 | Randolph |  |
JOHN OMAR TO SARAH RAMSAY.
I have been away ever since the night when I saw Molton;
and I have just left him again, having heard the rest
of his story. Will you hear it? You say, if I remember
right, that his first offence was—stay, I will refer
to the letter itself; lay it open before me, and answer it,
in my usual way, line by line.
Sarah—you must wait. I have lost your letters,—or,
what is worse, left them in Molton's study. What if he
should see them!—I will go this instant.
Heaven be praised! Sarah—I have them again—untouched—unprofaned.
Molton had followed me out, it
appears: and there lay the letters, folded, one within the
other, just as I left them, on the table. I beg ten thousand
pardons for my carelessness—but I was afraid to leave
them at home, and have carried them always about me.
I took them out there, merely to see how his story, and
that which you have heard, would correspond; and that
I might refer to them, if necessary, to refresh my memory.
But let me proceed. I entered, abruptly, upon the subject
of my visit. I told him that I would not be his friend
at halves,—that I respected him, and desired to respect
him. It was later than I intended;—and he took out his
watch, with a serious air, and laid it upon the table before
him. I asked no questions, but began, and went
through, without flinching, the whole that I had heard.
His countenance never changed,---once, only excepted,
when I thought that he smiled inwardly.
“Do you believe the stories?” he said calmly.
What could I say? I did not believe them. I told
him so. He smiled. “Mr. Omar,” said he, “this will
be a lesson to you. What you have heard, is from good
authority;—yet, you have dared to believe it untrue. On
what evidence, I do not ask you. It is enough for me
that you believe me innocent. Had you believed me
guilty, you would have gone home as you came. I should
have disdained to reply. Do you fully acquit me?”
I bowed—I know not why; for I saw something
sarcastick, in his manner, such as I would use to a petulent,
inquisitive boy---to one that I was making a fool of.
There was a dead silence. His face grew more solemn
and pale. He looked me full in the eyes;—laid
both of his hands upon the table, and pronounced these
words, deliberately, in a low voice, that I shall never
forget, never, to my dying day—“The stories are true.”
Was he mad?—I looked at him in amazement. Was
it his voice? I know not. It did not sound like his;
nor had I ever heard aught that resembled it, from Molton.
“Mr. Omar,” said he—(at the sound of his voice then;
I recovered instantly from my consternation.) He took
no notice of my surprise; and I began to doubt if my ears
had not deceived me. “Mr. Omar---the stories are true.”
I started from my seat. Nay—I was on the point of striking
him. I raised my arm,—but he struck it down,
lifeless, at my side. “Boy,” said he, “sit down. Had
that blow alighted on me, you had been a corpse, at this
moment. Sit down, and hear me. The stories, even as
you have them, are from my own lips. I betrayed myself.
The secret was my own—but I chose to betray
it.”
I shuddered—my whole side was numb. And I sat
before him, like something helpless, and at his mercy.
I shall now endeavour to give you a faithful account of
all that passed between us, at this interview; and I would
have you reflect on the character, that he betrayed in his
reasoning.
“Yet, you must listen to my account of the same transactions,”
said he. “You shall. But beware how you
lift your hand against me.—A blow, I cannot endure.
I have sworn never to endure it, again; and I
never will. If you are angry with me, strike me to the
heart. There lies my sword. There are my pistols.---
I am weary of life. I will uncover my breast to you. I
will not defend myself. But, again, do I say to you, John
Omar, as you value your own life, do not lift your hand,
to give me a blow. It has cost more than one man dearly,
already. But, to the point. I thank you for putting
your question home, without circumlocution or apology.
It shows that you have a good opinion, at least, of my
temper and self command.”
“Nay,” said I, interrupting him, “even more than that;
it shows that I do not believe what I have heard. No
man, if he believed that another was a villain, could speak
to him on the subject, without hesitation. He would falter—.”
“You did falter,” rejoined Molton. “But, no matter
for that. You have, on the whole, dared to tell me, what
the world has thought proper to say of me. And, although
or not guilty, you manifest much confidence in me; and
much more than you would have done, by coming at me
with a side wind; yet, after all, your very question might
have been an insult.”
“An insult! how so? I do not believe what I have
heard.”
“Not entirely, you should say,” he replied; “but, to a
certain degree, you must believe it, or you would repel
the whole, at once, with indignation. Would it not be
an insult, think you, to ask a woman if she is virtuous?”
“Why----to be sure----it—but I do not ask you any
such question. I only tell you what they say of you,
abroad.”
“True. But do you not watch my countenance, all the
while; and do you not look to hear me defend myself, indignantly,
with the vehement courage of an injured and
insulted man.”
“To be sure---but then, I do this, that I may be able to
defend you, myself.”
“To defend me! What would a modest woman say to
a champion, that would throw down a gauntlet in the
same way, in defence of her reputation? Would it not be
an insult?”
“Not, if her reputation were attacked.”
“I beg your pardon. The highest and most unapproachable
purity, is only dishonoured by it:---a second
rate purity may be honoured by it. Were I, in your estimation,
utterly guiltless, you would mock at these tales;
and deride them, as the clumsy invention of idle and wicked
gossips. But being, what I am, not utterly guiltless,
in your own estimation, but only guilty in a less degree,
you have had the courage to tell me what people say, in
a manner that convinces me of your respect. Not mentioning
it at all, would have been the proof, that you held me
to be wholly guilty, or wholly innocent.—But what is
the matter? You look puzzled.”
“I am puzzled; I confess it. And yet, an illustration
occurs to me that—but illustration is not argument.”
“I beg your pardon: illustration is analogy; and what
is analogy, but argument? But no matter about that, for
the present. Let us hear your illustration.”
“Well then---it was to this effect. Suppose that I had
heard George Washington charged with habitual drunkenness;
and suppose that I was intimate with him, as I
am with you. I should scorn to reply to such a charge. I
should never mention it to him, at all, in all probability;
and, certainly, never, as I have mentioned these matters
to you, watching his countenance all the while. You smile.
