University of Virginia Library

LETTER XLIX.

To James Montford.

I will imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter[1]
which I have hastily transcribed. I will not stop to tell you
my reflections upon it, but shall hasten with this letter to Mrs.
Fielder. I might send it; but I have grown desperate.

A final effort must be made for my own happiness and
that of Jane. From their own lips will I know my destiny.
I have conversed too long at a distance, with this austere
lady. I will mark with my own eyes, the effect of this discovery.
Perhaps the moment may prove a yielding one.
Finding me innocent in one respect, in which her persuasion
of my guilt was most strong; may she not remit or
soften her sentence on inferior faults? And what may be
the influence of Jane's deportment, when she touches my
hand in a last adieu?

I have complied with Miss Jessup's wish in one particular.
I have sent her the letter which I got from Hannah, unopened;
unread; accompanied with a few words, to this effect—

And now, my friend, lay I down the pen, for a few hours;
hours the most important, perhaps, in my eventful life.

Surely this interview with Mrs. Fielder will decide my destiny.
After it, I shall have nothing to hope.

I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The more
nearly it approaches, the more my heart falters. I summon
up in vain a tranquil and steadfast spirit; but perhaps, a
walk in the clear air will be more conducive to this end,
than a day's ruminations in my chamber.

I will take a walk—

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And am I then—but I will not anticipate. Let me lead
you to the present state of things without confusion.

With what different emotions did I use to approach this
house! It still contains, thought I, as my wavering steps
brought me in sight of it, all that I love, but I enter not
uncerimoniously now. I find her not on the accustomed
sofa, eager to welcome my coming with smiling affability
and arms outstretched. No longer is it home to me, nor
she, assiduous to please; familiarly tender and anxiously
fond; already assuming the conjugal privilege of studying
my domestic case.

I knocked, somewhat timorously at the door; a ceremony
which I had long been in the habit of omitting—but times are
changed. I was afraid the melancholy which was fast overshadowing
me, would still more unfit me for what was coming,
but, instead of dispelling it, this very apprehension deepened
my gloom.

Molly came to the door. She silently led me into a parlor.
The poor girl was in tears. My questions as to the
cause of her distress drew from her a very indistinct and
sobbing confession that Mrs. Fielder had been made uneasy
by Molly's going out so early in the morning; had taken
her daughter to task; and by employing entreaties and remonstrances
in turn, had drawn from her the contents of
her letter to me and of my answer.

A strange, affecting scene had followed; indignation and
grief on the mother's part; obstinacy, irresolution, sorrowful,
reluctant, penitence and acquiescence on the side of the
daughter; a determination, tacitly concurred in by Jane, of
leaving the city immediately. Orders were already issued
for that purpose.

Is Mrs. Fielder at home?

Yes.

Tell her, a gentleman would see her.

She will ask, perhaps—Shall I tell her, who?

No—Yes; Tell her, I wish to see her.

The poor girl looked very mournfully—She has seen
your answer which talks of your intention to visit her. She
vows she will not see you, if you come.

Go, then to Jane, and tell her I would see her for five
minutes—Tell her openly; before her mother.

This message, as I expected, brought down Mrs. Fielder
alone. I never saw this lady before. There was a struggle
in her countenance between anger and patience; an awful
and severe solemnity; a slight and tacit notice of me as she
entered. We both took chairs without speaking. After a
moment's pause—

Mr. Colden, I presume.

Yes, madam.

You wish to see my daughter?

I was anxious, madam, to see you. My business here
chiefly lies with you, not her.

With me, sir? And pray, what have you to propose to
me?

I have nothing to solicit madam, but your patient attention.
(I saw the rising vehemence could scarcely be restrained.)
I dare not hope for your favorable ear; all I
ask is an audience from you of a few minutes.

This preface, sir, (her motions less and less controlable)
is needless. I have very few minutes to spare at present.
This roof is hateful to me while you are under it. Say
what you will, sir, and briefly as possible.

No, madam, thus received, I have not fortitude enough
to say what I came to say. I merely entreat you to peruse
this letter.

'Tis well, sir, (taking it, with some reluctance, and after
eying the direction, putting it aside.) And this is all your
business?

Let me entreat you, madam, to read it in my presence.
Its contents nearly concern your happiness, and will not
leave mine unaffected.

She did not seem, at first, disposed to compliance, but at

length opened and read. What noble features has this lady!
I watched them as she read, with great solicitude, but discovered
in them nothing that could cherish my hope. All
was stern and inflexible. No wonder at the ascendancy
this spirit possesses over the tender and flexible Jane!

