 | Randolph |  |
EDWARD MOLTON TO JAMES HARROW.
I pray you, my dear Harrow, do not address me again,
with the title of Esquire. I do not like it, and am not
authorized to assume it. Nay, to speak seriously, it
offends me, when a man of sense, knowing me to be an
American, calls me Esquire.
Your affectionate letter came to me in a good time. Some
circumstances, of a nature too serious to explain, have
kept me, for a long time, nay, ever since we parted, in a
state of continual agitation. The natural result of
which, is, exactly what you predicted. I am not long
for this world. My body is worn out. It may be, that
my mind hath shattered it. But, be it what it may, the
fulfilment of my destiny is rapidly accomplishing. Yet,
nobody knows it. I would go quietly, if I can. Can you
believe that I have forgotten you? no—you knew well,
at the moment when your pen traced the words; or you
would have known it, had you stopped your hand, and
asked yourself the question, that it was false. It was
one of your habitual phrases, Harrow, and said without
any meaning at all. Were it not so, I should have been
mortified and alarmed. You know that I do not easily
form an attachment; that my heart is barren of late, of
fruit and blossom—iron—that its germinating principle
is extinguished; that it never will be in flower again—
Can you believe then, that it has forgotten the time, the
spring time of its power, when it loved and was beloved;
when it chose you for its friend, and—no—no—no—
Harrow, you knew that I had not “forgotten you.” It
was unworthy of you, and of me, therefore, to say so,
even in pleasantry. It was worse—it was childish—the
coquetry of a man.
You tell me that Clinton Howard is dead. I am glad
of it. My blood leaped in my veins, when I saw the
name. Being dead—I forgive him. It might have been
otherwise, had we met. In sickness and death, we are
forgiving—but the current of hostility flows in, with the
flow of the blood, again. I am not used, you know,
to carrying my sword away, without a “heart stain upon
it,” where I am so wronged, accursed, so irretrievably
man. Tell him that I forgive him—tell him—. But I
forget.—Ah, Harrow—I shall meet him, before you do; and
I will tell him so, with my own lips—yes—tear open my
bosom before him, shew him a heart, a noble heart---reduced
to blackness and death, by his infernal sorceries;
uncover my side-- shew him the serpent that is feeding
there; and then, while the hand of the Judge is upon us
both,—I'll—no matter—no matter—. Time
enough, when we meet.
The husband---Harrow, is it true? Beware how you
trifle with me. I am in no humour for such things. I
have just come to that passage again. Can it be that he
survived? Do you really believe it?—“the tomb empty;”
perhaps it was done by the surgeons, Harrow. Such
things have happened. At any rate, hear me, hear me,
as thou lovest me, and O, if there be one pulse of that
gallant nature that thou hadst, when we parted, go to the
bottom of this story. See if he be really and truly, a
living man. Then see where he is—where is her brother?
Spare no expense—none;—go to the bottom of the
ocean---the ends of the earth---but let me hear the result
by the first vessel. Nay, send a duplicate by every vessel
that comes to America. Do this, and I will bless
thee, Harrow, bless thee, with my latest breath. O, if
it be true, indeed, what a load will be taken off my heart.
Then, I shall be happy---then, Harrow, I shall care not
how soon he may strike his dagger into my side. I shall
die contented.
Would you believe it? The people here, do not even
know that I was ever in your country. One or two have
said it, but they have always said it, doubtfully. And
my own mother, even she does not know that I am other
than what I seem to the whole world; stern and solitary.
No! she does not suspect that there is blood, blood, Harrow,
upon these hands. They call me a Scot, too!—excellent!
I was interrupted. Harrow, nobody knows me here.
I sit alone. I walk alone. I hold no communion with
aught that hath life in it—except —. Have I said
leave her? No, no!—though the heavens were to pass
away, this night—this very night, in thunder and smoke,
I should not be alone---I should not know it---if Helen were
near me.
