 | Randolph |  |
JULIET TO MADAM VERNON.
Ah, my mother! I must unburden my heart to you.—
I cannot, cannot live any longer, without sympathy.
Pity me, dear madam, pity me. I am worthy of all
your commiseration. Yet why should I repine? Are not
these trials, painful and distressing as they are, to be
borne with a submissive spirit? O yes, I feel that they
are;—but then—no—I cannot tell you more than this
—that I am wretched. I do not complain that I am
spared a little longer; ah no, but I do think that death
would be less terrible to me now, than I have thought it.
I do pray for that consolation, which He only can give to
a wounded and broken spirit. Can I not come to you?
I know your poverty;—it distresses me to hint such a desire,
because I know that it will almost kill you to refuse
me. But—indeed, you know not how I am beset.
There is an amiable man continually about me of late.
I know not what to think of him; for his countenance is
good, and his deportment mild and winning. But what is
he here, for? I cannot but see that there is some motive.
I hope that I am not vain; but, really, dear aunt, I do so
wish to be released from his attentions: they are too painful
to me. The shock that I have had,—the consumption—I
mean—it has made me too cruelly sensitive; and
shattered my whole constitution. Sometimes too, this
man, (Mr. Grenville is his name) sits by me, for whole
I will not think of the resemblance. I will
arouse myself. O my mother—I can speak to thee;—
and, to whom else can I speak? He, whom thou, thyself,
didst appoint to me;—even he, is a villain. He
thinks that I love him. He is mistaken. He is base.
I cannot love him—for how can we love, what we cannot
respect? No, no; and yet, at the mention of his name—
the sound of approbation, where he is concerned, O,
——I shiver and burn all over. I am poor—helpless—destitute.
Is there any succour for me? A heart
so sore—so desolate? I know not aunt; but a thought—
it was a terrible one—a thought came to me once, in my
desperation; and I have not shuddered at its return;—
yet, every nerve of my body shook, as with electricity,
at first. I know not what I should do—I am very
wretched—very. Were it not wicked, I should pray
never to arise from that bed—that, to which I am now
going.
| Randolph | |