NOTE—JOHN TO SARAH.
I have a favour to ask of you, cousin. I have never
asked one, before; and, to-morrow morning, I shall leave
the city—perhaps it will be the last that I shall ever ask.
You are in peril. Your prejudices, I say nothing about.
They were always violent; and, though your temper
has grown gentler, and more indulgent, of late; yet,
they were never more violent or unworthy of you, than
at this moment.
Edward Molton is in town. He will sail for England
on the fifteenth; and, if we may trust to appearances, I
do believe that he will never return. He has been an injured
man—a man, more sinned against, than sinning.
I would venture to appeal to your generosity, Sarah—
for there is not a more generous creature upon this earth;
but I would not do it, after making that speech—I would
not even be suspected of flattery. Nor would I so wrong
my friend, Sarah, as to appeal to your generosity, when
all, that we require, is justice. What do you know of Edward
Molton, cousin, that is wicked, or mean? What,
at least, that is not repented of? And shall he not be
forgiven?—he, in whose frame the altercation of his heart
and spirit hath been carried on, till he is ready to give
up the ghost? Let us be merciful, if we would expect
mercy. Recall all that he has done. Discharge your
heart of all bitterness toward him; and consent to shake
hands with Edward Molton, once, before his departure,
as you would, even with your mortal enemy, upon his
death-bed. We all have our infirmities, Sarah. You
have yours;—at this moment, you are in the most imminent
peril. I do not name it. I will not so shock you;
but, it is possible that you may yet owe all, that should be
dear to a woman, in this life, to Edward Molton.
Mark me, Sarah. I know my extravagance. I know
my propensity to run from one extreme to another;
through good report, and evil report. I am aware, too,
how often I have called that man accursed—and then,
wept upon his bosom; but all these things are no excuse
for you. An hostility so unamiable; so inveterate; nay,
so unnatural, as yours, cousin, is impious. How dare
you entertain it? I speak plainly, dear Sarah, because
I love you; and, because, it is possible that we may not
meet again, till all my solicitude may be useless. Frank
is still in Baltimore—and I shall go on, to-morrow
morning, to meet him; after which, we shall set sail for
some country, where both can be happier. Before I go,
I would be satisfied of one thing. I have reason to believe
that Molton is the only man, who can satisfy me.
I believe that he knows something more of Randolph
than you do; for his forehead darkens, when I mention
his name. Let them meet, if you dare.
My first intention was to surprise you, by leading
Molton upon you, this evening, unexpectedly; and setting
him, face to face, with Randolph:—my next, to give
you a moment for preparation. But that were unworthy
of all. It is neither a reconciliation, nor an atonement,
that is done without deliberation. What say you? He
has a right to demand an interview; for you have wronged
him. He has a right to demand it, as the constituted
guardian of Juliet's babe; for he ought never to leave
this country, till he have seen it. He loves the little creature,
as if it were born of him; nay, with more than a
father's tenderness; and he swears that his last look
shall be upon it, when he embarks, that the image may
be carried with him, nestling in his heart, wherever he
may wander, forever and ever. He has a right, too to take
the child away. But all these things are disdained, by
him. If he meet thee, it must be of thy own free will.
What sayest thou, Sarah?
Sarah, I have only one word more to say. It is worth
your consideration. If you do not permit me to confront
Randolph with Molton, nothing shall ever convince me
that it was not because you were afraid. It is hard to
say so, dear Sarah; but it is the truth.
Yours, dear cousin.
JOHN.