Harrow, my hand shakes so, that I can scarcely see
the paper. The whole atmosphere is reddish, and full
of bright characters. Do you believe in ghosts? I am
serious, Harrow. Do you believe it possible that a dead
man may return? If such a thing be possible, then have
I seen a man that I once slew. He was at my elbow this
moment. Can you read what I write? I cannot. But
still I go on—on—on—seeing nought, hearing nought,
determined to bear up to the last—a—
I have been sick, Harrow. Something has happened
to me. I know not what;—but when I come to myself,
just now, it was totally dark about me, and I knew not
where I was. At first, I had some confused notion that
the day of judgment had come;—and then, that I was at
sea, and had been thrown out of my birth, as I once was,
when the ship was struck by a squall, and rolled over.—
At last, however, I recollected myself perfectly. I arose
—rang the bell—waited for lights to come—and have
set down again. Am I afraid? Yes, mortally afraid;
but I dare not acknowledge it. One person might be
deceived, Harrow—the guilty one;—I can conceive of
that. But, how happens it, that this supernatural shivering—this
horrour and chilliness—at a certain hour, is
common to all that inhabit this apartment, or the next?
How is it that strangers are unable to sleep here? No! I
dare not confess that I am afraid. Poor Helen!—it is only
last night that I was awakened out of a sweet, O! a most
sweet and refreshing slumber, almost the first that I have
had, since we entered this accursed mansion, by a quick
cry, and a dead weight falling upon my naked breast.—
I awoke. Poor Helen was lifeless. Her cold hand embraced
mine like that of a drowning creature. The moon
shone through the red curtains with a sickly strange
lustre, and the whole room was bright, in all but one
spot. That was dark,—but even that soon became bright;
how cold she was. I shuddered as if I held a corpse—
another corpse, Harrow, to my heart, and was carrying
it, in the starlight, to burial. But why do I tell thee of
that? Thou knowest nothing of it—thou—oh, thou art
as unsuspecting, as they that are about me. They see
me, know me, talk to me;—but little do they dream of
what I am capable, or of what I have done. We lay and
conversed, nearly all the night; and I was chilled by the
contact. Her arms enfolded me, like frozen serpents.
The affinity between us seemed suspended for awhile.—
O, Harrow, how bitterly have we suffered!—how cruelly,
how inconceivably, have we been slandered! By heaven,
there never was a righteous movement of the hand or
heart of man, which might not be represented to his
destruction. Well, we lay and talked of the apparition.
I ridiculed her fears;---but her cold cheek was close to
my heart; and, I am sure, that its palpitation was a distressing
subject of doubt, to her. She wept---and I embraced
her, chilly and damp as she felt;---while her redundant
hair swept over my arms, as if the spectre were
there. Yea, I embraced her in his very presence! I
know that he was standing over us. I felt it. It was
in defiance. Were it aught that would have appeared,
at my bidding, Harrow, naked as I was, weak as I was,
I would have summoned it again, and put my questioning
home to it!---I would! by my everlasting soul! What!
have I lived to this age, to be the sport of malicious
shadows. What business has it here? If here—why does
it trouble Helen?—why, my friends? Have I not seen a
shadow, blacker than all the surrounding darkness,
again and again, at my bedside? Why was it there?
O, Harrow, pity me. There is some terrible delusion
in this. I know it. I am sure of it. Yet, I would give
my right arm to understand it. The cause is a natural
one. I do not doubt that; but my flesh creeps—yes, even
now, it creeps—at the creaking, perhaps, of the door—
Harrow, my friend, give me thy hand! It dare not face
me! It dare not take a shape to itself, and appear before
me! No!—it is the shadow of a dastard! I have called
to it!---dared it!---cursed it, on my knees, in prayer and
I have been mistaken. It was only for a moment,
that I ever saw anything; and that was in the great mirror,
before which I am writing; and sometimes, God forgive
me for my pusillanimity, I get so appalled and
crushed by the weight of terrour and desolation, that was
upon me, that I dare not lift up my eyes to it! No, Harrow,
it dare not face me! But it went by me, in the wind.
It was his whisper, too. I could swear to it. I felt it.
It was evil. It was no friendly visiting.
| Randolph | |