 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO SARAH.
O, Sarah!—Sarah! What have I seen. Where have
I been! With whom have I been confederating? Stop.
Are you alone? If not, go to your room. Lock the door.
Now listen. Is the paper spotted? Are the spots red?
Do not shudder, do not, though they be. Stay—I will
be calm. The red stains that you see there—there—they
are continually shifting to be sure, but some will be
there, when you open the letter—they are blood. It is
Molton's blood. He is an adulterer. Mary Howard is
an adultress. Helen Molton is an adultress! She abandoned
her husband—and fled with Molton. Retribution
has been done upon him. He is dying. The blessed
Saint is avenged. Juliet is avenged. William is avenged.
Frank, and the husband, and the poor, poor father,
all are avenged. His blood is upon my hands, at this
moment—I cannot wash it off. I have washed, and
washed—and wept upon it—but no, it will not depart.
But let me tell the story calmly—wait a little while
* * * I went at nine o'clock, this morning, to see
Molton. I took my pistols with me. I was desperate.
I did not believe him guilty. He had told me a plausible
story about Helen; and I believed it. But he never
told me—ah, this blood—the smell is very offensive—
do you know any thing that will take it out, Sarah?—
He never told me that she was married to another, when
he came away;—still less, that it was her husband, whom
he had slain, upon the beach.—O, no—if he had, I should
never have deserved the reproach of intimacy with a
man, at the head of whose table, sat his mistress.—No;—
I knew that she was his wife; that is, I thought so;—and
I kept the secret, because he prayed it. I—I—.
Well—let me to my story—. As I approached the
house, I was willing to see if Molton was in his study;
and I went through the wood, therefore, at the back of the
house. I thought it a pity to be disappointed again. I
saw him. I knocked. The servant denied him. I
on the very card, too, just as it was written.
“Young man.—I shall be at your service, at 10. It is
now, 9¼, by my watch.”
E. M.
I was unwilling to leave the gate; but, I had some
sense of decorum left. I turned my horse into the wood,
and rode about, determining never to quit him, alive,
till he had satisfied me, as to what he had said of Juliet;
what he wrote to Frank; and what Frank meant, by that
mysterious allusion to the death of William. I had seen
Juliet, several times, while I was waiting to see Molton;
for he had been constantly denied to me, 'till I would
bear it no longer. But she knew it not.
At ten, precisely, I rang the bell. I was conducted
in. Molton was in his dressing gown; and was paler and
thinner, nay, sadder, I thought, than I had ever seen him.
Am I intelligible? I must tell you all my weakness. My
heart smote me, for a moment. I felt as if I were choking.
Might I not have been too precipitate? How
could he look so—if—my blood mounted again. No—
he was not innocent, look as he would!
I know not what I said; but he sat, I remember, leaning
upon his hand, with his eyes lifted, mournfully and fixedly
upon mine; and the first words that he uttered, in reply,
were merely these: and they were very calmly uttered.
“You have brought your pistols, I suppose?”
“Yes,” I replied, unwrapping them, and offering him
one.
He put it back, gently, and with a smile; a sickly,
wan smile, not so much in derision, the habitual one of
his face, at such moments, as in compassion, or pity.
“Nay, sir—take it—take one—you shall take one;”
said I, determined not to relent.
He took one; but, with a carelessness, that looked
more as if he wanted to convince me that he was just as
little in my power then, as before, than to exchange a shot.
I trembled with passion. What! might I not be permitted
I could not. That, were the work of an assassin.
But now, I prepared to fire—I levelled. What
prevented me, I know not.—There was a dead silence.