You are preparing to overthrow me entirely. I see it in
your eyes;---and, I believe, unless I very much mistake
your character, that you would not care what became of
your own hypothesis, while you were demolishing my illustration.
Is it not so? What say you?”
“Never mind. Go on—finish your illustration.”
“Thank you. I feel it like a reprieve. I was about
to say, then, that, if I had heard Washington charged
with having been, on some one occasion, drunk, instead of
being habitually so, I should, were I his friend, probably
enter into a defence of him, with great warmth; and, probably,
on some occasion or other, ask him about the truth
of it. And why? Because I might believe the latter
charge to be possible. This confirms your doctrine. I
believe, that you are possibly guilty in some degree. But
did I believe you altogether guilty, or not at all so, then
I should never have mentioned the matter to you. In the
first place, I should not dare to mention it; and, in the
latter, I should scorn to.—But, what are you musing
about?”
“I can hardly tell you,” said he, after a pause. “A
strange hypothesis, that I cannot immediately master, is
disturbing me. At some future period, we will have some
talk about it. It is an alarming paradox, and, if I am
right, will explain certain operations of our mind, that
have been, for a long time, unintelligible to our metaphysicians.”
“Pray, what is it?”
“In one word, then, it is—but we cannot, well, discuss
it, now. It is, that the more improbable a story is,
a paradox; and, at present, omit all its qualifications and
exceptions. People that lie, are often, nay, generally,
more plausible than others. You will hear a man of veracity
tell a common story, so as to look suspicious;----
while an habitual liar will make up a very uncommon
story, that shall appear probable. The former disdains
all trick; he has never been doubted; and he never troubles
himself to ask, if what he relates be probable. But
the latter seeks to make whatever he may tell, probable
in the minutest particular. He is full of circumstantiality;
he gives place, time, and language. It is a well known
mark of suspicion, in courts of justice, that the story of
a witness is very particular, consistent, and circumstantial.
It looks like a prepared thing. And men of experience
know, that a witness upon the stand, if he be very
scrupulous and honest, is much more liable to contradict
himself, and to become embarrassed, than the perjured
scoundrel. The former will hesitate, and qualify, and
weigh; where the latter swears it out, roundly, promptly,
and without any embarrassment.”
“A man that makes up a lie, then, will make it probable.
To my notion, then, a story is more likely to be
true, from the very want of plausibility upon the face of
it. Liars are ingenious and ready. If a man should
say to me, therefore, that Washington was habitually intemperate,
I should be more apt to believe that he was
telling the truth, than if he should sit down and tell me
a long and particular story, about having seen him drunk
on some one occasion; and how he was dressed; and what
he said and did; and when it was, and where; and who
was there, &c. &c. So that, to despatch this affair, at
once, it would seem, that a story may be the more probable
for its very improbability!”
There, Sarah, I think that I have given you a fair
sample of Molton's manner, when he trifles, with that
air of earnest pleasantry, for which he is so remarkable;
and, now, I will attempt to repeat the remainder of our
conversation. After a few moments, he turned toward
me, again; and addressed me, as nearly as I can recollect,
in the very words following.
“The first story that you heard is true. When I was
a boy, between 16 and 17 years of age, I was a kind of
under-strapper in a large store; and lived at the house
of my master. A very pretty, or rather, a very good-looking
girl, a relation of the family, was on a visit there,
at the same time. For a week or two, when we were
alone, she was rather condescending; and used to talk
to me, very graciously, about novel-reading. At last,
she prayed me to borrow one, called Ariel, from a friend
of her's, promising to lend it to me, when she had done
with it. I borrowed the book, and was very impatient
to read it; for I read with exceeding avidity, whatever
came in my way. She read very slowly, and I, with uncommon
rapidity.”
“One evening, after tea, there came a barrel of Medford
crackers, to the house; which, for some reason or
other, was put into the closet of this girl's room. I held
the candle, I remember; and while they were stowing
away the barrel, I saw the novel lying on the mantle-piece.”
“The next day, while I was at the store, a sudden desire
took hold of me, to eat one of the “Medford crackers.”
I cast about, for some time, to see how I should
manage the matter; and at last, determined to run home
for a moment; go up to my chamber, which opened into
the same landing with her's; and, if I found her door open,
as it generally was, in the day time, to slip into her room,
and get a supply. I am too old, now, to laugh at such
things, or to wonder at any thing; or else, I should say
that I never knew an example of childish infatuation like
mine. I was not hungry. I had enough to eat, and of
the best quality. Yet, so it was; I had a longing, such
I suppose, as women have at times, and green girls for
blue clay, chalk and charcoal; and I determined to
gratify it. I went home; and, as I passed the parlour, I
saw somebody, whom I took to be the girl in question,
with a baby in her arms. I was certain that it was she. I
saw her as plainly as I now see you; and I would have
sworn that it was she. I hurried up stairs, stepped softly
through my room, and found the door of her's, contrary
go to my chamber in the day time, shut. I attempted
to turn the handle very softly—succeeded; and was
opening it, gradually, inch by inch, for fear of being
heard; when, somebody, a woman too, about half dressed,
sprang toward it, and shut it violently in my face; but,
unluckily, not without seeing me.”
“And here, by the way, I have a hint to give, which
may be useful, one day or other, to some unhappy fellow,
in a like predicament. Doors are apt to creak;—there
are two ways of preventing it—lift, or bear down upon
the latch; and open or shut it, swiftly. But, if neither
will do, follow my example—mew faintly, like a cat;
or make a noise like a sleeper, snoring; do this, and you
will be safe, any where, provided you keep time with the
creaking of the door. But let me return to the crackers.
My heart, itself had well nigh exploded with shame. I
was innocent, but appearances were enough to hang me.”
