hearted, as the surviver of him,
whom that cruel man sent, so unpreparedly, to his grave.
On that point, you were mistaken---John was mistaken;
Frank was mistaken. I never loved William, other
than as I loved many, resembling him, in generosity and
goodness.
The next thought, the next Sarah, was for a moment,
yet more frightful. You have not forgotten it;—you never
can forget it. Do you remember my distress, my
humiliation? And why were you troubled? Merely because
I had known the man, before he went to Europe.—
Merely, because you had heard of his standing by me,
when I was at the instrument, and “reading my heart,
with his arms folded.”—Was it prudent, dear, to infer so
much, from the few incidents that came under your observation.
Suppose that we did “walk together?” You
knew that my health demanded some such exercise;—and
who was better qualified to beguile the way, than one,
whose extraordinary mind, and settled, unapproachable
severity of deportment, left one nothing to apprehend
from his conversation?—But why need I dwell on him.
You have acknowledged your errour there, and I hasten
to forget it.
But all these things did not teach you the circumspection,
that I have observed in your character on other occasions.
You still believed that I had loved. Sarah!—
I will not deny it—it is a thought too solemn for disavowal—too
loved;—but further than that, I cannot go—not even to
you. The object of that love—no, it was not love!—it
was religion, life, idolatry;—judge then of its power and
truth; it has brought me to the grave.—But the beloved
one, you will never know. Perhaps—if the bashfulness
of my very heart will permit it, perhaps I shall communicate
it to Mr. Omar;—he is to be here, this evening; and
I am endeavouring to prepare myself for the interview.
How often—O! how often! have I hushed the thought, as
it arose, and I felt my cheeks burn the while, that I was
dear to that excellent, that noble young man. But it
would come; it would, now and then, obtrude itself upon me
when I was all alone; and I would determine to make myself
understood. But how could I? His affection was so delicate,
so profound; there was, I know not what, of reverence
and awe, that I did not deserve to excite, and that I wondered
to see in him, about all that he said or did, when
I was near. My friends observed it; I was rallied
about him; and, at last, I determined to treat him less
cordially. It was a vain determination—he came—I refused
to walk with him, as usual. He was hurt, cruelly
hurt, at first, as I perceived; but the next moment his eyes
lighted up—and I trembled for the inference that he
would draw.—I went out again with him, rather than
be left alone in his company, as I should undoubtedly
have been, for it was, as you know, the well meant,
but indelicate practice of my good aunt, in what she
thought her impenetrable management on such an
occasion; and rather than permit him to believe that
I abstained from walking, for that reason, or that I
felt less freedom than usual with him. We visited
some spots that were dear to me; he was so silent
that I forgot, utterly forgot, sometimes, that he was with
me; and when the sound of his friendly, sweet voice, awoke
me from my passionate reveries, it was only to
make me ask my own heart why I had permitted myself to
imagine so vain a thing, as that he loved me, on no better
evidence, than such solicitude and watchfulness, as
this. We returned, my spirits were much depressed--and,
for the first time, I observed that his hand shook, and his
lashes glittered, when we arrived at the gate.—He refused
little more of it until several days had passed, and the
looks and manner of the family convinced me that they
thought we had had some quarrel. I could not well abandon
my walk. The season was tempting. The snow had just
gone, and the tender green earth was just beginning to
emit its own peculiar rich smell of invitation. I went
alone I came to the top of the hill;—it was consecrate
tome—there was one spot—one!—and, as I leaned
against a slender tree there, and thought over the days of
my untroubled innocence, the tears fell, all alone as I was,
like rain upon the dry leaves below. Once, I remember,
that I was startled, and I concealed myself, for I thought
that some step was approaching. After this I descended.
There was the very rock;—and, near it, rippled the cold
clear stream, where—no, no—I cannot tell thee that.
I took off my bonnet, I scooped up some water in my palm,
and tasted it, as I would tears;—my eyes were turned
toward a distant opening, where I could just distinguish
a tree, beneath whose beautiful branches I had once set
and listened, till my heart ran over;—there was the rock
too—the turf seat—the pure water—the—No, no!—my
limbs were too weak to support me, and I was blind with
my tears. I heard a rustling near me—a faint whisper—
something touched me—my blood thrilled—at such a moment!...in
such a place!...O, I dared not look up!—I expected
to encounter the only human being, whose presence
there, would not have been profanation. But I did look
up—it was not—no, it was not he—his portentous
forehead—his uplifted eyes were afar off. No—it was
Frank. I was glad to meet him;—ashamed and humbled
as I was, at being caught in such a situation; I was so
glad to feel him near me, for it was getting quite dim in
the wood, and there was a long solitary road to be travelled
homeward—that I believe—I—I was more than
usually cordial, at least, I judged so, from the change
that I perceived in him. His dark eyes glittered again;
and there were instantaneous changes in his noble face,
from red to pale, and pale to red, like the reflection of a
passing sunset over a piece of statuary. Indeed he
looked so handsome, and so happy, that I had not the
heart to treat him coldly; and, if I had, what should I
were not to be understood, even by herself? Suppose
that he had asked me, why I had altered in my deportment?—or,
as he once did?—if he had offended me?—
what could I have said?
Soon after this, I thought yet more seriously of the matter,
and determined to bring him to an explanation.
Yet that was not easily done. An honest woman, I
thought, would spare him the humiliation of an avowal.
True—but a modest one, would never suspect a passion,
till it was declared. Nay, is it not a wise maxim to believe
all the pretensions of a man, hollow or false—or at
best, think of friendship only, until they are proved to be
more serious? You can now judge of my perplexity.
What was I to do? If I led him to an avowal, it must be
by encouragement. But that would have been base, if I
did not, as I certainly did not, mean to return his love.
At last, our dear William was slain;—all the rest you
are acquainted with;—my illness, distraction,—the subsequent
kindness and attention of Mr. Omar, until he declared
himself. Then, and then only, was it permitted to
me, to deal frankly. I did so. I told him that we must
part. This, I did, that I might not, unnecessarily wound
him. Yet it would have been better, I now find, had I
said, “as a friend, I shall always hold you dear;—but as
a husband—I cannot think of you. I do not love you;
I cannot love you—I never have loved you.”
Yes, Sarah!—I ought to have said just those words;
but what woman could have said them, to such a man?
Ah, it is no light matter for the proud in heart, the good
and the free spirited, to go with their offering to the feet
of any woman, and have it un-accepted. I do not say rejected:—still
less—do I say, trodden on, smiled at, and
scorned—; as he would have thought that his was, had
I so treated him.
Need I say more, Sarah? Need I appeal to your
knowledge of my whole life? Do I hurt you, dear, by refusing
to communicate the whole?—ah!—the hour
has come;—I hear his tread—his voice—he is ascending
the stairs.—Farewell, for a few hours—Farewell!—
| Randolph | |