His melancholy eyes were rivetted upon mine, like one,
weary of life, willing to die, but sorry to die, by the hand
of one that had loved him;---so, I interpreted it. Shall I
tell the truth? My eyes ached---filled---and my arm
fell down, powerless at my side—the pistol went off
—a shriek followed—and the apparition of my brother
stood before me. Helen appeared, for a moment;
but, rebuked, I suppose, by some gesture of Molton, for no
sound escaped him, she vanished again. I only remember
her, as I do all the rest---like phantoms, that came
and went, in noise and smoke, while the sound of the pistol
was still ringing in my ears; and I knew not that my
aim at Molton's heart had been abandoned. I regarded
myself as a murderer. He sat without motion. My brother
stood before me. I dared not embrace him; his countenance
was stern, and I began to think, though it was
broad day light, that I was dreaming---nay, perhaps I
am dreaming, yet!-----It is incredible that so much
should have happened in so short a time. There is my
watch---and the hands would tell me---but they lie---yes,
they lie---that, not two hours ago, I had no blood upon
my conscience.
Well Frank was there. It was Frank. Whence did
he come? Did he drop from the clouds?
Molton's hand dropped;—he fainted:—but scarcely
were his eyes shut, than he opened them again—and ordered
the door to be shut, and locked.
“Young men,” said he, “hear me. I have but a few
words to speak. You have deliberately sought my life.
I have known this, for weeks. There has not been a day,
when your own was not at my mercy. You might have
put me upon retaliation. Nay—you have—I speak
to both—to you, sir, and to you—you have said things to
me, which, the bare possibility that I am an innocent and
injured man, ought to have prevented you from saying.
Permit yourselves but to suppose it possible, for one moment,
you think of your own conduct? You have pursued
me, to my own house. You have waylaid my path. You
have compelled me to become a prisoner, in my own mansion,
that I might not have my blood upon your hands;
nor yours upon mine. How many more there may be of
you, I know not. But—I hope your aim is accomplished.
If it be not, my patience is exhausted. I can go no
further. In my day of passion, I did many things that
I would avoid now. And, if I survive this, I shall apply
to the law. Will you inform me, who is the other that
has haunted me so long?—lurking about my ground—in
this country, too—like one prowling for a victim? You
are silent. Are you ashamed?”
“I know of none,” said my brother, humbly.
“Nor I—I know nothing of the matter,” said I.
“What!—Is the young ruffian, and his fellow, who
were seen skulking about, here, some months ago, unknown
to you, sir. A tall young man—a drab coat—and
very erect, proud step—”
“I met such a man.” said I, “this morning, in the
wood.” (For I remember that he turned, suddenly, as
my horse dashed past him; and put his hand into his bosom,
like one surprised, where he ought not to be. Nay,
I thought that he looked alarmed—but I attributed that,
afterward, I remember, to my own agitated appearance;
and to the pistols, wrapped in my handkerchief, to be
sure, that I carried under my arm.)
“I knew one suiting such a description, once,” said
my brother, haughtily—“and I am glad to hear that he
is so near to me. I did not know it, before.”
I looked at him as he spoke. His voice was altered,
and there was a cold, bright meaning, in his dark eyes.
I knew not what to think.
“Well,” continued Molton, “you may marvel why I
have shown such forbearance toward you. That I have,
and that each may know, from the other, how I have
treated him, I will give you an opportunity of conversing
together, after one or two short remarks. My strength
ebbs apace. I am weaker than I thought. But, I think
it is not mortal. You have, both of you, called me a coward.
to say so? If you did, was it wise? Nay, was it bravely
done? Would a stout heart ever battle with a coward?
So much for what you have said. Now, hear me. There
was a time, when, had you done, exactly what you have
now done—I beg you to excuse my inarticulateness—it
is not the loss of blood, but the consequence of agitation—
and put yourselves as much in my power, as you have
on this occasion, you should have died, each by the hand
of the other. You shudder—nay, I can see a smile gathering
in your faces. You do not believe me. But, hear
me out. I was willing to try that, now. I kept you apart.