“What could I do? My trepidation was excessive.—
Not that I feared any living creature, in the way of personal
chastisement; but I was terrified to the heart, at
the thought of what the poor girl might imagine. I returned
to the store, in a strange state of consternation
and perplexity;—I knew that I should be questioned
about the matter; and I knew, too, that the plain truth
would be vastly more improbable, than a lie, which I
could put together in two minutes. It turned out as I
expected. The good woman of the house, after stuffing
me to the throat, with dainties, to detain me, till all the
rest had left the room, at dinner, put the affair home to
me, at once; asking me, while her own face coloured and
shook, and mine burnt as if a furnace were before me,
“what I wanted in Miss Harriott's room?”
“I was afraid to tell the truth, as I have already said; I
knew that it would'nt be believed: and I was ashamed to
mention the crackers. So I told her a story, of which this (I
do not, of course, remember the words) was the substance.”
“I went there for a book, Madam. Miss Harriott promised
to lend me Ariel, the other day; and I did not like
to keep asking her for it, continually. I could read it
hold the candle, while the crackers were put into her closet,
(or, to put them into the closet, while somebody else
held the candle) I saw the book lying over the fire-place.
To-day, while I was up stairs, having little or nothing
to do, it occurred to me that I could slip into her room,
if I found it open; take away the book; read it; and return
it, before it was missed. I saw her below ma'm, as
I thought, when I went up to my room; and, it was for
that reason, that I ventured to open the door,” &c. &c.
“This story was believed, this lie, I ought to say, when
the truth would not have been. They knew that I was
passionately fond of reading; but they did not know that I
was at all, fond of Medford crackers. The account was
probable, from my pride, age, and manner; for my pride
and manner were those of a man. I had no more trouble
about the matter; but, I dare say, that it is remembered;
and I am glad of an opportunity to tell the plain
truth. It is a relief to me.”
I believe him, Sarah; it appeared to be a relief to him.
“But”—he continued, “the next affair is one, that I am
unwilling to talk about; and I know not if I would condescend
to exculpate myself, were it not that an elder
brother, of the poor little girl in question, has thought proper
to put her reputation at issue. He told one person,
at least; and perhaps more than one, that I was a dependant
in the family; under great obligations to every member
of it; that his sister was a mere child; that I took advantage
of her innocent nature, so far as to go to her
bed-side, at night, and kiss her. He is a liar, and a fool.”
“He is a liar, for I was never, in any way, a dependant
of the family. They are all under greater obligations to
me, than I to them. I laboured for them; and, in the
wreck of extensive commercial dealing, the profits of my
labour went to the support of three of their families at
least. I came out of the concern a beggar. So did this
brother, to be sure. But his mother's family were greatly
benefitted; made, in a measure independent, by an application
of the partnership funds. I do not say that it
was dishonestly done. I know that it was not. But—I
benefitted; but that I lost, and, that they lost, all that both
were worth, while the family of this very man, grew comfortable
by our labour. He is a liar. I was not in a state of
dependence for a moment. I paid my board, at the highest
price too, continually and regularly; and was generally
in advance, to the very family where this transaction
happened. He is a liar. His sister was not a child,
when the affair happened. She was fourteen years
old, (I believe) and large of her age. She had the appearance
of a fresh, healthy girl of sixteen. He is a liar.
I did not kiss her.—I never kissed her in my life. I did
not take advantage of my situation; if I had chosen to,
nothing could have saved her. I do not say this, out of
disrespect to her, or unkindness; but, because it is the
truth. No young, careless girl could have withstood me,
if I had been a scoundrel, with the opportunities that I
had.”
“He is a fool—for he knows me. He knows that I
will not bear, very patiently, with such presumption.
He knows that I am not to be trifled with; or, if he do
not already know it, he and his whole family shall know
it, in a way that they do not apprehend. He is a fool;
inasmuch as he has told a secret, that would have been
untold, but for him, and one other man; as mistaken as
himself; a secret that concerned his own sister. Fool!
mad man! who will believe him! who, that knows me,
will believe that I contented myself with kissing a woman,
whom I had found in bed, at midnight; who will
believe that the hostility of the family grew out of an incident
so trivial? Nobody. But for me, then, where
would be the reputation of his young and innocent sister?
It would be, at this moment, irretrievably blasted, by the
tattling of her own brother, were it not that the man
whom he has attempted to ruin—by poisoning his reputation,
at the very moment that he was intimate with
him—is willing to bear testimony to her innocence.”
“And who told the truth, at last? How came the
brother to know it at all? I was not suspected. The family
treated me most kindly and affectionately, long after
for weeks; I took up my abode with her brothers and sisters;
and yet I was undreamt of. Aye, who told the
truth at last? It was I. Yes!—I—and what object had
I to gain? Nothing but this—I was determined to give
the last and greatest proof, of my repentance and reformation.”
“And what was the consequence? How was it received?
I'll tell you, Omar. It will teach you caution. It
will convince you that, with men, it is safer to be a villain
than to appear so; that it is easy and advantageous to
deceive, but very perilous to undeceive; that, while a man
is a scoundrel, if he be not a fool, he can escape suspicion;
but that, the moment that he proves himself honester
than his neighbour, by acknowledging his most hidden
transgression, and turning witness against himself,
he is a banished and ruined man; banished from all
hearts, and ruined in all opinions.”
“You are a young man. I call you so, because, whatever
may be the number of years that you have lived,
you are altogether younger than I am. It may be well
for you, to understand how continually, yet how secretly,
our self-love is at work. A thousand contradictory phenomena
may be traced to that little passion. We cannot
endure to think humbly of our own judgment. It is
painful to acknowledge that we have been deceived—and,
therefore, we persist against all evidence, frequently, in
maintaining any opinion that we have once been heard
to express. How reluctantly do we listen to, and how
unwilling we are to believe anything against a favourite.
It is amusing to see how ingenious we are in escaping
conviction—how industrious and sensible, in accounting
for all that he may have done, said, or thought amiss.—
Now this would be very amiable, and ought to make one
in love with human nature, a man would be apt to think.
