JULIET TO SARAH.
Why did you not come on, at once, Sarah? You have
nothing to fear, nothing in the world, I assure you, about
him. I never see him; and, although he have authority to
visit me, yet he is wise enough never to use it, even on
business, except in the presence of a third person. I cannot
deny that such delicacy has raised him, a good deal,
in my estimation; nay, my dear Sarah, I will go further,
for I ought, in justice to an injured man—I believe that
you wrong him; that I have wronged him; nay, that he
has deserved little of the cruelty and unkindness, which
he has met with, in this world. But that is all. I cannot
say another word in his favour. Pray, compose[1]
yoursef,
dear; and lose not an hour in making good your
promise. I want your company, at this time, more than
that of any living creature, except my husband.----
Come to me, Sarah. We have enough to forgive, and
enough to be forgiven; and we may be happier, in weeping
together, than, in this life of apprehension, apart.---
Fear nothing for him---though there be no chance of his
visiting me, without notice; yet, to make that perfectly
sure, I will address a note to him, the moment that you
arrive, requesting him to transact all his business with
me, thereafter, by writing. He will understand me.---
And now, farewell, my dear Sarah---my
sister---my
friend. Take comfort; and all will be well, yet. We
shall live and be happy, in our compassion for the infirmities
of each other.
I am much better in spirits to-day, than I have been
for a long while. My husband's vessel has been spoken
with—“all well,” they say—and I feel, almost, as if I
had been pressed to his bosom. And yet, such dreams!
—so desolate!—so dark!—O, Sarah, I shall not be happy,
for an hour, till thou art with me, to cheer up my
widowhood; and help me to sustain the agony that is approaching,
with every blow of the clock.