One of you knows that our meeting was to have been, in
silence, this evening. Had I not relented, I should have
made the same appointment with you—(he addressed
himself to me)—and each would have met his brother.—
Your shots would have been exchanged, in silence, and
darkness. The signals—the hour would have been the
same—each of you would have parted from me, where
you now stand, and you never would have known the
truth, till it was too late. Nay—”
I saw it all—and Frank staggered into my arms.—
“Great God,” said he, “it is true! He had well nigh
done it, indeed!”
I heard a strange sound at the moment; and, as I turned
my eyes, I saw Molton plucking his white handkerchief,
drenched with blood, from his side. It adhered
closely, and ripped, as he tore it away; and he shook a
little, as with pain. Many steps, and a bustle, were then
heard in the landing.
“I pray you, sir,” said he, to me, “if you have any
mercy on me, not to permit Helen to enter here, for the
present.”
My brother sat down, like one utterly deprived of
strength; and covered his face with his hands.
I went to the landing, and saw Helen—her hair all
loose—her dress disordered—clinging about the knees
of an old man—the very old man, too—I knew him, at
the first glance—that I saw with Frank, so long ago.—
She called him—father! father! dear father! But he stood
was!—for I saw his forehead move, at last;—
and his chest heaved—oh, with such tremendous emotion—I
thought that his soul was departing, erect, from
her habitation. But, the tears came, at last, and he fell
upon his child's neck, and sobbed, as though his old heart
would break.
“Oh, my lost, lost babe!”—said the old man.
I had left the door open. I heard a noise. I turned.
There was my brother; and Molton, with his hand upon
his side, leaning against the door frame;—his troubled
eyes rivetted, with a look of strange inquietude, upon the
scene.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said, at last, in a
voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
But Helen heard him. Ears that love, are quick and
jealous. They will have nothing of the musick, that they
love, lost.
“It is my father!” said she—rising, and throwing herself
upon the bosom of Molton. He caught her in his
arms. I trembled for the consequence; but the handkerchief
clung to the wound, and his gown covered it.
The old man arose—came forward, with a firm step;
exchanged a look with Frank, and would have taken
something from his bosom; but Frank arrested his arm.
(“He is a dead man, already,” said Frank.) But he
came forward, nevertheless, and was about to lay his
hand upon Helen—when the intrepid, cold eye of Molton
lightened outright—“By the living God!” he cried, “if
—nay, I am too rash, perhaps—art thou, indeed her father?
Helen, look up, love,—is he thy father?”
“He is!” cried Helen, kneeling, and kissing his feet,
while her dark tresses swept over them, in her agony—
“O, forgive me! Edward. He is my father.”
“I do!—I do!” answered Molton—raising her, and
staggering. The father stood there—not a limb trembled.
Daughter!” cried the old man—“hear me. Lift up thy
hands. Renounce thy destroyer, forever—renounce him,
there—there, where thou standest, before these witnesses;
I know his power—I will forgive thee!—bless thee!—
weep over thee!—forget thy shame, and thy dishonour!—
to thee!—if thou wilt. But—but—daughter—I will
never pronounce thy name, again; no human being knows
it, yet—none shall know it—daughter!—if thou wilt not,
here, where I stand—here, before the same witnesses, will
I curse thee!”
Helen only clung the more vehemently to Molton; and
buried her face the deeper in his bosom.
“Daughter!—wife!—a father's and a mother's curse!—
a husband's curse!—a—”
She raised her face—Lord! how altered it was! “Hush!
hush!” said she. “Do not believe him, Edward—do not.
Father! there is my husband!”
“He!—he thy husband!—then what art thou?” cried the
old man.
Molton's countenance, then, was like one falling asleep.
Death was upon him. He gradually sank upon the sofa;
and Helen stood over him, kissing his forehead—wiping
the sweat from his lips—and answering their occasional
movement;—for no sound escaped them—as if she understood
it all—as if her very heart had a language of its
own, and kept uttering it, inwardly—with a continual
whisper of “oh, do not—do not believe it, Edward!”
