University of Virginia Library

JOHN TO SARAH.

Juliet is gone—gone, for ever. I began, day before
yesterday, to tell you of it—nay, yesterday; but, I could
not get on with it! My brain rocks, and reels yet, with
the agitation, into which it was thrown. All that I can
recollect distinctly, however, is this. You know that

I had promised to see her, in the morning. I went, earlier,
I believe, than I was expected—I trod on tip-toe,
over the carpet, in the hall;—and had entered the room;
for the door stood open, without being perceived—Juliet
was reaching a folded paper to Molton, who sat by her,
speechless, and silent as death; with his hands covering
his face—and grasping his temples.

“Is that true, Edward?” said she, faintly, laying her
hand upon his.

He trembled—he turned toward her—relinquished
her hand, gently, and answered, in a deep voice.

“It is true.”

She fell back upon the pillow, and shut her eyes—and
the tears trickled, like dew, through her lashes. I attempted
to retreat—but, he saw me, and his eyes flashed
fire.

“Omar, is it you?” He was rising; when Juliet,
startled by my name, just moved her head, and uttered
some words of reproof.

There was a dead silence, of some minutes, while we
waited for her to regain composure.

“I am glad that you are come;” said she, to me—“I
am very feeble—but, I hope that I have life enough left
to me, for the purpose. Edward, let us be together,
a while....only for a moment....go, Edward.”

She reached him her hand—just lifted it; and he put
his lips to it, as if she were his own wife, or child.

As soon as we were alone, she requested me to draw
up the writing table to her bed side; and reach her the
letter, which Molton had left on the bed. She read it
again; and again the tears flowed.

“There is no time to be lost,” said she; “I want you
to write a few lines to Sarah; they are confidential. I
would do it myself, but I cannot. I shall not recover;
I am sure of it; this is the bed of death to me, my friend,
and I am not sorry that it is. Circumstances, which I
have not the time, nor the heart, to explain, have ruptured
every tie, that binds me to the world, except that---(her
voice trembled here, and her lip worked; but, it was very
soon over---) my babe---I cannot bear that, well---but,
God will watch over his innocence!---and oh, Mr. Omar,

it is hard for a mother to part with her new born babe;
just when the pretty eyes, the dear little mouth, are getting
familiar to her lips. But, Heaven's will be done!
Are you ready? A little nearer, if you please; for, my
voice is very weak. You weep, Mr. Omar. I am sorry
for it. It is painful to me, to see the sorrow of any human
being; but, to know that it is I, who cause it; that is
not well to be borne. There are some thoughts in your
heart, that I could remove, if I had the strength; some
infirmities of your character, that the advice of a friend,
a woman; one whom you have felt a tenderness for, upon
her death-bed; nay, nay, these gushes of passion are
unmanly. I expected better things, my dear friend; my
brother. But, time is precious. Please to follow me---
I do not mean the words---but the thought. Tell Sarah
how I am; and, that I cannot live many days. I wanted to
see her.--I expected it;---and, had I not known her well,
I should have thought it a little unkind in her, to let me
die alone. But perhaps she is ill, herself; or”---I was
alarmed at the appearance of her eyes; and she added,
while the colour shot over her forehead, in streaks, “do
you know any thing of a Mr. Randolph?” I told her
that I had heard of such a person, recently, I thought;
but where, or when, I knew not; nay, that I had some
loose notion of having once seen a man of that name.
She did not explain herself; but, after a few moments of
silence, she added. “Has your brother returned?” Not
yet; but, I expect him every hour; said I.

“Let me see him, the moment that he arrives. He
has a noble heart; and we owe him much. Few people
know him. I want to see him. I must. Now, if you
please, to Sarah.”

She then dictated a letter to you, which she signed, with
her own hand. I am not at liberty, I believe, to tell
you what it is; for, I have heard nothing of it, since. But
she enclosed a large bundle of other letters in it; and,
among them, I perceived that, which Molton and she had
been reading, as I entered. It was the very one, which
Grenville had left for her, to be opened, in case of a certain
event. What was that event? His death, I suppose.

After that was done, she gave me her hand; requested
to be told, when my brother arrived; and slept quietly,
like an infant, for two or three hours. Our hopes revived—her
beautiful eyes were lighted up; and her voice
was more cheerful. But, all my terrour returned, as I
saw her exchange a look with Molton; when the physician,
reproving us sharply for our folly and rashness,
told her that we had hazarded her life, but that—he saw
much, nevertheless, to encourage him. She turned her
eyes to Molton, with a smile, and just moved her head.
He understood it—for his lips were, instantly, as pale as
ashes. My arteries thrilled with it, too. I felt then,
then, for the first time, that there was no hope.

Just then, a woman broke furiously into the room, and
rushed to the bed. It was like an apparition. I thought
her mad—but Molton's arm was quicker than my
thought; for, the next moment, she was dashed against
the wall, and a knife wrenched from her hand—though
she grasped it, like a wild beast, by the blade; and I
heard the sinews grit, as he plucked it through the fingers,
severing tendon and bone.