She read with visible eagerness. The varying emotion
played with augmented rapidity over her face. Its expression
became less severe, and some degree of softness, I
thought, mixed itself with those glances which reflection
sometimes diverted from the letter. These tokens somewhat
revived my languishing courage.

After having gone through it she returned; read again
and pondered over particular passages. At length, after
some pause, she spoke, but her indignant eye scarcely condescended
to point the address to me.

As a mother and a woman I cannot but rejoice at this
discovery. To find my daughter less guilty, than appearances
led me to believe, cannot but console me under the
conviction of her numerous errors. Would to heaven she
would stop here, in her career of folly and imprudence.

I cannot but regard you, sir, as the author of much misery.
Still it is in your power to act, as this deluded woman, Miss
Jessup, has acted. You may desist from any future persecution.
Your letter to me gave me no reason to expect
the honor of this visit, and contained something like a promise
to shun any farther intercourse with Mrs. Talbot.

I hope, madam, the contents of this letter will justify me,
in bringing it to you.—

Perhaps it has, but that commission is performed. That,
I hope, is all you proposed by coming hither, and, you will
pardon me, if I plead an engagement for not detaining you
longer in this house.

I had no apology for prolonging my stay, yet I was irresolute.
She seemed impatient at my lingering; again urged
her engagements; I rose; took my hat; moved a few
steps towards the door; hesitated.

At length, I stammered out—Since it is the last—the last
interview—if I were allowed—but one moment.

No, no, no—what but needless torment to herself and to
you can follow? What do you expect from an interview?

I would see, for a moment, the face of one, whom—
whatever be my faults, and whatever be hers, I love.

Yes. You would profit, no doubt, by your power over
this infatuated girl. I know what a rash proposal she has
made you, and you seek her presence to insure her adherence
to it.

Her vehemence tended more to bereave me of courage
than of temper, but I could not forbear (mildly however)
reminding her that if I had sought to take advantage of her
daughter's offer, the easiest and most obvious method was
different from that which I had taken.

True, (said she, her eyes flashing fire,) a secret marriage
would have given you the destitute and portionless girl, but
your views are far more solid and substantial. You know
your power over her; and aim at extorting from compassion
for my child what—but why do I exchange a word with
you? Mrs. Talbot knows not that you are here. She has
just given me the strongest proof of compunction for every
past folly, and especially the last. She has bound herself
to go along with me. If your professions of regard for her
be sincere, you will not increase her difficulties. I command
you, I implore you to leave the house.

I should not have resisted these entreaties on my own
account. Yet to desert her—to be thought by her to have
coldly and inhumanly rejected her offers!

In your presence, madam—I ask not privacy—let her
own lips confirm the sentence—be renunciation her own
act—for the sake of her peace of mind.—

God give me patience, said the exasperated lady. How
securely do you build on her infatuation. But you shall
not see her. If she consents to see you, I never will forgive
her. If she once more relapses, she is undone. She shall
write her mind to you—let that serve—I will permit her—
I will urge her to write to you—let that serve.

I went to this house with a confused perception that this
visit would terminate my suspense. One more interview
with Jane, thought I, and no more fluctuations or uncertainty.
Yet I was now as far as ever from certainty. Expostulation
was vain. She would not hear me. All my courage,
even my words were overwhelmed by her vehemence.

After much hesitation, and several efforts to gain even a
hearing of my pleas, I yielded to the tide. With a drooping
heart, I consented to withdraw, with my dearest hope
unaccomplished.

My steps involuntarily brought me back to my lodgings.
Here am I again at my pen. Never were my spirits lower,
my prospects more obscure, my hopes nearer to extinction.

I am afraid to allow you too near a view of my heart,
at this moment of despondency. My present feelings are
new even to myself. They terrify me. I must not trust
myself longer alone. I must shake off, or try to shake off
this excruciating—this direful melancholy. Heavy, heavy
is my soul; comfortless and friendless my condition. Nothing
is sweet but the prospect of oblivion.

But, again I say, these thoughts must not lead me.
Dreadful and downward is the course to which they point.
I must relinquish the pen. I must sally forth into the fields.
Naked and bleak is the face of nature at this inclement
season—but what of that? Dark and desolate will ever be
my world—but I will not write another word—

* * * * * * * * * *

So, my friend, I have returned from my walk with a
mind more a stranger to tranquillity than when I sallied
forth. On my table lay the letter, which, ere I seal this, I
will enclose to you. Read it here.