GRENVILLE TO HIS WIFE.
No. III—Enclosed.
This will be given to you, my dear Juliet, only in the
event of my death; an event, which, I am sure, is much
nearer than either has been dreaming of. Read it,
therefore, as the last confession of a dying man; a husband,
too, to his wife; the father, it may be, of a babe
already born to thee;—and, if thou canst, dear, forgive
him.
To obtain thee, Juliet, I permitted a system of cruelty
and perfidy to continue, long and long after I came to
the knowledge of it. For this, my love, my reverence,
my passionate tenderness for thee, are no excuse. But,
I had not the heart to break up a conspiracy; and betray
the plotters of thy ruin into thy hands, while I saw so
much probable advantage to myself, in permitting it to
continue. Nor is this all, Juliet. I participated, not
only by my silence; but, actually, with my countenance
and behaviour. For this I do repent me, bitterly, in
dust and ashes. This it is, Juliet, that has troubled my
sleep, even at thy side;—this, that has fevered and parched
my lips, and sunk my temples; dimmed my eyes;
and turned my black hair gray, within one little year.
What has it not cost me to conceal my own villany!
Much that thou believest real, of the perfidy, cruelty and
baseness of Molton, is false;—more of it is so discoloured
and distorted, that it is no longer the same; and many
times, dear, when thy tears have fallen upon my arm;
and thy bosom hath heaved, unsteadily, all the live long
night, when both were pretending to be asleep, have I
heard or fancied, that the movement of thy sweet lips,
had the sound of Molton in it—and then, I have been,
more than once, on the point of throwing myself upon
my knees, and avowing it all—just as I did to
him, immediately
after our marriage. From that hour, the secret
hath been in his keeping. While I lived, it would
have remained there, unless in some moment of confidence,
when thou wast sleeping, to thy thought, in the
bosom of an honourable man—my heart had burst with
it—and let it out, together with its blood, upon the spot.
How I have borne it, God only knows:—to feel thy
caresses; thy tears; thy affectionate touch; and see thy
gentle eyes lighting up at my approach; and to know
that I was unworthy of thee—O, it has, many and many a
time, driven me to treat thee capriciously—as if I had no
heart for such luxury:—to rebuke thee, by my coldness;
and even to hurry away from what—was death to me—
caresses, that I felt, were meant to be lavished, upon what
I was
not—an honest man.
It may be, dearest Juliet, my wife! my beloved! that, in
time I should have had the courage to tell thee all;—
and it may be, that thou would'st have loved me still.—
The father of thy children; thy companion for many years;
a penitent—I could not have been utterly contemptible
in thy eyes. But—.
But heaven hath ordered it wisely. I am at death's
door. One step—and I enter. And when I am gone,
Molton, that inexplicable man, whose worst fault is a
bold, hazardous frankness; and disdain of prejudice, he
will bear this to thee. Nay—he will put it into thy
hands to remain, when we part; with permission to open
it, in case of my death—and under no other condition.
My last advice—dearest of women—is this:—forget
me—forgive me—and give thyself up, when it may be,
if heaven, shall so order it, to him who hath so long, and
so devotedly, loved thee. The event is distant; impossible
perhaps; but I cannot help dreaming of it, as one
that must happen, eventually, for the reward of such
sublime affection, as that of your two hearts hath been.
Farewell! Juliet---Farewell! The property that I leave
to thee, is altogether thine. The proper steps have already
been taken to secure to thee, an honourable independence.
If the babe should live—there is only one
man to whom I would entrust its education, if it be a boy
—thy heart will tell thee who that is. I have heard him
reason much upon the subject; and I know that he has
thought much upon it. If a girl—to thee, Juliet; and to thee
alone, do I commit her. Heaven bless thee, my wife;
my dear one!
Farewell!
GRENVILLE.
P. S. I have read it over again. It does'nt express
a single thought, of the hundred that agitate me. I
have no talent for writing, nor for conversation;—but
I can
feel, Juliet; I can feel that I have been a scoundrel;
that I have cheated thee; conspired against thee; and
wronged an honest man, beyond the reach of reparation.
Let me do him the last justice in my power. The fact
which I communicated to thee, the very evening before
our marriage—
that, which so shook and terrified thee—
was never told by him. I made thee believe
then, that it was.
That was worse than lying. It was full as base—and more
dastardly. I know not how it was betrayed; and Molton
stood like one thunderstruck, when I mentioned it.
“By my hopes of salvation,” he said, “I never breathed
that secret, into the ears of mortal man—nor woman,
nor child. I never committed it to paper—and I know
not, by what supernatural intelligence, it can ever have
been known. She must have told it herself! But no—
that were impossible!” Enough, Juliet—I can say no
more. How these things were known; I cannot imagine;
Molton, himself, cannot imagine; but, I would risk my
life; or the little that remains of it, while I am writing
this, that Molton never spoke of thee, in his life, but with
the most devout tenderness. Judge then, if he could
ever have ridiculed thy gentleness; profaned the secret
of thy heart; told when and where you had met; and how
you had—no, it is impossible!
Farewell—Farewell!
