JOHN TO SARAH.
Two days have passed; two days of such intolerable
misery, my dear cousin, that I hardly have the
strength to tell you whether I am dead or alive. But
Juliet still lingers. There is no hope left, none; and
we have parted, perhaps, for the last time. Molton is
watching by her, like a brother:—there he sits, in the
next room—motionless—alone—dark—and like one
who hath no heart left—and will not be comforted. Not
a sound escapes him. He has only left us to, to—
O Sarah—what a ruin and desolation are about that
man!—to see his own wife laid, at last, in all her loveliness,
within the cold earth—and the heavy turf heaped
upon a bosom, where he hath so often slept---ah!
Yes—it is done. And all the facts, and circumstances
are yet before me, with an inconceivable and burning
distinctness; yet I cannot for my soul, persuade myself
that they are real.—I stop—I throw down my pen—I
shut my eyes—I endeavor to recollect all that has passed—I
feel the wind upon my forehead,—and am half
persuaded that the terrible creatures, before me, are only
the phantoms of a disordered brain;—but I open my
eyes. And they are still there—there!---forever there.
God! how beautiful she was—and yet the frightful
lustre of her eyes—her streaming black hair—her passionate
voice—O, what horrible mystery was there,
that so fettered her faculties, when I rushed in.—She
would have told it.—I saw that---I was sure of it—
again and again, she tried it, as Molton knelt by her
bed side; and she clung about his neck, and wept and
wept, as the hour drew nearer. “His side!” said she,
twice—“His side!—Omar—there are serpents feeding
there—I—I—” and twice he put his hand upon her
mouth, and shook from head to foot. “But may I tell,”
said she?
“No,” said Molton---“No, love; let it die with
thee, thou cruel woman!”
“Cruel! cruel!” she echoed,—“cruel, Edward, when I
am dying to make thee happy,—O Juliet, Juliet, be
thou but as true to him—as—”
“Hush! hush! for mercy's sake, love,”—whispered
Molton.
I was deeply embarrassed. What was I to do? I had
been sent for; and it was as much as my life was worth
to leave Juliet.
“Shall I remain?” said I—“What have I to do?
what has happened? Helen,---madam, dear madam, what
has happened?”
“Come hither, Mr. Omar,” said she, reaching me
her cold thin hand. “You have been the friend, almost
the only friend of an injured man—I—”
Molton would have stopped her, but she was resolute.
“Molton!” she said. “In a few hours—a very few
—I am in the world of spirits. My mind is now free.
A wonderful light is upon it. For four years, thine
has been a life of martyrdom. I would have it known.
Nay—it is impossible now, for that to be prevented. I
have already taken care that they, who are most interested
in it, shall know the whole, as it is.”
“O Helen!—Helen! What hast thou done!—shaken
down to dust and ashes---Helen---all that I have been
building up, so long, with my blood. What hast thou
done?—tell me. Let us not part ungently, love?
Would'st thou have me accompany thee?”
“Thee?---thee, Molton a self murderer!—O, no—no
—no!—much as I love thee, dear, I would rather welter
in flame and darkness alone, through all eternity,
than thou should'st share my peril. No, Edward, no!
—But it is time that thy abused nature, love, should
know it all. Mr. Omar, bear witness for me. I have
written a letter to my father. God forgive him! He
was a good man, but—he hath done that evil, to my
husband, which God only can repair.
Molton, himself, looked upon her, wondering. “So
calm, Helen—yet so near the tomb.—What is the meaning
of this? Is it really true? What are your intentions?”
“To reveal one fact to a man, Molton, who will do
thee justice, when I am where— Edward, I tremble—put
thy arm under my head, love—higher, a little
higher—it is awful to die, dear,—let me lean upon
thy shoulder—there, there!—that will do. I have written
several letters. Nay, do not look darkly upon me,
do
not; Edward—I cannot bear it—our time, together, is
counted to us; and it were a pity to let it go by unkindly.
They are all on their way. The last favour that
I ask, is this—that I may tell one thing, before thee;
before
him, before my God, while I have life enough
left.”
“No!” said Molton firmly—putting his hand to his
side—She saw him put it there; and it seemed to
pain her—for she shut her eyes; and there was a tremulous
movement of his forehead---a dark tumult over it,
that alarmed me---“No! Helen, I command thee to silence,
by our love---our passionate love. Why should
it be told?---Is—”
“Why?”---she cried, eagerly interrupting him---
“why?---to prove that thou art a god, Edward! But
it is too late now. It cannot be prevented. It is told---
(his head fell upon her bosom) O, do not groan so
heavily---tears too!---Edward Molton! tears from thee!
---lift up my head-- let me look at them.”
“No --it is only sweat,” said Molton, faintly---wiping
his forehead, “I am very weak, and my hair is wringing
wet. Thou wilt not tell it, Helen.”
“That is already told,” she answered, laying her hand
so tenderly upon his bosom, that the tears gushed, all at
once, from his eyes. “No---it is something mightier---
a secret that concerns thee. I must tell it. May I?”
“I cannot answer, Helen---but, O, in mercy, spare
thyself.”
Here the Doctor entered---but the sentence of death
was written upon his features. Helen saw it; but she was
not disturbed. “I am sorry that you have come again,”
said she;---“really sorry; for this taking leave is a sad
affair, with women, like me. There is no hope, doctor--
I know it---I am glad of it. Farewell!”
The doctor left us---but lingered---went on---lingered
again---and put his handkerchief to his eyes---and shut
the door.
