University of Virginia Library

JULIET TO SARAH.

Congratulate me, Sarah, my sister—congratulate me;
I have just risen from my knees; and my senses are yet
reeling with the shock of a discovery, that had well nigh
been fatal to me. Such a scheme of darkness! continued,
too, for such a length of time; O, it is incredible that I
never should have dreamt of it; never suspected it! But,
let me tell you, as well as I can, of the whole affair, in
order, as it happened.

We were at breakfast, this morning. The servant
brought me two letters; one from you, (which I shall answer,
at the first leisure,) and one from Mr. John Omar.
I opened his first, because I desired to read yours, when
I was alone—I could'nt bear to read it, before the eyes,
even of my husband—it is like meeting some one that is
very dear to us—after a long, long time, in the presence
of a stranger. His letter was very brief; it merely informed
me that Molton had sent for him, in a great hurry,
to see poor Jane, who was alarmingly ill. I was
just breaking the seal of yours, desirous of getting a peep
at it, before the table was cleared, when I heard a strange
noise—and, on looking up, I beheld my husband, as pale
as death—with several letters, lying before him—
their seals broken, and one in his hand, open. Before
I could articulate a cry, or arise from my chair, the paper
dropped from his hand; and he sunk down, gradually
upon the floor, on his knees; and bowed down his head,
like one, upon whom the hand of God was laid heavily.
His face was covered—but I saw his chest heave—his
hair move—his forehead shiver—his lips tremble;—
and the tears trickle through his fingers. “Almighty
God!”—he murmured, at last, “I thank thee!”

I was inconceivably frightened—I know not what I
did, or what happened—but, when I awoke, my head was
in his lap, and he was looking over me, with a look of
such impassioned, such distracted tenderness, that, for
the first time, Sarah, my heart gushed out, with unadulterated
affection. From that moment, I was the happiest
woman in the world;—but, judge of my consternation,
my horrour and dismay, when he put the following letter,
from Molton, into my hand.

“Enclosed are the proofs, that I went in search of.—
They are wet with blood;—but do not fear to read them.
It is the blood of the guilty. Your heart is now satisfied;
and the restraint which you imposed upon yourself, for
a time, you now see, was salutary and wise. It was well
for you, that you never told the tale to your wife. If
you had, it would have killed her. No matter when the
proofs of her innocence had come to you, if there were

one moment, between the arraignment and the acquittal,
she would have died, of a broken heart. Jane is at the
point of death. I have dealt plainly with her; cruelly,
perhaps; but there was no other way, and I feel no compunction,
for my own conduct. The papers, that you
will find in this, are the copies, and proofs of the whole
conspiracy. You would do well, I think, to put the
whole into the hands of your wife. She is capable of
appreciating such confidence; and she will love you, if I
know anything of her character, better than she ever
has yet, when she knows the whole.”

And what do you think was the nature of this conspiracy,
Sarah? It was such, that—tears, hot tears and
confusion, would not permit me to communicate to any
human being but yourself; nor even to you, perhaps, if
I did not so earnestly desire that you should know what
a noble heart I have for a companion.

The letters were a pretended correspondence, between
Molton and myself, of a nature, so artfully managed, by
mingling fact with falsehood, that they went through my
heart, sometimes; and I trembled like a guilty woman,
to see how capable my conduct has been, of the cruelest
interpretation. It was a long time, before I could understand
them, at all.—I read them over again. Still,
they were unintelligible. I saw that they were managed
to prove an intrigue—a shameful, dishonourable, criminal
intrigue—between Molton and myself. But whom
were they to deceive?—Not my husband, for they had
promoted his views, with all their power. But the mystery
was soon explained. The hand writing, I saw, was
Jane's—but there were interlineations, and alterations,
in a different hand—I hope that I am not accusing the
innocent, but they did look to me, like the work of Miss
Matilda.

My husband then produced a packet of letters; and
put them into my hands. I opened them. The first
was directed to me, and was in the hand writing of Molton.
I began to read; but, bewildered and frightened, I
looked to Mr. Grenville, for explanation. He shook
his head, and smiled; but the tears stood in his eyes yet.

He handed me another—my hand shook with terrour;
the writing was so like mine, that, it was some minutes,
before I could assure myself that it was not—nor did I,
to my own satisfaction, till I had read the letter. It was
full of passionate, wild entreaty; and—but I cannot tell
you what the meaning of it was—it made me tremble
and weep, with indignation. My husband took my
hand. “It was well managed,” said he—“Juliet—see
here.” He then showed me the regular post mark, and
my own seal, upon two of the letters. The truth now
flashed upon me, all at once; I remembered that Jane
and I were taught by the same writing master; and that,
although she wrote a better hand than I; yet, that, at
school, she was able to write exactly like me; for, on one
occasion, I narrowly escaped punishment, for some of her
scribbling. I remember too, that, having borrowed my
seal once, she pretended that she had broken, and lost the
cornelian; for, she returned me the setting, only.

