 | Randolph |  |
SARAH TO JOHN.
I write to you, again. I am terrified to death. I had
entirely forgotten the deaf-and-dumb man. Yet something
happened, a day or two since, which I was ashamed
to confess. The thought appeared so childish. I was
standing at a counter—I felt uneasy—I turned, and there
he was—O, I should know his strange, melancholy eyes,
wherever I met them. I was near fainting. When I
recovered, he had gone. What a strange phantom it is,
said I;—and, from that day to this, I have started at the
tread, or voice, of every stranger that I have met. I
rarely go abroad; and, when I do, I see his manner—his
countenance—his very eyes, it would appear, at every
turn. The consequence is, that I am sick—weary. I must
leave Boston—I will. It is frightful, to me, to be so
harassed. I feel like something haunted.
But, as I was saying—I had recovered—I thought no
more of him. But, just now—cousin, it is not ten minutes
since he left me. I feel his touch yet. Would that
he had spoken! O, with such eyes, such a forehead—if
he would only speak, I am sure that—. No matter.
He is not striking. I thought him remarkably so, at first.
His physiognomy has nothing remarkable; but the expression—that
it is, which startled me. It is imperial.
The profile is bad—feeble, I think;—but, in front—No!
how should I think of describing it? I only know, that
he has, probably, saved my life; for, in crossing one of
these vile slippery streets, here, I fell; and, at that instant,
a carriage came thundering round the corner. The
wheel touched me—I felt it—I almost felt the weight,
crushing my bones. I was saved. The deaf-and-dumb
creature saved me. He threw himself, they say, at the
head of the horses, and turned them up the platform, so
critically, that the fore-wheel passed over my foot, tearing
and bruising it very slightly. Ah! I just begin to
feel the pain. But where is he? I remember opening
my eyes, while my father held me; and his countenance
was near to mine—with a strange expression;—it made
me shut them again. He disappeared. Nobody knows
miss somewhat of his affectionate manner, now, more
than ever. But enough of this. Give the enclosed to
Juliet.
| Randolph | |