LETTER XXIX.
To the Same.
Now let us take a view of what is to come. Too often
I endeavor to escape from foresight when it presents to me
nothing but evils, but now I must, for thy sake, be less a
coward.
In six weeks Jane becomes mine. Till then, thy mother
will not cast thee out of her protection, and will she then?
will she not allow of thy continuance in thy present dwelling?
and though so much displeased as to refuse thee her
countenance and correspondence, will she, indeed, turn thee
out of doors? She threatens it, we see, but, I suspect, it
will never be more than a threat, employed, perhaps, only
to intimidate and deter; not designed to be enforced; or, if
made in earnest, yet, when the irrevocable deed is done,
will she not hesitate to inflict the penalty? Will not her
ancient affection; thy humility, thy sorrow, thy merits—such
as, in spite of this instance of contumacy, she cannot deny
thee—will not these effectually plead for thee?
More than ever will she see that thou needest her bounty;
and since she cannot recall what is past, will she not relent
and be willing to lessen the irremediable evil all she can.
There is one difficulty that I know not how to surmount.
Giving to the wife will be only giving to the husband. Shall
one whom she so much abhors, be luxuriously supplied from
her bounty?
The wedded pair must live together, she will think; and
shall this hated encroacher find refuge from beggary and
vileness under her roof? be lodged and banqueted at her
expense? that, her indignant heart will never suffer.
Would to Heaven she would think of me with less abhorrence.
I wish for treatment conformable to her assumed
relation to thee, for all our sakes. As to me, I have no
pride; no punctilio, that will stand in the way of reconciliation.
At least there is no deliberate and steadfast sentiment
of that kind. When I reason the matter with myself, I perceive
a sort of claim to arise from my poverty and relation
to thee, on the one hand, and, on the other, from thy merit,
thy affinity to her, and her capacity to benefit. Yet I will
never supplicate—not meanly supplicate for an alms. I will
not live, nor must thou, when thou art mine, in her house.
Whatever she will give thee, money, or furniture, or clothes,
receive it promptly, and with gratitude; but let thy home
be thy own. For lodging and food, be thou the payer.
And where shall be thy home? You love the comforts,
the ease, the independence of a household. Your own
pittance will not suffice for this. All these you must relinquish
for my sake. You must go into a family of strangers.
You must hire a chamber, and a plate of such food as is
going. You must learn to bear the humors, and accommodate
yourself to the habits of your inmates.
Some frugal family and humble dwelling must content
thee. A low roof, a narrow chamber and an obscure avenue,
the reverse of all the specious, glossy and abundant that surround
thee now, will be thy portion; all that thou must look
for as
my wife. And how will this do, Jane? Is not the
price too great?
And my company will not solace thee under these inconveniences.
I must not live with thee; only an occasional
visitor; one among a half dozen at a common fire; with
witnesses of all we say. Thy pittance will do no more than
support thyself. I must house myself and feed elsewhere.
Where, I know not. That will depend upon the species of
employment I shall be obliged to pursue for my subsistence.
Scanty and irksome it will be, at best.
Once a day, I may see thee. Most of my evenings may
possibly be devoted to thy company. A soul harassed by
unwelcome toil, eyes dim with straining at tiresome or painful
objects, shall I bring to thee. If, now and then, we are
alone, how can I contribute to thy entertainment. The day's
task will furnish me with nothing new. Instead of alleviating
by my cheerful talk, thy vexations and discomforts, I
shall demand consolation from thee.
And yet imperious necessity may bereave us even of that
joy. I may be obliged to encounter the perils of the seas
once more. Three-fourths of the year, the ocean may
divide us, thou in solitude, the while, pondering on the dangers
to which I may be exposed, and I, a prey to discontent,
and tempted in some evil hour, to forget thee, myself and
the world.
How my heart sinks at this prospect! Does not thine,
Jane? Dost thou not fear to take such a wretched chance
with me? I that know myself; my own imbecility; I
ought surely to rescue thee from such a fate, by giving
thee up.
I can write no more, just now. I wonder how I fell into
this doleful strain. It was silly in me to indulge it. These
images are not my customary inmates. Yet now that they
occur to me, they seem but rational and just. I want, methinks,
to know how they appear to thee.
Adieu.