The truth burst upon me in thunder. I trembled in
every joint. Helen had poisoned herself. Her face altered
to the hue of death, even while she was yet speaking.
I sunk into a chair---and all that I remember, of the rest
that passed, is this. She asked if I knew the circumstances,
under which she had married Molton,---I told her
that I did not; and then she related them.
“Edward,” said she, as she concluded---and her
voice was so sweet and melodious, coming, it did seem,
from the very innermost place of her whole heart, that I
feel it yet, like the sound of a blessing in my ears---
“Edward---those gashes---the places where the iron bad
worn into my wrist---the blood---all---all---look at me
—prepare thyself—brace up all thy noble nature, love
—It will try thee, Edward—loins and brain—more than
death—art thou prepared?”
“I am.” Was the answer.
“Hold me nearer—tighter love, tighter to thy heart
—and let me whisper it.”—Said she.
They embraced—she whispered—she repeated it—the
very hair of his flesh rose—and he fainted in her lap.
It was long before he recovered. Her tears fell, like a
rain in a high wind, upon him; but she had not the
strength to raise his head; and when I attempted it, for
her voice had altered; and her beautiful forehead
wrought, as if Death were at his work, indeed—she forbade
me—“forbear,” said she. “Listen. I have only
a few moments more—ah!—that pang. I was a mad
woman, when this man married me. I knew it not. My
father did. But he concealed it from me; and from my
first husband. I knew it not till, long and long afterward—and
then I dared not tell it. I—I am well now,
quite well---but here lies a man---—heaven in its mercy
bless, and sustain him! and give him the wounded heart
that has been dying for love of him.
I attempted to raise Molton's head.
Nay—let him sleep—do not move his hands—let him
lie as he is, and he will be spared the pain of parting
with me—O, how he hath loved that woman!—Heaven
sustain her and bless her, now!—if she love him as I
have loved him,—he will be to her, what he has been to
me—all that woman may love; all that she ought to love.
Hush! he moves—come nearer—he is dying—he cannot
live long. Would that the poison which is burning
here now, were doubled, trebled, so that what this hand
once ministered to him, in its madness; the madness of
jealousy, were withdrawn from his vitals—O, how gladly
would I die, over and over again. Farewell!--farewell!---my
friend! Forgive me! plead for me!---Be
his
friend---
his defender in the cold world---and tell---tell
---tell Juliet that I
forgive her---that---that---but for me,
she would have been happy with him,---but I
forgive her.--
I---and am now dying in expiation of it. Her husband---
O,---it is well for her---for him---for Molton---that
he---went as he did---farewell!---O, God!---God!---receive
my—Edward, dear----thy lips—Ed—
I was alone—I know not how long. It was dark, and
I knew it not; and when I awoke, there were people
passing about me on tiptoe;—and I was in a strange
apartment;—and there was the noise, I thought, of nailing
a coffin, in the next room. I strove to awake. I
succeeded. A bed was before me. I opened the curtain—
they were there yet—just as I had seen them last—God
only knows how long before—her lips to his—her naked
arms about his neck---and his hands buried and locked
in her torn tresses.----Was he dead? I had not the
heart to disturb him. I sat by him---hour after hour.
His chest heaved---he breathed---but he spoke not---he
moved not. His lips had grown to hers. At last—I
was in a trance, I believe---it appeared to me that he
arose---took her hands gently---crossed them upon her bosom---kissed
her, once more, while the bed shook under
the pressure---and turned---calmly-- very calmly,
to depart.---“Come,” said he.
I started upon my feet. “Whither?”—said I.
“Come!”—he repeated, “It is no place for us.”
I shuddered at his voice. It was preternaturally calm.
“Whither?” said I. “It is dark---very dark.”
“Whither?--to the ocean, the mad house---sepulchre--
whither thou wilt.”
“To Juliet's, then”---said I.
“He started as if the lightning had struck him.---
“True!”---said he---“true!---I had forgot. Yes, we must
not leave her. All---
all must be buried. Let us go.---
But who shall bury
me?---
thee---I will take care of
thee, Omar?---it matters not---in this populous city---it
were well---Omar---yes---thou art Omar---I believe---
let us go—art thou not?”
Nothing had torn me like this. I wrung his hand---
but he heeded it not. I knelt to him---but he went by
me. I wept upon his feet; but he stood like one that had
no life left in him.
“Helen,” said I.
“Ah---what musick is that?” he cried---“Helen, love
---where art thou?—”
I led him to her again---he reeled---and staggered---
and the tears gushed out again, as he held her poor dead
hand to his mouth.
We departed. We are at Juliet's, now. Helen is—I
dare not tell thee where---so beautiful!—so desperate—
O—what were these mysterious meanings? Can it be
that she was mad?—mad all this time; and that I knew
it not—and Molton?---Did he? It may be that he did.—
And can it be true, that she had poisoned him for jealousy---of
whom---of Juliet herself?---this, then, was the
secret, the tremendous secret, that fed upon the life of
Molton. How like a dream it all appears---the pain in
his side---the mortal terrour---are all clear now. Mad
---O, if he knew it, he, who was capable of concealing
that he carried a perpetual death at his heart, administered
by Helen; he who could love her still, watch over
her, and cheer her still; he would never have betrayed
it, though he had known that she was mad. And have I not
seen symptoms of it, too?---I have. But her death---what
could possess her? the same spirit of madness---jealousy
---Hearing, as she did of Grenville's death, she has chosen
to set Molton free!—merciful heaven! what a woman
she was!