But he gained more strength. His spirit awoke, for a
moment. She was putting back his hair.
“Helen!” said he—his eyes were rivetted on her with
such a look!—O, of unutterable tenderness, struggling
with death. “Helen! look at me. I never doubted thee.
Yet—here is thy father. Is there a husband, too? Look
me in the face, Helen.”
“A husband!” said the stern father—“Yes! What mockery
is this?”
“Silence!” said Molton. “I ask her. Helen! love, look
upon me. I do not doubt thee, yet. Just whisper it—let
thy sweet lips move, and I'll believe them, say what they
will—nay, though thy husband stand before me, at the
time.”
“Stand before thee!—thou terrible man! By heaven,
he shall stand before thee. Orford! Orford! I say.”
At this name, I saw Helen shudder. She arose, and
stood, fronting the broad stair case. I heard a step. The
“young and interesting stranger,” appeared.
“Behold him there!” cried the father.
Molton turned—but when he saw his face, weak as he
was, he half arose from his seat, with a look of inconceivable
horrour and alarm. A convulsive motion of the
hand followed—like one grasping a dagger, and ready
to give a blow—and then he smiled—smiled so beautifully,
so like a dying christian—that I could have fallen
down, too, and wept upon his feet, and wiped them with
my hair.
“Young man,” he said, “I am glad of this assurance.
Our feud, I feared, was mortal. Let us forget it.”
He proffered his hand, as he said this; but Orford
struck it away, with scorn.
Molton's forehead reddened; a short, but fierce, bright
struggle, followed; and, he then added, in a low, sweet,
solemn voice—“Men, bear witness for me. I have offered
my hand, as a dying man—nay, Helen, forgive me;
something has happened more than thou knowest of, yet;
do not look at me, in that manner—I have offered it to
one, that insulted and abused that woman, Helen—to one,
that would have taken her from me, when I was her husband—Nay,
sir---or, if your name be Orford---hear me,
for one little moment;—a man that would scourge a
woman---attempt to ravish a wife from her lord---would
be not the least likely to reject, with scorn, the hand of
a dying man.”
Some movement of the stranger's arm, was here intercepted
by Frank, and the report of a small pocket pistol
followed, close at my ear.
“What, sirs!” cried Molton, “have you no decency?
By heaven, I have fellows that would grind your bones to
dust, were I but to speak the word!---and yet, at every
turn, I am in danger of assassination. What! ho! Pedro!
Cadiz! Marco!—”
Instantly, we were surrounded with six or eitht of his
young Spanish negroes.
“Boys! Throw the first man out of the window, that
you see move his arm,” said he, coldly; but with the aspect
of mortal determination.
They stood ready to obey. “As for you, sir---Orford,
as you are called---I have little doubt that you are a coward.
Beware! Nothing can save you, if you advance
a finger. Your conduct, on two occasions, within my
own knowledge, justifies this opinion. But, you know
him well, Helen. Will you not bear witness to his gentleness---his
humanity---his courage? Why so silent,
love? Nay, be not cast down. These are friends. I am
glad to see the young man alive; not that he deserves to
live; but, I would'nt have such blood upon my conscience.
It were fitter for the executioner. Speak, love. Shame
the wretch, at once! Shame him to everlasting silence!
Show him thy beautiful arms, scarred and bruised---the
places where the iron rusted into thy flesh---the—Helen,
what ails thee? Why avoidest thou mine eye? Is
there any mystery in this? Speak! I never saw thee
thus, before. Speak! I conjure thee! Yet stay—a thought
—a—no, no---I will not imagine it. I'll only remember,
dear, that—come nearer, love, nearer—nay, sir, beware
how you move—it will be the signal of your death
—I mention it for your sake—tell me, dear. Something
was said, but now, about some other husband; some other
than me—you see that I smile, Helen; but, while I remember
it, it were as well, I think, to smile with me—
do smile, Helen, do—I do not trouble thee to say no;—
but smile, dear, smile once, as I have seen thee, when
not a thousandth part so idly slandered.—Tears!—silence!—Helen,
beware!—The eye of the Everlasting
God is upon thee!—Nay, nay---do not press thyself to
me---do not---thou must answer me! Answer me, now!
