RANDOLPH TO SARAH.
It is all over, dear Sarah. Thy friend is at rest. The
funeral just went by my window. I shall try to see thee,
soon, now. A strange event has happened to me; and
we can, at least, be friends---whatever may happen hereafter.
My marriage, I have good reason to believe, is
illegal. I mention this that there may be no future disquietude
at thy heart, if I should approach thee as a
friend.
Is it true, that the gentleman of whom you lately
spoke, (Mr. Stewart,) is an old admirer of yours. If it
be, I would have you very cautious. Trust to me. I can
do that, which none but a brother could do for you, Sarah.
I could, and will, hunt up the whole history of his
life. I have made some inquiries; and the result is exceedingly
satisfactory. Trust to me, Sarah—believe me.
My only wish, now, is to make one human being happy.
Let me speak, plainly. I love thee, Sarah; have loved
thee, when it was a sin, and a shame. I have abused
thy great nature. And I would offer such an atonement,
as such a woman might worthily accept. But I cannot
offer thee, myself. For many reasons, that were not a
worthy offering. I love thee, and shall always love thee;
and, though I be set free from my unfortunate marriage,
I have yet, at my heart, another, and an unconquerable
reason, for not obtruding myself upon thy love, as a
husband. Thy friend, I shall be, through life and death,
dear; for reasons, too, that will soon be all before thee.
Thou wilt not wonder, then. Now, what shall I do for
thee? Here is a man that does love thee—young, handsome,
rich, and wise. Can I promote thy happiness?—
Believe me—it is
thy happiness alone, Sarah, that I
think of. My own might have been dear to me; but that
time is passed. And were I young; unincumbered; unwedded;
with a heart as innocent as thine own, Sarah, I
would say to thee, as I say now. Thou art free, love—
free, as the winds of heaven! Go where thou wilt, with
whom thou wilt; but, when thou art weary of all the
world; turn thou to me, and thou wilt find consolation.
Nay, Sarah, though the hour had come—though we stood
up to receive the nuptial benediction, together—did I see
a man, that I thought better able to make thee happy—
nay, one that so appeared to
thee—I would, with my own
right hand—upon the spot—not without one tear—one
spasm, it may be, of the heart—give thee away, love—and
travel, the remainder of my pilgrimage, alone. One only
thought might disquiet me. Sarah might have been deceived.
I might have been. He who supplanted me,
though he might have had virtues that I had not; though
he were handsomer, better tempered, kinder, than I—
and—no, I will not imagine
that—no man could ever
love,
as I have loved the woman of my heart—it would be possible
that he would
not be so indulgent, so devoted, or so
truly her husband, as I would have been. This would
break my heart. If I could do that,
then, Sarah, judge
what I could do for thee, now. Thou art desolate and
alone. Permit me to lead a man to thee, who will love
and cherish thee, for ever and ever; one, whom the sick
chamber shall not weary—whose affection and tenderness
will augment with all that renders them endearing.
Marry him, and I shall be happy. One tear, one farewell,
Sarah; and Randolph will never darken thy path,
again. He might watch over thee, and thine; nay, he
would, but thou wouldst never know it. It would be a
secret and invisible guardianship. May I hope this?—
Farewell. You are better. The single line that I received,
assures me of it. Never were words more precious
to me. I hope soon to see you—very soon.