But hearken a moment. The same benevolent creature,
who will not hear you open your mouth against a friend,
will not hear you open it in favour of an enemy. And
why? Is it that he is too generous, too like a philanthropist
in the former case? Or that he is too wicked in
own judgment, against which he braces himself. He is
only withstanding the overthrow of his own opinion, and
nothing more. It is humbling to be convinced, that he
has been a fool or a bad man:—a fool, if he have acted
without evidence, in his love or his hatred; and a bad
man, if he have acted against it. Such is the character
of man. I know it. I knew it from the first: and, therefore,
I strive not, to convince men that I was not so bad
as they believed; because, if I succeeded, which would be
a miracle, for it would involve their own self condemnation—what
should I gain by it? Nothing—nothing—
but the hasty acquittal of men, whose condemnation were
hardly worse, than their praise.”
“In a few moments, you will be master of the whole
story. You will wonder then, at my infatuation. You
will ask if I repent of it. I shall answer you—no! I do
not. What I told then, I would tell now. I did it to recover
my own respect, not that of other men; to make
peace with a troubled spirit—a proud and unforgiving
nature;—but it was no other nature, and no other spirit,
than my own. I had no one to appease, but myself;—for,
to no one, upon the earth, was my transgression known.”
“I told the truth to my friend—to my dearest friend.
What did he? Did he ask leave to communicate it? No!
But he did communicate it. And why? Could it make
them wiser, or better? Could it do any good? Yes! he
told them—and without letting me know of it; so that I
was subjected to the chance of continual insult from them.
And yet, this very brother, of whom I have just spoken,
he, who, in his gossipping, childish confidence has put
the character of his own sister in jeopardy, met me, and
journeyed with me, day after day, with the most cordial
expression of good will, after he knew the whole story;
and was scoundrel enough, and coward enough, to assail
my reputation, secretly, at the same time, by falsehood
and misrepresentation. Nay, I might have been led to
visit the family, without any suspicion of the change, by
the concealment of the first person, that he had betrayed
me; and by the abject duplicity of the latter; and then, in all
the living God! I would have struck to the earth, any of
the sons, or brothers, who should have dared to treat me,
to my face, as they have treated me at a distance.”
“And now, to my defence. The poor girl, I shall
spare; but, I shall spare her for her own sake, not for
theirs. I never think of her, but with respect and emotion.
I shall prove that, bad as I am—I cannot injure
her, as her brothers have. My wickedness will not do,
what their folly would, if it were not neutralised by me.”
“I am charged with attempting the deliberate seduction
of a child. That is the substance of the charge.”
“Omar, it might be a full reply to this charge, were I
to appeal to my life. It has been a long one, and full of
self-denial, in relation to women. I have led many into
peril; but I never availed myself of it. Yet, of this, I
have no witness; and I disdain to use asseveration.”
“When I first saw this child, she was a pretty little
creature, about eleven years old, I believe. She became
very fond of me; and I loved her, as I would have loved
my own sister. She had an innocent and caressing way
with her; was remarkably affectionate; and, to my
thought, felt, even at that age, with more of the feeling
of a woman, than of a child.”
“Some years afterward, I met her again. She had
grown tall and ugly; was careless in her appearance,
awkward, hoyden-like, and slovenly. I remonstrated
with her; I taught her to write and draw. I had continual
opportunity to profit of her unsuspicious, grateful
temper; but I forbore. I never toyed with her. I never
trifled with her; I never romped with her; I never kissed
her; and I never attempted any liberties with her. I will
not say, that, while directing her, in her drawing or writing
lesson, I may not have laid my hand over her lap, or
half encircled her waist, with my arm, as she leaned over
me. She betrayed her feeling toward me, in several
ways; once, when we first met, after a separation of two
or three years, by catching my hand and kissing it, as
we both stooped, at the same moment, to pick up something
that one of us had dropped; and, many times, by
and challenging me, by her countenance and hilarity, to
a game of romps: not by words—that she never did; for
she was afraid of me, and more afraid of my opinion.”
“For a long time, we lived together in the same house.
Her chamber and mine were so situated, that I continually
passed her door, when I went to bed, and when I rose.
She knew this, of course; yet, so neglectful was she of
propriety; or so indifferent to it, that I have seen her,
again and again, dressing and undressing, night and
morning, often, when the door was ajar; and, once or
twice, through the key-hole. You look indignant; look
so—I do not blame you. I am no listener at key-holes;
but I hold it to be something brutish and insensible, to
pass by any opportunity of seeing a beautiful woman,
(nature's masterpiece,) naked, without profiting by it.
“More than once, have I seen that child lying, in the
moonlight, almost naked; or, of a warm summer morning,
in her quiet, untroubled innocence and security; and
I have stood and contemplated her, with a feeling more
nearly allied to religion, than to impurity.”
“One night, she was terrified in her sleep; and left her
bed, precipitately; ran into a neighbouring chamber,
and crept into bed, with an old negro woman, to whom
she declared that a black man had been attempting to
strangle her. I heard the story at the time, and laughed
at it, as the dreaming of a child. But, at last, I learned
to avail myself of it, in my own defence. It was nearly
a year after her fright; and happened somewhat after
this fashion. I had seen her naked, no matter how nor
where; and I had good reason to believe that she knew
it, at the time. Nay, I still believe so. Some other suspicion
entered my heart, about the same time; of what nature,
I need not declare, since I am perfectly satisfied
that her thought, like my own, was innocent. As I lay
meditating on the whole of my acquaintance with her, a
strange curiosity arose in my heart, to ascertain the truth
of my conjecture. My plan was immediately formed, and
deliberately executed; but, with no disposition to injure
the poor girl; far less, with any thought of her dishonour.
a lesson, that she would never forget. I did not mean
to sacrifice her; but I meant to place her in such a situation,
that she would have been in my power:---what I mean
by, being in my power, is only, that she should not dare,
on her own account, to call out, or resist me.”
