 | Randolph |  |
JANE CARTER TO MATILDA.
I should not have deserved your reproaches, I am sure,
had I been left to the dictates of my own inclination; but
so much of, I know not what, have happened, to perplex
and thwart me, that I am really sick at heart. O, I do
wish you were here. How incensed you would be! Juliet
is still the only subject of all the care, and all the tenderness
of the house and neighbourhood. Nothing but
“Juliet! poor Juliet,” is to be heard. If I want any thing
done, the servant is in her chamber, or watching at her
door. If I send my own girl on an errand, she is sure to
loiter; and, when my patience is utterly exhausted, and I
could sit down and cry with a good heart, home she comes
with a malicious account of some stuff or other that she
has heard about the sick baby. Indeed, aunt, I know
not what restrains me; but the people here do act so like
fools, that often and often, I am on the very point of telling
them so, in plain English.
It is just as you said, after all. I don't believe that the
child is in any danger. To be sure, she looked very pale
and thin, but she is quite too etherial to perish, to die—even
with that most sentimental of all complaints, the consumption—O
no, it would be quite too vulgar for Juliet
R. Gracie to die, outright, like a common mortal;
and it has often puzzled me, to conjecture how she is to
be managed, when her time comes—will she pass off in a
vapour—the exhalation of a dew-drop—a tear? ha! ha!
ha! her lovers, I take it, would be confoundedly puzzled,
since the doctrine of transmigration is done away with,
and translation, and vanishing, and transfiguration, are
gone by.—Shall she go like Numa?—Elijah?---or what?
or whom?—the fools!—
Indeed aunt, I had well nigh hinted it to her, in the
presence of one of her fellows too, that she had gone
quite far enough. The patient creature!—What think
you she did—she opened her languishing dull eyes at me,
with such a spiteful appearance of resignation, I declare
that I was ready to laugh in her face. But what the
men see in her, to do at on, and fuss about, as they do,
I cannot imagine. There was your favorite Omar, this
evening, on one side of her, with his mouth open; and
that precious devil, Molton---Lord, I can't help laughing
now---to see one of those chalk-faced puppets, in such
than any other man of his age, in America. She pretends
not to know this. But I know it, well;---and if John
Omar were not such a fool, in this thing, I mean; for, in
other matters, he seems not at all deficient, I would tell
him the whole truth—but I dare not. I am afraid of him,
now; for he knows, by some means or other, that it was
by my management, that Molton was twice admitted.—
Accursed folly, it was too, in me---the shock has only
given new life to her! But for that!—no, aunt;---let us
leave this subject, only I did not look for this result---I
confess, in her weak state.
I want your advice. What is to be done with her? She
will get well again, I am sure, if it be only, saint as she
is, to plague and torment me, into a consumption. Alas
aunt, I know not where to look, or whom to call my
friend. All that loved me, Juliet has enticed away. I
am nothing, absolutely nothing now, in the house of my
own father. Nay, I had not an evil spirit; I wished her
well, I am sure, till many days of intolerable humiliation,
and many and many a night of shame and sleeplessness;
till out of them, a devil had birth. Sometimes I am
sorry for it. Sometimes, I could lie down and weep
—nay, go down on my knees before Juliet herself;
and—what!—I!—I!—I kneel to that child!
a pennyless, wretched, sick, helpless child; an orphan, destitute
and houseless, but for the foolish compassion of my
foolish father!—to her, who has thwarted all my
schemes of happiness in life—soured all hearts against
me; turned love into a poison, and friendship into hatred!
But for her, I might have been a wife, a mother!—blessed
God! a mother!—with my own babe, naked and beautiful,
nestling in my bosom; beloved and respected by all
the world. But for her—her!--accursed be that witchery
which has impoisoned and alienated all that loved me—
but for her, I might have been the wife of—thou knowest
whom, aunt; but now, oh my heart will burst and
shiver at the thought—all is not yet known—it may
be—it will be, perhaps—pity me then, pity me aunt,
if there be any thing of humanity left in thee—yea, thou
wilt pity me.
But for her, too, I had been the friend, the bosom
that Sarah Ramsay. But what am I, now? Shunned, hated
—not absolutely, despised—Oh, no!—that they hav'nt
the courage to express;—nay, nor to feel. They dare not
—cannot despise me. Yet she pretends to piety—she!
to piety.
What shall I do? Really, aunt, there are terrible
thoughts in my heart at times. Come to me. I never
wanted your assistance so much. This step-mother of
mine is a good natured idiot;—doatingly fond, as she is of
her neice, she has such a clumsy way of showing it, that,
I am sure, Julict is oftener distressed than relieved, by her
manifestation of it.
Let us reason for a moment. Suppose Juliet should
die. Then it is highly probable, with my fortune, and
the remains of what, you know to have been a remarkable
fine person, and countenance,—that I may regain the elevation,
which I have lost, by the continual sickness of my
family, and the perpetual contrast, of my showy manner,
with the quiet, sweet, obedient, and domestick habit of
Juliet. I am not made for the fire-place. She is. I
would to the saddle, if I might; but as that would not be
permitted, in the way I wish, in tilt or tournament,—I
must abide by such distinction as is accessible to me. If
I cannot command armies,—I can give laws to fashion.
If I cannot be the champion of our rights, in the Senate
Chamber,—I can, in the ball room. If I cannot cry to
horse! to horse!—I can call for, hob or nob, and “money
in both pockets.” But suppose that she should recover.
This, I expect;—not, because there is any such opinion
here; no—but simply because that would be just exactly
the awkwardest, and most unpleasant thing in the
world for me. For this reason, I look upon it as a matter
of certainty. Well then, we are to suppose that she
is well. What will she do? If she would marry—
marry any body, I don't care whom—she might have her
choice of all the world;—there would be enough left for
me—after she was served. You see how humble I am.
My tears scald me while I write—but my lips smile—I
can feel them smile, as if they were convulsed and writhing—.
Well—if she will marry, all will go right.
I will live and die, on the civilest terms in the world
return—go to her christenings, and let her come to—
no, the thought is frightful to me—But I will go to
her funeral, with the best bred air in the world.
But suppose that she won't marry. What shall we
do then? You know her art. Under that appearance
of meekness and gentleness, she has a devil of a temper,
when roused. Mine, aunt, mine itself, is less terrible.
I've seen it up once, only once;—her eyes flashed fire, and
Molton stood quaking before her, as if blasted to the very
heart, by the brightness that issued from her. The
fool!—she was in his power—and he forbore to use it.
He trembled—yea—Ned Molton, Ned Molton himself,
trembled and wept—ah—a thought strikes me. She
loves him yet. Juliet, beware!—he is no trifler a second
time. Yes—aunt—yes!—I want none of your counsel
now, my mind is made up. Juliet shall marry somebody;—she
shall; or, she shall go to her grave dishonoured.
There—I have told the secret now. The horrour with
which my heart laboured, is before thee. I am tranquil
now. Ah!——it grew suddenly dark, just then—
and I stopped. Was the moon in travail, aunt? Did
some spectre pass between me, and the light, just then?
Or was it—poh, poh—it was---it was merely my own
blood that blinded me, as it arose and boiled—I feel it
retreating again, and my temples are easier, and I see
perfectly clear again, now.
| Randolph | |