 | Randolph |  |
(Answer—received nearly a year afterward—alluded to
in the conversation of Molton.)
I was this morning much surprised by the reception
of another epistle from you; and extremely disappointed
and chagrined at your interpretation of my silence, with
regard to the paper (that) I found in my possession, after
your departure from Leister. On the perusal of those
letters, I was greatly shocked and incensed;[1]
—still they
be believed;—but how could I hope for any such respect,
from a man, who believed me capable of engaging myself,
to a man (that) I did not love—who could presume (that) I
might be influenced in a matrimonial contract, by any
other consideration than that of love; and this, your letter
most unequivocally expressed you to presume and believe.
No person, entertaining even a tolerable respect
for me, could have supposed (that) I would engage to repose
myself and all my future prospects, upon the bosom
of a man, to whom I had not extended all the “boundless
devotion of my soul.” No; every new reflection that I
bestow upon the subject, confirms me in the persuasion,
that I never could have received your papers, from a person
of honourable and virtuous feeling; or who could
have formed a just estimate of my character.
Could you know me, and suppose (that) I would preserve
long, the letters alluded to? I assure you (that) the impulse
to commit them to the flames, was simultaneous
with their perusal. I regret now that I obeyed it, since
you request the return of them.[2]
I can assure you (that)
I regret as sincerely as you can, the moment that induced
you to write them, for it compelled me to consider
you in a different light from what I had always hoped to
—that of a friend.
letter? I pity her, Sarah. Tell me, does it not speak
well for Molton? And can you believe that her answer
came from her heart—unaided, untortured? No! She
was wrought upon—suspicion was infused into her pure
her—or she never would have charged the writer of
that letter with aught that was not “virtuous and honourable.”
What did he do? Admit that he was deceived
in supposing that she did not love G.—or that she did love
him. What did he do? Nothing but this, in effect. He
said to her—Your happiness is dearer to me than my
own. You are about to be sacrificed. I may be mistaken.
I hope that I am. But if I am right, call to me
when you will, where you will; and lo, I am ready to
save you, at the peril of my life and soul. And this—this
she has dared to call dishonourable and unfriendly. Mistaken
woman!—her own heart rebuked her, when she
wrote it. Nay, it was never written of her own free will.
Her judgment was turned aside by the powerful hand of
some one, who never had seen, or never had known, the
author of that letter. Her manner is more simple and
direct. What advantage did he take of her? None. Did
he even attempt to steal into her heart? No. Did he
offer any endearment? No. Did he break in upon another's
love? No!—another broke in upon his. What
did he, then? He attempted to restore a woman to him,
whom he believed, to have been her first love! Was this
sinful? It matters not, whether he was mistaken or not.
If he was mistaken, there was no harm done. He did
not hurry her. He took no profit of her anger, or of his opportunity;
extorted no promise;—nay, avoided even a reply,
that she might have nothing to accuse herself of, if she
married G.—and yet, that she might have a steadfast
hold on him. By heaven, it was the noblest, the most
disinterested, and heroick evidence of love, unquestionable
love, that I ever met with!
Well managed. There is no convicting one of falsehood—who
talks in this way. It is lawyer-like—but may she not have had professional
advice? The mortal antipathy that appears to the relative (that)
would justify the belief that she had—and that her counsel was a lawyer—an
American—and a Yankee.—M.
| Randolph | |