“I went to her bed. I lay down by her side, and put
my arm, very gently, over her, so that it rested upon a
little child, that slept with her at the time. And this reminds
me of another of her little imprudencies. While
she was in bed, the uncle of the child used to go up, and
take it out of her arms, and whip it; and this uncle was
a young man, and no relation of her's, either by blood
or marriage.”
“She awoke, and asked “who's this?” I did not reply,
because I thought that she might mistake me for her usual
companion, a woman who grew somewhat accustomed
to familiarity, before she married the scoundrel, who has
driven me to this defence.”
“She was terrified, and repeated the question. I had
no other object to answer. I had ascertained that she
neither wished for me, nor expected me; and I assure you
that, till I had tried the experiment, I did believe both.
Her friends ought to thank me for having ascertained
the truth, and vindicated her purity from all suspicion.
I arose, immediately, and returned to my room. But
hardly had I thrown myself into my own bed, when I
heard her cries. They alarmed me. For the first time,
I began to tremble for the consequences of my own intemperate
and wicked curiosity. I opened my door, and
she threw herself into my arms, gasping for breath, and
shaking from head to foot. I asked her what was the
matter. “O, there's a man in my room! there's a man
in my room!” she kept continually repeating. I pretended
to search the room, while she ran down stairs, and
jumped into bed with a man and his wife; and there lay,
poor creature, quaking all night long. The search for
the man was in vain, of course.”
“It is wonderful how accident will oftentimes befriend
the villain. My door I had purposely left open, two or
three nights before, under pretence of carrying off
the wood that I was in the habit of burying every
night, in the ashes, that I might have a good bed
of coals in the morning; but, in reality, to facilitate my
escape, if there should be any outcry. On this very night,
it so happened that one of the servants, in passing my
room, saw the light of her candle flash upon the further
wall of my chamber, opposite to the door; and mentioned
it. To this, my practice, of late, to leave the door open,
was a complete reply.”
“I had taken care to shut the door of the girl's room,
when I entered, lest some person might pass, while it
was open, and suspect something. The consequence was,
that I had to open and shut it, on returning; two things
that I foresaw might give me trouble, if any alarm should
happen before. But mark my good fortune. Nobody
could open the door without making some noise; although
he should open it, as I did, softly for a moment,
and then, very swiftly. A lady who slept below, maintained,
that the whole was another dream of the poor
girl's: and declared that she had been wide awake all
the while; that she heard her cry out, who's this; and all
the subsequent confusion; but that there was no door
opened or shut. “Of that she was positive!” The poor
girl, on the contrary, maintained that it was opened and
shut, with some violence. She was mistaken—both were
mistaken—but, in the mean time, I escaped. Their contradiction
neutralised the testimony of each. I was particular
in shutting it, though she was at my heels, lest
she might see me enter my own room, which was exactly
opposite to her's, but I shut it very softly.”
“There was another fact. The poor girl said, that she
felt the beard of a man, when she put up her hand, and
touched his face; and that it was very strong and harsh.
I remembered that she had touched my face, and took
care to shave, very closely, the next morning, before I
appeared. My smooth chin I dare say, was observed. Then,
if you add to this, that she had been just as badly frightened
before, by nothing at all, you will not wonder that,
after all, considering the infirmity of human testimony,
girl herself; who, I believe, regarded it, if she did suspect
me, as a frolick!”
“The affair, as I tell you, passed over, without any
attention; and no living creature could ever have known
the truth, but for me. At length, I began to feel some
distress about the matter. I was afraid that the poor girl
might be troubled all her life, to determine whether the
whole was an apparition or a reality. I was unwilling
to let her suffer in that way; and equally unwilling to
tell the truth. And why? Because the plain truth would
be less probable, I knew, than a lie, such as I could
readily invent. I chose the latter, and told it to her own
brother-in-law, my most intimate friend, a good and
wise man. He knew me, and believed me; and pledged
his own faith for my veracity. The family continued to
treat me as usual. I visited them all, and was beloved
and respected by all. This pained me. My blood was
troubled. I felt that I did not deserve it; and I could hardly
refrain from telling the truth, many a time, when the
thought came over me. Was that man to blame? No!
He was deceived; and deceived by a man who never attempted
to deceive, in vain; by a man who could, and can
deceive any human being; by one, to whom many years
are but as a single day, if his purpose be deception---by
myself.--The story that I told, was this:—I acknowledged
that it was I, myself, who visited her in bed—but I
told him, at the same time, that it happened in my sleep.”
“You have not forgotten,” said I, “that, when I was
in love with Mary-Ann, (one of my early flames,) that
Joe (the blockhead who is the author of all this mischief)
endeavoured, continually, to discourage my affection for
her, chiefly by ridiculing my confidence in her; nor have
you forgotten, that I tore her from my heart, forever, in
consequence of her having permitted him to kiss her. I
never forgave him for it, of course, although the attempt
was made with my own approbation.”
“You know, too,” I continued, “that his present wife
slept in the same bed, frequently, with the girl, of whom
affair took place, Joe was married to her.”
“Now, these things were all true, Mr. Omar, and he
knew them to be so:—but listen to the remainder of my
story.”
“This same Joe, by the way, I may as well give you
some notion of. He is the most unprincipled and contemptible
profligate, that I ever saw; and, either the
greatest liar, or the most successful villain, among
women, upon earth. I know not how he used to succeed
as he did; but that he did succeed, to a certain degree,
sometimes, I know, of my own knowledge. The sum
of his fascination; and his manner of fondling and whining
himself into the hearts of women, I am perfectly familiar
with. He danced prettily; wore pomatum in his
hair; affected to be quite miserable, and sentimental, and
very affectionate; quoted poetry; and particularly a versification
of Sterne's Maria, and some lines from Camoens,
in that devilish lackadaisical manner, which to some women
is perfectly irresistible;—a part of the last, I can
remember.”
