LETTER VIII.
To Jane Talbot.
Wilmington, Saturday, October 9.
I thought I had convinced my friend, that a letter from
me ought not to be expected earlier than Monday. I left
her to gratify no fickle humor, or because my chief pleasure
lay any where but in her company. She knew of my design
to make some stay at this place, and that the
business that occasioned my stay would leave me no leisure
to write.
Is it possible that my visits to Miss Secker have given
you any concern? why must the source of your anxiety be
always so mortifying and opprobrious to me? that the absence
of a few days, and the company of another woman
should be thought to change my sentiments, and make me
secretly recant those vows which I offered to you, is an imputation
on my common sense which—I suppose I deserve.
You judge of me from what you know of me. How can you
do otherwise? If my past conduct naturally creates such suspicions,
who am I to blame but myself? Reformation should
precede respect, and how should I gain confidence in my
integrity, but as the fruit of perseverance in well doing.
Alas! how much has he lost who has forfeited his own
esteem?
As to Miss Secker, your ignorance of her, and, I may
add, of yourself, has given her the preference. You think
her your superior, no doubt, in every estimable and attractive
quality, and therefore suspect her influence on a being
so sensual and volatile as poor Hal. Were she really more
lovely, the faithless and giddy wretch might possibly forget
you, but Miss Secker is a woman whose mind and perses
are not only inferior to yours, but wholly unfitted to inspire
love. If it were possible to smile in my present mood, I
think I should indulge one smile at the thought of falling in
love with a woman who has scarcely had education enough
to enable her to write her name; who has been confined
to her bed about eighteen months, by a rheumatism contracted
by too assiduous application to the wash-tub, and
who often boasts, that she was born, not above forty-five
years ago, in an upper story of the mansion at Mount
Vernon.
You do not tell me who it was that betrayed me to you
I suspect, however, it was Miss Jessup. She was passing
through this town, in her uncle's carriage, on Wednesday,
on her way home. Seeing me come out of the poor woman's
lodgings, she stopped the coach, prated for five minutes,
and left me with ironical menaces of telling you of my
frequent visits to a single lady, of whom it appeared that
she had some knowledge. Thus you see that your disquiets
have had no foundation but in the sportive malice of your
talkative neighbor.
Hannah Secker chanced to be talked of at Mr. Henshaw's
as a poor creature, who was sick and destitute, and
lay, almost deserted, in a neighboring hovel. She existed
on charity, which was the more scanty and reluctant, as
she bore but an indifferent character either for honesty or
gratitude.
The name, when first mentioned, struck my ear as something
that had once been familiar, and, in my solitary evening
walk, I stopped at her cottage. The sight of her, though
withered by age and disease, called her fully to mind.
Three years ago, she lived in the city, and had been very
serviceable to me in the way of her calling. I had dismissed
her, however, after receiving several proofs that a pair
of silk stockings and a muslin cravat, offered too mighty a
temptation for her virtue. You know I have but little
money to spare from my own necessities, and all the service
I could render her, was to be her petitioner and advocate
with some opulent families in this place.—But enough, and
too much of Hannah Secker.
Need I say that I have read your narrative, and that I
fully acquit you of the guilt laid to your charge. That was
done, indeed, before I heard your defence, and I was anxious
to hear your story, merely because all that relates to
you is, in the highest degree, interesting to me.
This letter, notwithstanding my engagements, should be
longer, if I were not in danger, by writing on, of losing the
post. So, dearest love, farewell, and tell me in your next,
which I shall expect on Tuesday, that every pain has vanished
from your head and from your heart. You may as
well delay writing to your mother till I return. I hope it
will be permitted me to do so very shortly. Again, my only
friend, farewell.
