 | Randolph |  |
He is gone. It is nearly an hour since he left me.
But it is only now that I have strength enough to draw
myself to the table. He is an exalted young man, Sarah.
I wish that I could love him. It would make me happy
to reward such sublime devotion;—and, were it not, that
I judge of another, as of myself; (and I should be unutterably
miserable, were one, that I loved, to marry me, with
aught but such love as I felt for him)—were it not for
that, I should have been almost tempted to place my hands
within his, while he sat by me,—fallen upon his noble bosom,
and wept away the little life that I have left, upon the
heart of a man that truly loved me. I was strongly tempted—moved—not
with compassion alone, but with pride
and admiration. But I forbore. Yet I did as much. What
think you, it was?
I communicated that to him, Sarah, which is unknown,
and shall he, while I have life in me, to every other mortal,
beneath the skies. I told him all—all!—my shame
and horrour;—my humiliation, self abandonment; and—
yes, I told him all. Was not that a proof of my reverence?
It was. What I have not dared to whisper, even in my
devotions; for God, I thought, must be jealous of the delirious
and passionate love that I bore to one so little like
Him—even that have I told Frank Omar, without concealment,
reservation, or disguise. I am in his power:
I glory in it.
And now, Sarah, my beloved Sarah, farewell. Our
future letters, at least on my side, I am sure, will be
much shorter, than those that we have interchanged hitherto;
and why should they not be? My breath is shorter;
my slumbers lighter; and my poor thin hands; alas, Sarah,
I am very weak and unwilling to go, after all—for a tear
fell upon them, as I held them up, and saw how transparent
they were—I am unaccountably affected at times;
the veins in my forehead frighten me. They are much
more like the delicate, faint wandering of blue stains in a
flower leaf, as — ah —I had well nigh told his name
—than ever—and I listen too, sometimes, to my own
voice, till I tremble all over. It is strangely clear.—
it will sometimes, like a sweet bell tolling in the wind,
O—I could go and make my own quiet grave, with my
own hands, just where we parted last—we!—yes—and
the violet should spring up where my first tears fell, when
—no, no! no matter what—no matter who. It is all
over. And then, too, there is an unnatural brightness in
my eyes—they ache dismally—and there is a strange, uneasy
throbbing at the ends of my fingers; and, altogether,
what with the tender and incessant watchfulness,
the very affectionate and delicate attention that I perceive
increasing every hour,—with the carefulness to exclude
every unpleasant sight and sound, from my dark
chamber—their serious faces—the solemn whispering
that I catch (for my hearing has become wonderfully
acute of late) as my good doctor is continually arrested
in the entry, by some one or other of the servants, or
visiters;—I really have enough, I think, to authorize my
saying, that, if you would see me alive, my dear, excellent
Sarah, you will visit me immediately. If you should
not be able, for I know well how you are situated, let us
continue to correspond. While I have the strength to
pray, I shall pray for you. Do the same for me, dear,
will you?
Stay, it is possible, dear Sarah; and, perhaps, I ought
to say, probable, that I may never be able to write to thee
again. If so—let this, my parting advice, be remembered.
I adjure thee, solemnly, as a dying woman, Sarah,
to wear, hereafter, a more humble and unpretending deportment;
for thy sake, dear, I beseech this;—for thou
art altogether more amiable, tender, and affectionate,
than the world believes thee;—but, chiefly, do I pray
it, for HIS sake, who hath endowed thee with such astonishing
faculties, and will demand a sure and steadfast,
and benignant application of them.—Piety, dear Sarah,
true piety, is meek and lowly; yet sound and substantial.
Farewell!—Nay—lest this may be my last
letter, I will enclose a lock of my hair. You once
thought it beautiful. There was another, one other,
whose opinion was even dearer to me than thine;—he
thought it beautiful, too:—ah!—dear Sarah—let it
in vain, to restore the silkiness and lustre—the truth must
be told—my hair is dead. Would he not be shocked at
the sight? He would—I am sure that he would; for even
I, fortified and prepared as I am, for the reception of my
bridegroom—Death—even I, am utterly overcome
by a little lifeless hair, which I have been twining here,
for some minutes, about my finger, to see if artifice would
give to it aught of that natural, undulating flexure, which
was once its beauty and vitality—but no, no—it is dead;
a part of me is already dead—and I—I can feel the
remorseless influence coming nearer and nearer, every
breath that I draw, to the fountain of my being, till all
that hath greenness about it, is withering; and all that
hath moisture, is drying up. A little longer—a very little
longer, and thy poor troubled Juliet will be at rest. Be
thou the guardian of her fame, than—thou, love!—and
she will requite thee for it. O, if it be permitted—how
tenderly watchful will she then be of thee—and of one
other—whom heaven, forever, and ever, bless and
protect.—Farewell, Sarah, Farewell!—
| Randolph | |