“And meant for misery's slave;
“And all my hours of brief delight,
“Fled, like the speedy winds of night,
“Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight,
“Across my grave!”
“You have no idea of the effect produced upon the women
of his intimate acquaintance, by the occasional repetition
of these lines. Those who could not understand the poetry,
understood the tone—and all were deeply affected.
They wept with him, pitied him, either sobbed upon his
bosom, or let him sob upon theirs; nay, some of them went
into “a melancholy;” one grew very thin, to my knowledge,
and another very fat; the latter of whom, he secretly
married; and that too, after swearing to me, that he
would not think of such a thing, without consulting me.
It was that man, who first reconciled me to the company
Mr. Omar; and now, for the tale that I told, in my
own defence, interweaving much truth, with much falsehood,
merely that the poor girl might not be under a delusion
all her life, in the matter; and that I might not be
utterly reprobate in their opinion.”
“I lay that night,” said I, (the night of his marriage,)
“ruminating on my past life; recalling my early love,
which he had turned to bitterness; I remembered the
pang that it gave my heart, when he told me that he had
succeeded; and, while I remembered it, I fell asleep; for
so vividly and strangely interwoven were the imaginary
and the real, throughout the whole of the adventure, that
they cannot, even now, be separated in my recollection. He
came to me, I thought, and I reproached him, for having
drugged my wine-cup with poison. He defended himself
on the ground, that he had done it with my permission.
We wrangled for some time, until he, himself, as
I thought, proposed that I should make the same attempt
upon the woman of his heart, who lay in the next room.
I arose, and went to her bed, and lay down by her side,
as I thought; nor did I awake, till I heard a loud outcry;
which, when I first awoke, and found myself in bed
with another person, in a strange place, was more like
a dream to me, than any thing that had passed. At length,
however, I remembered enough to assist me in recovering
my own room, &c. &c. &c.”
“That, Mr. Omar, is the substance of my story. It
was believed, as I have already told you, and by one,
who knew me, most intimately; and why? because it was
probable. He knew that I had never taken any liberties
with the poor girl; that I had never corrupted, nor sought
to corrupt her; that I was not a sensualist nor a profligate;
that I had lost my early love, in the way that I
mentioned; that Joe was married in the night, when the
affair took place; and that his wife did sleep, frequently,
in the same bed with the girl. Therefore, as I have
told you, he believed me. But, had I told the truth, he
would not have believed me. It was too improbable.
Do you doubt this? I appeal to fact. I did tell him
freely, and of my own accord; yet, he did not believe me.”
“Yes—the account that I gave, was believed. But,
what of that? my conscience grew uneasy. I had told
a lie. That was nothing; I cared little for that, then.
I regarded it as a legitimate and lawful exercise of my
imagination, like writing a novel or a poem. But, the
thing that pained me, was, a doubt of my own motive.
I had deceived one, that loved and respected me. It lay
heavily at my heart, until I had added two or three
more deceptions to it; when, all at once, they became
insupportable. They would have crushed me; but I
arose, with a convulsive effort, and threw them off, forever.
I told the truth. I turned self-accuser, before a
mortal tribunal. I disdained to parley with dishonour.
I denounced Edward Molton, with my own mouth.
Who thanked me for it? Who thought the better of me
for it? Nobody—nobody!—John Omar, look at me—
if I would, I might be ten times the villain that I am,
or ever have been, and pass through life, unsuspected.
You look upon me with amazement. You wonder at my
infatuation. You would ask what I can hope to gain, by
laying bare my whole heart, before the uncharitable and
distrustful; before them, whose very self-love will prevent
them from respecting me, when they find how they
have been deceived. My answer is a very simple one.
I have done my duty; and whatever I hold to be my duty,
that will I do, whatever happen. I have learnt to
disregard all other considerations, of late.”
“Can it be your duty,” said I, after a pause, “to publish
the shame of a family, with whom you have been so
intimate?—to put in jeopardy, the peace of a woman,
who, whatever might have been the character of her husband,
is now tranquil, and respectable, and unsuspected?”
“Yes.—It is my duty. Her husband has driven me
to it. He has presumed too much upon my patience; and,
not only he, but his whole family. He, in particular,
has, almost while I held his hand in mine, sought to damn
my reputation, secretly. Let him take the consequences.
defend myself from his aspersions. I feel no hostility
to many of the females; but—wo to the men, if they
provoke me. My character shall not go down to my
children profaned—wo to them that compel me to stand
at bay. I will execute justice upon them.”
I was alarmed at his countenance; it was full of unsparing
denunciation.
“Justice!” said I—“it is vengeance.”
“Be it vengeance, then. Call it what you please. My
own heart tells me that I am doing rightly; that I have
forborne too long;—so long, that, unless I awake and
prostrate my assailants, I may be bound down, and imprisoned,
forever, like Gullivar, with cobweb; which,
had I not slept too soundly, might have been broken
asunder, by a breath.—I—.”
He stopped suddenly.—I looked up. His eyes were
rivetted upon the clock. It wanted five minutes of
twelve. Not another word was spoken, till it struck
twelve. Never did I endure such an awful silence. His
eyes were shining and motionless; and his lips open, as
if he were some criminal, a waiting his doom, and feeling
its approach, in every beat of his pulse—if his pulse did
beat—for mine stopped;—and the clock, too—that appeared
to stand still, for a time.
He then turned slowly toward me, and demanded if I
would take a bed with him. “Your room is just as you left
it;—you are our only guest,—our only material guest, I
should say;—dare you sit with me for one hour longer—
no more?”
“Dare I—? I do not understand.”
He did not appear to heed my reply;—and I repeated
it.
“Yes, sir—dare you? Dare you sit up, face to face,
with a—with a mortal man, when his countenance,
looks like mine—at this moment;—moves like mine
—is bleached and blasted—stained like mine—Sir
—my friend—Omar—do not leave me alone, to
night. Do not. If you are a man, you will not.”
