LETTER XXXII.
To Jane Talbot.
Let me overlook your last [1]
letter for the present,
while I mention to you a most unexpected and surprising
circumstance. It has just happened. I have parted with
my visitant but this moment.
I had strolled to the bank of the river, and was leaning
idly on a branch of an apple tree that hung pretty low,
when I noticed some one coming hastily towards me; there
was something striking and noble in the air and figure of the
man.
When he came up, he stopped. I was surprised to find
myself the object of which he was in search. I found afterwards
that he had inquired for me at my lodgings, and
had been directed to look for me in this path. A distinct
view of his features saved him the trouble of telling me
that he was your brother. However, that was information
that he thought proper immediately to communicate. He
was your brother, he said; I was Colden; I had pretensions
to you, which your brother was entitled to know, to
discuss, and to pronounce upon. Such, in about as many
words, was his introduction to me, and he waited for my
answer with much impatience.
I was greatly confused by these sudden and unceremonious
intimations; at last I told him that all that he had said
respecting my connexion with his sister, was true. It was
a fact that all the world was welcome to know. Of course
I had no objection to her brother's knowing it.
But what were my claims; what my merits; my profession;
my fortune! On all these heads a brother would naturally
require to be thoroughly informed.
As to my character, sir, you will hardly expect any satisfactory
information from my own mouth. However, it may
save you the trouble of applying to others, when I tell you,
that my character has as many slurs and blots in it as any you
ever met with. A more versatile, inconsistent, prejudiced
and faulty person than myself, I do not believe the earth to
contain. Profession, I have none, and am not acquiring
any, nor expect ever to acquire. Of fortune I am wholly
destitute; not a farthing have I, either in possession or reversion.
Then pray, sir, on what are built your pretensions to my
sister?
Really, sir, they are built on nothing. I am, in every
respect, immeasurably her inferior. I possess not a single
merit that entitles me to grace from her.
I have surely not been misinformed. She tacitly admitted
that she was engaged to be your wife.
'Tis very true. She is so.
But what, then, is the basis of this engagement.
Mutual affection, I believe, is the only basis. Nobody
who knows Jane Talbot will need to ask why she is beloved?
Why she requites that passion in the present case is
a question which she only can answer.
Her passion, sir, (contemptuously) is the freak of a child;
of folly and caprice. By your own confession you are beggarly
and worthless, and therefore it becomes you to relinquish
your claim.
I have no claim to relinquish. I have urged no claims.
On the contrary, I have fully disclosed to her every folly
and vice that cleaves to my character.
You know, sir, what I mean.
I am afraid not perfectly. If you mean that I should
profess myself unworthy of your sister's favor, 'tis done.
It has been done a hundred times.
My meaning, sir, is simply this; that you, from this moment,
give up every expectation of being the husband of
Mrs. Talbot. That you return to her every letter, and
paper that has passed between you; that you drop all intercourse
and correspondence.
I was obliged to stifle a laugh which this whimsical proposal
excited. I continued, through this whole dialogue, to
regard my companion with a steadfast, and cheerful gravity.
These are injunctions, said I, that will hardly meet with
compliance, unless, indeed, they were imposed by the
lady herself. I shall always have a supreme regard for her
happiness, and whatever path she points out to me, I will
walk in it.
But this is the path in which her true interest requires
you to walk.
I have not yet discovered that to be her opinion; the
moment I do, I will walk in it accordingly.
No matter what her opinion is. She is froward and obstinate.
It is my opinion that her true happiness requires all
connexion between you, to cease from this moment.
After all, sir, though, where judgments differ, one only
can be right, yet each person must be permitted to follow
his own. You would hardly, I imagine, allow your sister to
prescribe to you in your marriage choice, and I fear she will
lay claim to the same independence for herself. If you can
convert her to your way of thinking, it is well. I solemnly
engage to do whatever she directs.
This is insolence. You trifle with me. You pretend to
misconstrue my meaning.
When you charge me with insolence, I think you afford
pretty strong proof that you mistake my meaning. I have
not the least intention to offend you.
Let me be explicit with you. Do you instantly and absolutely
resign all pretensions to my sister?
I will endeavor to be explicit in my turn. Your sister,
notwithstanding my defects and disadvantages, offers me
her love; vows to be mine. I accept her love; she is
mine; nor need we to discuss the matter any further.
This, however, by no means put an end to altercation. I
told him I was willing to hear all that he had to say upon the
subject. If truth were on his side, it was possible he might
reason me into a concurrence with him. In compliance with
this concession, he dwelt on the benefits which his sister
would receive from accompanying him to France, and the
mutual sorrow, debasement and perplexity likely to flow
from a union between us, unsanctioned by the approbation
of our common friends.
The purpose of all this is to prove, said I, that affluence
and dignity without me, will be more conducive to your
sister's happiness, than obscurity and indigence with me.
It was.
Happiness is mere matter of opinion; perhaps Jane thinks
already as you do.
He allowed that he had talked with you ineffectually on
that subject.
I think myself bound to believe her in a case where she
is the proper judge, and shall eagerly consent to make her
happy in her own way. That, sir, is my decision.
I will not repeat the rest of our conversation. Your letters
have given me some knowledge of your brother, and I
endeavored by the mildness, sedateness and firmness of my
carriage to elude those extremes to which his domineering
passions were likely to carry him. I carefully avoided every
thing that tended in the least to exasperate. He was prone
enough to rage, but I quietly submitted to all that he could
say. I was sincerely rejoiced when the conference came
to an end.
Whence came your brother thus abruptly? Have you
seen him? Yet he told me that you had. Alas! what must
you have suffered from his impetuosity.
I look with impatience for your next letter, in which you
will tell what has happened.
