 | Randolph |  |
MAD. VERNON TO JULIET.
Your letter found me so ill, that it was thought inexpedient
to open it; and, when was I well enough to read
it, it was not to be found; nor, did any of us conjecture
from whom it came. I had left no direction for opening
it; and, as you had not written to me, for so long a
time, it never occurred to me, that my dear Juliet was
the writer. But, to-day, we have found it, unopened,
carefully put away, with some old papers, of no value.
I tore it open, and read it, with feelings, I am sure,
that my poor patient child, would not willingly cause her
mother; let me be still your mother, Juliet, the endearing
name—O, it is tender and welcome to my widowed,
childless heart;—yet, dear, why should I complain of it?
The tears that followed, and blinded my old eyes,
were tears of pleasure, as well as bitterness. To find
my babe restored to health, again, O, that were enough
to make me endure any thing.
But Juliet, tell me the whole truth, dear—all thy suffering.
No—I am wrong—do not. O, my heavenly
Father, why should we repine, aged, and weary, and
worthless as we are, when we see the innocent and lovely;
the pure of heart, and the very beautiful, so helpless
and miserable! Juliet, what can I do for thee. Shall I
weep?—behold my tears; my glasses are dim with them,
and the paper is blistered—my prayers?—O, while I
lock my withered hands, and pray for thee, mayest thou
feel the warmth of His love, flowing into thy dear heart,
as it does into mine, old as it is, whenever I prostrate myself,
devoutly, before him. Let that prayer be granted;
and thou hast nothing more to wish. Thou wilt be happy.
O, dear Juliet, when a poor, lone, dark woman,
like me; beset, as I am; bereaved as I have been, can
find that a consolation, for the loss of husband, children,
friends, youth, riches, and health, in widowhood,
and childlessness, O, believe that there is a divinity
in religion---a truth, in that blessed Book, upon which
my hand is now lying---believe it, and thou wilt be happy,
happen what will.
Yet, thy calamities are not light; not light; I well
know that, Juliet. Thy uncomplaining, quiet disposition,
never speaks, while it has a tear left; and when thy
tears, poor, gentle heart, are all shed, when they are exhausted,
hard must have been the pressure. O, I do pity
thee—I do, from my soul, my dear child. But look up
to Him—pray to Him, unceasingly. He will interfere
for thee. Hath He promised it, and shall He not do it?
What shall I say of Grenville? What I know of him,
is entirely in his favour. He wants dignity, I confess;
and, most of all, that intellectual dignity, which—
nay, my dear child—let us abandon all such thought;—
and once more, only once more, will I mention him. It is
now.—I am amazed at his blackness. I knew that he was
rash, and a creature of violent passions;---but I thought
that he had arrived at their mastery. He had given
such proof. I know that he has been great---resisted
greatly—their dominion. And has he yielded at last? O,
my child, forgive me, forgive me for the danger that my
counsels have led thee into. I did not think him faultless,
as I told thee; nay, for he told thee himself, that he had
great faults, which he would overcome. How has he
kept his promise? Let him answer that.
Farewell, my dear, dear Juliet. Do not be hasty. I
give no more advice. I have done recommending anybody
to thee; judge for thyself. But conceal thy sentiments,
even from me. I am sore yet, with my partiality---so
infirm are we all! But Mr. G's family are respectable;
and, so far as I know any thing of him, his life
is irreproachable. I say this, I hardly know why---is it
because I would not have a man seen in the company of
Juliet R. Gracie, who was not a man, and a christian?
Whether Mr. G. be one or not, you can judge, better than
report.
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