I was terrified with the horrour that his face expressed.
I knew not what to say. I could not comprehend his
purpose. But I said, as coolly, as I could. “No, Molton—I
will not leave you—I—”
He sprang from his chair;—he seized my hands;—he
almost embraced me;—nay, I could swear that there
were tears in his eyes. But he shook in every joint.
“Very well—I have your promise—I—.”
The most astonishing fixedness followed, as he said
this;—his lips moved—but his voice died away, in a hollow,
inarticulate whisper;—and his eyes were fixed upon
the terrace that passed the window,—with an intentness
that made my blood run cold.
Why was I affected in this manner? I saw nothing—
heard nothing; but the atmosphere grew chilly, all at
once, about me,—and my chair rattled against the table.
He breathed aloud. The blood rushed over his face
again:—he wiped off the clammy sweat, that adhered to
his brow; arose, and walked to the terrace,---opened the
door, and was gone for a few moments. When he came
back, he was entirely composed; a faint smile, but a bitter
one, was upon his lips, and his blue eyes were unnaturally
glazed.
“Let us continue our discussion,” said he. “We shall
not be interrupted again, to night.” He looked at the watch
---“No, the hour has passed—that was the third time.”
“Interrupted!” said I, inaudibly---“how? Interrupted!”
“Hush—hush! This is no proper place, for such questions.
You are young. Beware, lest you bring it back;—
would you have your lips dry—your throat scorched—your
heart turned to cinders—your—.”
I obeyed—less, I am sure, with any apprehension of
spiritual things,—than out of respect to the tremendous
agitation that I saw in him. Cousin,—if ever there was
a man on this earth, supremely wretched, that man is
Edward Molton. No matter whence it arises—I care
not—I ask not—it is our duty to pity him, and pray for
him.
He resumed, as follows—with a tone and manner,
of such perfect unconcern, that one would have thought that
in the matter.
“The third charge, is, if possible, more serious. Ye
it is true—I do not deny it. I did attempt to win a woman
away from her solemn engagement to another,—
and I failed. Why? Perhaps I could give a better reason
than any that you have heard;—but one that I have
ever loved, I cannot speak of irreverently. Her own
heart must judge her. But the facts are these. I saw
her by accident, when she was a school girl. I thought
little of her, at first, until a circumstance made me believe
that she had a better mind, than I had ever suspected.—
I saw her in tears,—shaken with ungovernable emotion
and shame. I soothed her—and her manner, afterward,
was that of deep interest, not of tenderness, so much as of
awe. She was afraid of me. Sir—I am not a man to
be deceived in such things. I have had too much experience.
I have done with falsehood,—for I am not long
for the only place where falsehood is permitted—this vile
earth. The devils are true to each other. You may believe
me, then;—and I declare to you, solemnly, that
this girl loved me;—loved me, as passionately and as truly,
as any child of her age (for she was only 15 or 16)
ever loved a man of mine. I knew this,—felt this,—
and there was two other persons, at least, who saw
enough, in her manner, even in their presence, to justify
them in saying, as I do, that she loved me. Yet I took
no advantage of this. We were often alone, and once, in
particular, when we had little hope of ever meeting again.
Yet I forbore to signify any other than the solicitude of
a brother, for the true welfare of a young, and beautiful,
and innocent sister. She expected more—but she was
impressed, I am sure, with more reverence for me. Why
did I forbear? I loved her—indeed I did—not so much
for what she was, as for what I believed that she would
be; and I cautioned her, with all the feeling of a lover,
but with the manner of a friend, against many things of
vital importance to her,—her sudden and enthusiastick
prepossessions—and prejudices;—the consequence of flattery,
for she was much sought after, and, I have no doubt,
respectable family, at the time. But why did I forbear?
From principle. I believed that she loved me. Grant
that I was deceived; grant that my vanity, which was
inordinate in some matters, though I believe not in
these, had deceived me. Yet I loved her;—in that, I
could not be deceived,—but I forebore to communicate,
by the slightest touch, or tone, or look, one thought of
what I felt. Was there no forbearance in that? I treated
her as something hallowed,—I used no caressing
manner:—no squeezing of hands;—no embracing;—no
touching of lips or forehead. No!—never did I attempt
either. Why? She was a child. I was afraid of
familiarising her to such things; afraid of corrupting
even the atmosphere of her thought—afraid of
breathing upon her innocence;---afraid of “dashing
the tremulous dew from the flower”---of brushing
the “soft blue from the grape.” I was poor. I saw
no likelihood of being otherwise, for many a weary
year. I was but just entering a profession, perilous,
and uncertain. Many years were to be spent in my novitiate,
for I had no education. I was taken from school
at twelve,—my mother was a widow woman,—poor, and
kept a school for a living. And many years more must
pass, before I ought to think of loving. What then? Was
there nothing noble? Nothing of self denial? Nothing
heroick, in this sacrifice? I leave you to answer it. Did
I not know that the heart once touched—like the lips, with
a live coal,—is forever callous to all but the like touches,
again;—that the uninhabited heart, will have a substantial
tenant, evil or good—rather than be haunted by the
shadow of a departed loved-one? Yet I left her—
left her, in silence—in ignorance of my feeling.”
“Well---I returned to my home—entered upon my
studies—toiled day and night, as no other man ever toiled,
in America. What was my reward? I heard that she
was to be married.—Did I repine? No. I heard that the
affianced man was worthy of her; that she loved him
—and I was happy. Nay—I had no wish to disturb
her—or him.”
“It happened, however, that one who knew them both,
gave me good reason to believe that I was remembered
yet;—that he, the lover, was uneasy, when my name was
mentioned; and, from another quarter, from a man of honest
and substantial principle, who knew her well---I heard
this, perhaps incautiously. “I do not believe that she
loves Mr. G.”—(the name of her lover)—Nay, the same
man advised me to see her. Perhaps it was only a piece
of pleasantry in him—but I thought that there was
some significance in his manner. But I refused. Why?