It was Matilda. She had broken loose from her confinement,
about a week before; and, now, gained admittance,
by finding the door open, from which she had been
repeatedly sent, as an importunate, disordered wretch.

Molton carried her away, by main force, amid her
curses, screams, and the most horrible blasphemy.—
This was too much for Juliet. She fainted—and so long
was it, ere she showed any symptom of returning life,
that we began to fear it was all over with her. But the
sound of Molton's voice, revived the spark, for a moment.
She held his hand to her mouth. She wept upon it. Her
beautiful hair, disordered and loose, covered the whole
pillow. “I shall not live to see your brother,” said she,
to me—“but, I pray you, to tell him, that I remember,
and bless him, with my dying breath. Mary, take my
scissors, dear, and—I must not forget him, now.”

“Nay,” said Molton, awaking all at once—“even in
death, Juliet, art thou so kind to all? What! leave thy
tresses to him! What, then, wilt thou leave to me?”

“My heart, Edward.”

He bowed upon her hand. “No, love,” said he, “that
must never be—the only infirmity of thy nature—that,
Juliet, which has cost us all our suffering, is thy too
great gentleness to all—thy too little passionate devotion
to one. Do not leave thy hair among men. Thy blessing
is enough. Even I—I never asked thee for a lock.
I would not; for that was what many wanted—and more
than one, it may be, obtained. Nay, Juliet—O, pardon
me—I cannot bear thy tears.”

“Thou art right, very right, Edward,” said she. “I
will not leave even the hair of a dead woman, to disturb
thee. But one thing I would have thee know. No man
ever had—none!—had ever a lock of it, with my consent
or approbation, except my husband; and to him, it was
given without my knowledge. I am very faint—very,
dear Edward. Come nearer—sit down, love, where I
can place my head upon thy shoulder. Bear witness, all
of you, that I forgive, and bless, and weep for my husband.
I have loved him. I might have loved him yet; or,
have lived and died in the belief that I did; but it cannot
be, now. The heart will find its lord, at last, ere it be
utterly dead. Behold mine! The laws of society are
no longer for me. Yet a little while, and I shall be
kneeling, in the presence of our indulgent and compassionate
Father—of one, who will not charge me with
sin; nor punish me with sorrow or banishment, for telling
the truth upon my death-bed. It is my death-bed. I believe
it. And, therefore, do I tell Edward, as I do, with
the voice of a dying woman, that my heart has always
been faithful to him; even while I was most faithful to
my poor husband; and even while I believed that he was
a bad man:---but, that you may all understand the truth,
and remember it, at this eventful moment, I would tell
you, further, that, if I should recover---it is impossible---
I feel that within me, which makes death certain---his
could hand is not to be misunderstood---it is real, now---
I feel it approaching my heart, while I speak---but, even
if I should recover, we should never be married. Both of
us have reasons for it---have we not, Edward?”

He bowed, and covered his face.

“But I would never set so bad an example to women;
to mothers; or to wives,” she continued.

“The hour is nearer, Edward---very near, now.—
Where is my babe.”

The child was brought to her. She desired to be raised.
She bowed her head upon its little face; and, it would
seem, that the child knew its mother, and would not part
with her, again---for its little fingers were so tangled in
her glittering hair, that they were fain to cut it away, to
release her.

“Baptized in tears, my babe!” said she, faintly---“in
tears, sweet. Let his name be thine, Edward. And now,
farewell---a mother's blessing upon thee, thou great
heart! Take my babe, Edward---be a father to it!”

Molton fell upon his knees; and, for the first time, the
tears rolled out of his eyes, quietly, as from any fountain,
without that convulsion and labouring of the heart,
which was so frightful before.

Her eyes were lifted---a sweet smile played upon her
mouth as she saw it---the melody of her voice died away
---she laid one hand upon the dear babe that lay sprawling
in her lap---another upon Molton's---as his face was
buried in its swaddling clothes—he caught it—and the
last words that she uttered, were—“I do not leave a lock
of hair to the man that I love; but, I leave to thee, my heart
and soul, Edward---my babe!”

Molton actually sobbed—and there was no voice
heard, but the voice of lamentation and wailing, till the
bed shook—and Molton fell backward upon the floor.
The dying Juliet saw it—turned her gentle eyes to heaven—locked
her hands upon her bosom, meekly, fervently—and
died. So quietly had her sweet spirit abandoned
its chamber, that, from her countenance, her parted
lips, her half-shut eyes, we were yet waiting for her last
prayer, when her hands parted, and fell.

Molton saw this. He stood upon his feet---he tore
open his bosom---he threw himself upon the bed---he
held her cheek to his heart---her hands...

“God bless me! Art thou really dead; really, love?
How cold thy hand is!” He shuddered. “Take it away!
away!---I cannot move it!---my veins are ice!---it has

frozen to my heart!---cold! cold! very cold! Juliet!---ah!---
no more sprouting, no more flowering, no more greenness
here!---no more summer-time, Juliet!---ashes!—ashes!”

A long insensibility followed. But he is calm, now;
terribly calm;---as if the worst had now happened, that
could happen, to a desolate man.

Poor Juliet!---her funeral will be to-morrow. Farewell.