JOHN TO SARAH.
Where are you, Sarah? Why are you not here? Are
all my apprehensions to be verified. Am I to lose all
my friends,
all; one after the other!—either by death or
—no I will not say it—perhaps you are sick, Sarah—
perhaps my letters have not reached you—nay, it may be
that you are not in New-York. Yes, I must believe it;
I will believe anything, rather than that Sarah Ramsay
has forgotten Juliet, at such a moment. She is constantly
asking for you—and some times, when her brain turns,
and the wintry blue of her touched eyes will seem dissolving
over her dear little boy—she raves of Sarah, and
Edward, and her husband—till we are obliged to obey
Molton, and all of us abandon her to the women. She
is stronger to-day; more collected; and the physician, I
can perceive, begins to entertain some little hope. His
voice trembles less, when he leaves the directions; and
his eyes are not so dim. O, join with me, Sarah, join with
me, in prayer to Him, in whose hands are life and death,
to spare her yet a little longer, to her babe, if not to us!
Her voice was strangely sweet and gentle last evening:
and her rapt eyes, and parted lips, as her delicate
murmuring passed me; had something, I know not what,
that soothed the heart, even while they made it melancholy.
She is anticipating death—I am sure of it; she has sent
for me—desiring to see me, alone—and I have promised
to be with her, early tomorrow—the doctor forbids this,
but her manner, though faint, is peremptory. I shall
obey her. Molton too—no, I cannot bring myself to
speak of him—I love him—wonder at him, but there is,
I know not what, of awe and terrour about my thought,
of late, as if he were something supernatural, which prevents
me from approaching him, as I used to. Sorrow
like his, too, is holy:—a little indiscretion may be pardoned
to such a man—but to be the only friend, the only
assured and trusted one, of a woman, upon her death
bed, whose husband has just been hewed, limb from limb,
upon the water—O, Sarah—I cannot proceed.
He stands up too, so proudly, so immoveably, against
the storm, though it rain fire upon his naked heart. I
know not what to think of him. But Juliet—may she
recover. If she should—what then? I dare not think of
it. Strange thoughts are abroad?—who sent Grenville,
away?—Molton. Who furnished the crew? Molton.
What become of the wreck?—ask Molton. It is
found drifting, upon the high seas—smoking to
the centre—and strewed over with blood and
brains. The thought is horrible. He is innocent, no
doubt—but will Juliet dare to marry him, where there
is such room for calumny? What think you? It were
better to die---aye, ten thousand deaths---than live to be
the wife of a man---by whose instrumentality, whether
evil or good, her husband had perished; a man too, whose
own wife is dead by poison, no matter by whose hand
administered, just at the critical moment. Molton!
Molton! Let me not wrong thee!---I cannot.---There is
much that is inexplicable about thee---but thou art innocent.
I would wager blood and breath upon it. But
should a woman, such a woman, marry thee, though thou
be innocent---what would be the inheritance of her children?
Hostility and bitterness for one another---shame
and horrour, forever and ever.—The blood of Grenville
and Molton, would war together to fratricide.