I trembled to disquiet a young heart, in its pleasant
dreaming;—for, if it awoke, what had I to offer it?—Nothing?—I
was poor and proud—destitute—and with a
prospect of being so, forever.”
“But, nevertheless, we met—met, just where I had seen
her before. Twice were we visiters of the same place—
at the same time—leagues and leagues from our home.
I treated her as a married woman. I spoke of her lover,
as her husband, for some days. At last, however,
something, I know not what, set me upon the suspicion
that she did not love him, as she could love—nay, as she
had loved, even in her childhood. I trembled for her.
Did she love me still? It were too much to imagine that.
But that she felt a deep and sincere respect for me, I
was sure. I was afraid to trust myself with her. Two
or three weeks had passed, during which, the letters of her
lover (who was at a great distance, and in the habit of
writing every week,) did not arrive. I studied her countenance.
There was some concern in her eyes—but it
was not that inward, that profound, quiet agony, which
true love would feel; the love that I would inspire. Other
circumstances occurred to strengthen the suspicion, one,
only, of which I shall name. I was walking to church
with her. I spoke of the power that a woman has, to win
whom she pleases. I said, emphatically, that it was in her
power. She replied, in a manner that, had we been
alone, it is probable I should have profited by—that
if it were true, she knew whom she would win.” She did
not mean her lover, by that, I am sure;—sure, from her
voice;—sure, because she was not a fool;—and there was
been ridiculous, had she meant Mr. G. for what need of
mystery with him—every body knew that she was engaged
to him—No—she meant me.”
“But I took no notice of it, either then or afterward.
The time was now at hand, for my departure. It had
been unaccountably delayed; and I was really anxious
to be gone. My nights were troubled and sleepless. I
retired early, but it was not to sleep. If, said I, she
do not love him; or, if she do love me—what a fool I
am, not to speak; should I ever forgive myself, were she
to marry him, and be wretched? but would it not be dishonourable
to break such an engagement as theirs asunder?
No—it was doing as I would be done by. That
was my rule of action.”
“The next day was a sort of religious festival; and I
had determined to stay no longer than, till that was over.
In the morning, therefore, after breakfast, contrary to
my usual custom, which was, to read to the women, a
great part of the forenoon; or, at least, to sit with them, I
retired to another apartment, and began writing.—There
is the letter, sir. Read it at your leisure. It expresses
all that I felt. It occupied me, in writing and copying
it, nearly all the forenoon; and when I came down, I
learnt, to my astonishment, that Emma, (let that be her
name; it is sufficient for our purpose;) had gone to bed,
sick. I was alarmed; but my vanity, which, like that
of all others, I suppose, will find aliment, in unsubstantial
things—colour and fragrance in the very air—made
me suspect the cause. I determined to try the question
fairly. I came down, and sat below;—and she
soon made her appearance; full of dignity, expression,
and loveliness.”
“The letter was in my pocket. But how was I to give
it to her?—when?—I determined to keep it, till I was
ready to go; and leave it, beyond the reach of accident, in
her possession;—for, you will perceive that I took no
advantage of her situation. Had I been the scoundrel
that some affected to think me, would I not have assailed
her, in the heat of her resentment against the supposed
an immediate answer? Would I have put myself, as I did,
into her power, without demanding that she should put
herself at all in mine? Would I have left it in her power
to take me, when she pleased, as a sort of Hobson's choice.
These are rational questions.—Let the rational answer
them. No—that woman may not know it, but I paid her
a greater compliment, than she will ever receive again,
should she live a thousand years. She may—but no, I
do not believe it—I was about saying, that she may think
me base and unprincipled. But no—she knows me better.
Her own heart will aquit me. I am willing to submit to
that. And however she may find it expedient to revile
me, or my memory, I shall forgive her, and attribute it
to necessity. She dare not do me justice. But her heart
will awake—it will, am sure, one day or other; and she
will feel sorry, and ashamed of having written me such
a note, as you will find in the letter that I gave you.”
“But let me proceed. In the evening, as we sat together,
in a mournful and distressing, yet sweet silence. After
all the company had gone—no, I am mistaken.—It was
before—it was early in the evening; we had not yet come
to the moment, when, about to part, perhaps forever, the
approaching separation took its most touching and mysterious
movement and expression. I wrote upon a little
card, something like this—and gave it to her. “I
have somewhat to communicate to you.—Where shall I
leave it?—It is written.—Shall I put it in your little green
work bag, in the sitting room?—” She assented, with
considerable emotion. I placed that letter in the bag.—
She secured it, and returned.—I sat by her, until I was
sure that she could not read it, before I was gone;—and
then, I bade them all farewell; and departed the next
morning, at day-light.”
“One year afterward, having good reason to believe
that she really would be married to Mr. G.—and being,
I confess, rather anxious to set myself free, from so unequal
an engagement, I wrote to her, and demanded, rather
cavalierly, I am sure, a definite reply; and a return
of my letters.—Nay—to tell you the whole truth, I had
I have married her, had she claimed my promise?—Yes—
By my hope of heaven! Yes! though I had been miserable
forever, in consequence—and she—and she should
never have suspected, to my dying day, that she had not
always been the dearest idol of my heart. You will find
her answer in the same letter.” (both of which, I enclose
to you, Sarah; and shall direct to Boston.) “She never
wrote that answer, without advice. Nor is it true.—
Her lover, or some friend, was probably at her elbow;
and it is rather her own vindication, than any thing else.
I do not believe that she destroyed the letters immediately;
nor ever, without first taking a copy;—and I know,
that she entertained far different sentiments of my conduct,
while left to herself; for her own aunt says, in a letter,
which is in my cabinet at this moment, and was written
some days after Emma had received “the papers,” at
which she affects to have been so “incensed,” that Emma
speaks of me with veneration—no, that she “reverences”
me—.”
That is all. Good night, Sarah—
| Randolph | |