LETTER XLV.
To Henry Colden.
Ah! my friend! in what school have you acquired such
fatal skill in tearing the heart of an offender? Why, under
an appearance of self-reproach, do you coney the bitterest
maledictions. Why with looks of idolatry, and accents of
compassion, do you aim the deadliest contempts, and hurl
the keenest censures against me.
"You acquit me of all shadow of blame." What! in
proving me fickle, inconsistent, insensible to all your merit,
ungrateful for your generosity; your love. How have I
rewarded your reluctance to give me pain; your readiness
to sacrifice every personal good for my sake? By reproaching
you with dissimulation. By violating all those vows,
which no legal ceremony could make more solemn or binding,
and which the highest, earliest, and most sacred voice
of heaven has ordained shall supersede all other bonds.
By dooming you to feel "an anguish next to despair."
Thus have I requited your unsullied truth; your unlimited
devotion to me!
By what degrading standard do you measure my enjoyments!
"In my mother's tenderness and gratitude; in the
affluence and honor which her regard will secure to me" am
I to find consolation for unfaithfulness to my engagements;
for every evil that may befall you. You whom every hallowed
obligation, every principle of human nature has placed
next to myself; whom it has become, not a fickle inclination,
but a sacred duty, to prefer to all others; whose happiness
ought to be my first and chief care, and from whose side
I cannot sever myself without a guilt inexpiable.
Ah, cruel friend! You ascribe my resolution to a disinterested
regard to your good. You wish me to find happiness
in that persuasion. Yet you leave me not that phantom
for a comforter. You convict me, in every line of your letter,
of selfishness and folly. The only consideration that
had irresistible weight with me, the restoration of your father's
kindness, you prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy
it without mercy!
Can you forgive me, Henry? Best of men! Will you be
soothed by my penitence for one more rash and inconsiderate
act?—But alas! My penitence is rapid and sincere,
but where is the merit of compunction that affords no security
against the repetition of the fault. And where is my
safety?
Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible expostulations.
I cannot—cannot withstand her tears. Let
me find in your arms a refuge from them. Let me no more
trust a resolution which is sure to fail. By making the tie
between us such as even she will allow to be irrevocable;
by depriving me of the power of compliance, only can I be
safe.
Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front door at ten this
night. My Molly will be my only companion. Be the
necessary measures previously taken, that no delay or disappointment
may occur. One half hour and the solemn
rite may be performed. My absence will not be missed, as
I return immediately. Then will there be an end to fluctuation,
for repentance cannot undo. Already in the sight
of heaven, at the tribunal of my own conscience, am I thy
wife, but somewhat more is requisite to make the compact
universally acknowledged. This is now my resolve. I
shall keep it secret from the rest of the world. Nothing but
the compulsion of persuasion, can make me waver, and concealment
will save me from that, and tomorrow remonstrance
and entreaty will avail nothing.
My girl has told me of her interview with you; and
where you are to be found. The dawn is not far distant,
and at sunrise she carries you this. I shall expect an immediate,
and (need I add, when I recollect the invariable
counsel you have given me,) a compliant answer.
And shall I!—Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour
out my soul on this paper—Let me indulge a pleasing,
dreadful thought—Shall I, ere circling time bring back this
hour, become thy—
And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating
agonies, know once more, a rapturous emotion? So
lately sunk into despondency; so lately pondering on obstacles
that rose before me like Alps, and menaced eternal opposition
to my darling projects; so lately the prey of the
deepest anguish; what spell diffuses through my frame this
ravishing tranquillity?
Tranquillity, said I? That my throbbing heart gainsays.
You cannot see me just now, but the palpitating heart infects
my fingers, and the unsteady pen will speak to you eloquently.
I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt—
let me see—ten minutes after four—No doubt you are sound
asleep. Care has fled away to some other head. Those
invisible communicants; those aerial heralds whose existence,
benignity and seasonable succor are parts, thou knowest,
of
my creed, are busy in the weaving of some beatific
dream. At their bidding, the world of thy fancy is circumscribed
by four white walls, a Turkey-carpeted floor, and a
stuccoed ceiling. Didst ever see such before? was't ever,
in thy wakeful season, in the same apartment? Never.
And what is more, and which I desire thee to note well,
thou art not hereafter to enter it except in dreams.
A poor taper burns upon the toilet; just bright enough to
give the cognizance of something in woman's shape, and
in negligent attire scribbling near it. Thou needst not tap
her on the shoulder; she need not look up and smile a welcome
to the friendly vision. She knows that thou art here,
for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not thy cheek already
wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as
sure to overflow with joy, as with sorrow.
And will it be always thus, my dear friend? will thy love
screen me forever from remorse? will my mother's reproaches
never intrude amidst the reptures of fondness and
poison my tranquillity?
What will she say when she discovers the truth? my conscience
will not allow me to dissemble. It will not disavow
the name, or withhold the duties of a wife. Too well do
I conceive what she will say; how she will act.
I need not apprehend expulsion from her house. Exile
will be a voluntary act.—"You shall eat, drink, lodge, and
dress as well as ever. I will not sever husband from wife,
and I find no pleasure in seeing those whom I most hate,
perishing with want. I threatened to abandon you, merely
because I would employ every means of preventing your
destruction, but my revenge is not so sordid as to multiply
unnecessary evils on your head. I shall take from you
nothing but my esteem; my affection; my society. I shall
never see you but with agony; I shall never think of you
without pain. I part with you forever, and prepare myself
for that grave which your folly and ingratitude have dug for
me.
"You have said, Jane, that having lost my favor, you will
never live upon my bounty. That will be an act of needless
and perverse cruelty in you. It will be wantonly adding
to that weight with which you have already sunk me to the
grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option. While I
live, my watchful care shall screen you from penury in spite
of yourself. When I die, my testament shall make you
my sole successor. What I have shall be yours, at least,
while
you live.
"I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening you with
loss of property. I should have known you better than to
think that a romantic head like yours would find any thing
formidable in such deprivations. If other considerations
were feeble, this would be chimerical.
"Fare you well, Jane, and when you become a mother,
may your tenderness never be requited by the folly and ingratitude
which it has been my lot to meet with, in the
child of my affections."
Something like this has my mother already said to me, in
the course of an affecting conversation, in which I ventured
to plead for you. And have I then resolved to trample on
such goodness?
Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene like this?
into thy arms? and shall I find comfort there? can I endure
life, with the burthen of remorse, which generosity
like this will lay upon me?
But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing
but evil to choose. There is but one calamity greater than
my mother's anger. I cannot mangle my own vitals. I
cannot put an impious and violent end to my own life. Will
it be mercy to make her witness my death, and can I live
without you? if I must be an ingrate, be her and not you
the victim. If I must requite benevolence with malice,
and tenderness with hatred, be it her benevolence and tenderness,
and not yours that are thus requited.
Once more, then, note well. The hour of ten; the
station near the door; a duly qualified officiator previously
engaged;—and my destiny in this life fixed beyond the
power of recall—the bearer of this will bring back your
answer. Farewell; remember.
