LETTER XXIII.
To Mrs. Fielder.
Baltimore, November 2.
Madam,
It would indeed be needless to apologize for your behavior
to me. I not only acquit you of any enmity to me,
but beg leave to return you my warmest thanks for the
generous offers which you have made me in this letter.
I should be grossly wanting in that love for Mrs. Talbot
which you believe me to possess, if I did not partake in
that gratitude and reverence which she feels for one, who
has performed for her every parental duty. The esteem of
the good is only of less value in my eyes than the approbation
of my own conscience. There is no price which I
would not pay for your good opinion, consistent with a just
regard to that of others and to my own.
I cannot be pleased with the information which you give
me. For the sake of my friend, I am grieved that you are
determined to make her marriage with me, the forfeiture
of that provision which your bounty has hitherto supplied
her.
Forgive me if I say, that in exacting this forfeiture, you
will not be consistent with yourself. On her marriage with
me, she will stand in much more need of your bounty than
at present, and her merits, however slender you may deem
them, will then be, at least, not less than they now are.
If there were any methods by which I might be prevented
from sharing in gifts bestowed upon my wife, I
would eagerly concur in them.
I fully believe that your motive in giving me this timely
warning was a generous one. Yet, in justice to myself and
your daughter, I must observe that the warning was superfluous,
since Jane never concealed from me the true state
of her affairs, and since I never imagined you would honor
with your gifts a marriage contracted against your will.
Well do I know the influence of early indulgences. Your
daughter is a strong example of that influence, nor will her
union with me, if, by that union she forfeit your favor, be
any thing more than a choice among evils, all of which are
heavy.
My own education and experience sufficiently testify the
importance of riches, and I should be the last to despise
or depreciate their value. Still, much as habit has endeared
to me the goods of fortune, I am far from setting
them above all other goods.
You offer me, Madam, a large alms. Valuable to me as
that sum is, and eagerly as I would accept it in any other
circumstances, yet, at present, I must, however reluctantly,
decline it. A voyage to Europe and such a sum, if your
daughter's happiness were not in question, would be the utmost
bound of my wishes.
"Shall I be able to compensate her—" you ask.
No, indeed, Madam, I am far from deeming myself
qualified to compensate her for the loss of property, reputation
and friends. I aspire to nothing but to console her
under that loss, and to husband as frugally as I can, those
few meagre remnants of happiness which shall be left to us.
I have seen your late letter to her. I should be less than
man if I were not greatly grieved at the contents; yet,
Madam, I am not cast down below the hope of convincing
you that the charge made against your daughter is false.
You could not do otherwise than believe it. It is for us to
show you by what means, you, and probably Talbot himself,
have been deceived.
To suffer your charge to pass, for a moment, uncontradicted,
would be unjust, not more to ourselves than to you.
The mere denial will not, and ought not to change your
opinion. It may even tend to raise higher the acrimony of
your aversion to me. It must ever be irksome to a generous
spirit to deny, without the power of disproving, but a
tacit admission of the charge would be unworthy of those
who know themselves innocent.
Beseeching your favorable thoughts, and grateful for the
good which, but for the interference of higher duties, your
heart would prompt you to give, and mine would not scruple
to accept,