“But when, and where did you receive these vile
things?” said I—“and how could Mr. Molton be base
enough—?”

“Hush, Juliet—we must not speak rashly of that man.
You, surely, do not believe that (handing me one of the
letters) to be his hand writing?—as well might I believe
this to be yours. No—the same hand that counterfeited
the one, counterfeited the other.”

I was glad to hear this, I confess; for even now, I cannot
bear to think meanly of Edward — Molton, I
should say—Mr. Molton. “But when did you receive
them? how? and from whom?” said I.

He grasped both my hands in his; and, while he spoke,
the voice appeared to issue from the deepest place of his
heart. Never was I more affected in my life.

“I received them,” said he, “from a person unknown,
the very next morning after our marriage.”

“Gracious heaven!” said I, “and this that was the cause
of the change in your deportment, which so nearly deprived
me of my senses?”

“It was—I endeavoured to conduct as usual. I endeavoured
to disbelieve the damnable slander—Nay, many

times, many times, my beloved, was I upon the point of
burning them, at once;—but then, a wish to discover the
truth, prevented me. More than once too, I was on the point
of calling you to me, and putting them into your hands.
But then—if by any possibility, they were genuine, what
madness that would be.—It would destroy you and your
husband, dear Juliet—it—.”

At length, I resolved to be silent; and it was only then,
when my troubled spirit had become calm and submissive,
that I observed how deeply you had been distressed.
New doubts arose—they might have been a confirmation
to one of a jealous nature—but I am not jealous; at least,
not suspicious; jealous I am, of sharing thy heart, my
wife, I confess, with any being but my Maker—Nay, I
can hardly endure the thought of that, at times.—In
short, Juliet, I determined to keep the whole a secret from
you, until I had given you proof, by my manners and
confidence, that I did not believe the slander.”

I pressed his hand, Sarah—I could have knelt to him.
What magnanimity! what generosity! “My husband!”
said I—“till this hour, I have never known you? “But
(a thought struck me just then) there is one thing upon
which I have been silent so long, that, now, I dare not
mention it. It was a trifle at first; and had I spoken of
it, exactly as my heart prompted me to speak of it, all
would have been over;—but by thinking of it, so long,
and putting it off, so frequently, it has become —.”

“What! Juliet—tell me at once—I tremble more at
such an introduction, than at any disclosure. What do
you allude to?”

“To that letter,” said I, reaching him one, that I had
carried, ever since our marriage, in my pocket book, determined,
when I had the heart to speak lightly of it, to
ask an explanation.—“I now ask what you had ever seen
in my conduct to authorize you to —.—Nay I do not
mean to be very serious now; but then I was hurt and
mortified.”

I stopped suddenly, for, with an air of perplexity that,
on any other occasion would have been irresistibly ludicrous—he
began rummaging his pocket-book, and produced
a lock of hair.—“Is that yours?” said he.

I took it—looked at it—and was fain to say, upon my
word, “I believe that it is.—But where on earth did you
meet with it? And why did you once hint, so strongly
as you did—that something of the sort would be very
dear to you, if you had this already. Is it mine?”

“Is that your writing?” said he, reaching me the envelope.
I examined it—it was my writing; I could not
deny it.--But, judge of my confusion, when I read it—it
was in these words:—

“Yes—I will indulge you, if it be true that there
would be any value in it, to your eyes; but, on this conditional
one, a whimsical one, I confess, but, nevertheless,
a condition, with which I cannot dispense—that you never
allude to it, in any way hereafter. My troubles and
mortifications are already too numerous for my patience;
and I cannot submit to their augmentation. Adieu.—
Heaven forever bless you.”

Are you not terrified, Sarah?—That note was really
written by me; but, how or when, I have not the least
recollection, but I probably wrote it some time, at the
solicitation of Jane, for I was in the common practice
of doing so; and now, that I look at the initials, they appear
to have been written by another—the I, in particular,
is more like the I, that Jane writes her name with,
than mine. Yes—I have no doubt of it—the occasion
is forgotten; but that note, I am sure, was written by me,
under her direction, while her hand was lame, from her
fall—and that note, the cruel girl had the wickedness to
send to Grenville, inclosing a lock of my hair, after I
told her, that I had refused to understand him.

Nor is this all. On coming to an entire explanation,
it appears that several notes and keep-sakes in the possession
of both of us, were furnished by Jane. What
inconceivable management! I was mortified to the heart.
But my excellent husband soon re-assured me; “All these
matters, my dear wife,” said he, “must be forgotten; or
remembered only as a piece of pleasantry. Hereafter, let
our aim be to make each other happy—we will never remember
how we happenened to be married—by whose
agency, or by what means—but that we are married.”

Congratulate me, Sarah;—is it not a miraculous escape?
And would not an ordinary man have been disturbed,
immeasurably, by such treachery. And could I
ever have held up my head afterward; innocent or guilty,
if my husband; the lord of my affections; the partner
of my heart, had once suspected me!—O never—never.