I will take nothing, but thy word. Arise, and answer
me! Thou knowest me.”
Helen fainted. And Molton---just saying to the blacks,
in Spanish, Let them go free---plucked the handkerchief
from the wound, and fell back, saying faintly—“Then
am I, indeed, O Saviour of men, what I most dreaded—
an adulterer!”
Justly afraid of the consequences, I persuaded Frank
and the father to go, till we knew the result; but the husband
would not depart, till the sight of Molton's shoes,
full of blood, made him think, I suppose, that the wound
had been given by his hand. I took advantage of the
thought, and offered him my horse; and he is gone.
Yes, he is an adulterer! But, what am I to think? You
did not know of her marriage; nay, you did not even
know, that he was the suspected one;---or that he came in
the vessel with her. Was the secret so well kept in England?
But how could he have been so deceived? O, he
must have known it. This tale is all a farce—a farce,
between life and death! No, that cannot be. Men become
serious, then;—and such men, who are habitually serious
and contemplative, they would not be very likely to play
such pranks. But, perhaps, the wound—Ha!—you
know him, Sarah—you have called him a “consummate
actor.” May not all this be an artifice. It is---it must
be. At least, if he be not seriously wounded, it must be.
But how shall we know that? I'll go myself. O, the
thought is refreshing!—look at my hands, Sarah!---look;
the blood has gone from them, with the thought---and the
paper, too---O, it is all white again, as the driven snow!
Ha! Frank is here.
Well—Frank has just left me. My suspicions are,
again, at rest;---and my terrours revive. Molton has
sent for me. That shows no desire of concealment, certainly.
What, if I have wronged him?—ah!---ah!---it
will kill me. And you, Sarah---but for you, perhaps---
Nay, I cannot blame you, for you taught me to avoid
him.
Frank says, that he has been here, for ten days, concealed;
that he saw Molton three days ago, and agreed
to meet him, on notice; that the notice was given him
this morning, while I was there, no doubt; and that he
was on the spot---the study---preparatory for the evening
---when, hearing my voice, which he did not expect, he
and the shrick, alarmed him; and he entered, supposing,
till now, that I had deliberately shot Molton. I now remember
the heroick conduct of that man. All the while that
we were together, not a look, not a word, escaped him,
to charge me with unfairness. He retained his pistol.---
Poor Molton. Yes, I must see him.
The father, it appears, has relented somewhat toward
him. He begins to believe it possible, that there was no
such deliberate seduction, as he, at first, supposed. Nay,
since he finds that, from the first, Molton used no disguise
in his name, for he has a letter from him, signed
“Edward Molton,” he begins to think it possible, that he
was deceived; for Helen had not been married one hour,
when she escaped. The father prevented the publication;
and, believing Molton's name fictitious, he never trusted
it to any person in America; but always spoke of his
daughter, and pursued her, as unmarried.
Nay, when the thought came to him, that Molton might
be innocent of the greater evil, he actually wept. My
brother, then, ventured to tell what he knew, and what
he had seen. The father shuddered. “The story of the
guardian, is false,” said he. “She had no other guardian
than myself, her natural father. But, there is a frightful
mystery in the matter, which I cannot explain, yet. I
cannot.”
Farewell!---farewell. If Molton should die, I shall
never sleep again. Nay, why should I wish to sleep?---
It will only be to hear the report of the pistol—it is ringing
in my ears yet---to see the dark blood, swimming---
oozing—pattering, like heavy rain—O, it is horrible
—good night!—
Frank would have made no use of the bundle, he says;
the “charm.” He came to fight him.
Adieu.
| Randolph | |