LETTER LI.
To James Montford.
Is not this strange, my friend! Miss Jessup, it seems,
has denied her own letter. Surely there was no mistake—
no mystery. Let me look again at the words in the cover.
Let me awake! Let me disabuse my senses! Yes. It
is plain. Miss Jessup repented her of her confession.
Something in that unopened letter—believing the contents
of that known, there were inducements to sincerity which
the recovery of that letter, and the finding it unopened,
perhaps annihilated. Pride resumed its power. Before so
partial a judge as Mrs. Fielder, and concerning a wretch so
worthy of discredit as I, how easy, how obvious to deny—
and to impute to me the imposture charged on herself?
Well, and what is now to be done? I will once more
return to Miss Jessup. I will force myself into her presence,
and then—but I have not a moment to lose—
* * * * * * * * * *
And this was the night, this was the hour that was to see
my Jane's hand wedded to mine. That event providence,
or fate, or fortune stepped in to forbid. And must it then
pass away like any vulgar hour?
It deserves to be signalized, to be made memorable.
What forbids but sordid, despicable cowardice! Not virtue;
not the love of universal happiness; not piety; not
sense of duty to my God or my fellow creatures. These
sentiments, alas! burn feebly or not at all within my bosom.
It is not hope that restrains my hand. For what is my
hope? Independence, dignity, a life of activity and usefulness,
are not within my reach—and why not? What
obstacles arise in the way.
Have I not youth, health, knowledge, talents? Twenty
professional roads are open before me, and solicit me to
enter them—but no. I shall never enter any of them. Be
all earthly powers combined to force me into the right path
—the path of duty, honor and interest—they strive in vain.
And whence this incurable folly? This rooted incapacity
of acting as every motive, generous and selfish, combine
to recommend? Constitution; habit; insanity; the
dominion of some evil spirit, who insinuates his baneful
power between the will and the act.
And this more congenial good; this feminine excellence;
this secondary and more valuable self; this woman who
has appropriated to herself every desire, every emotion of
my soul—what hope remains with regard to her? Shall I
live for her sake?
No. Her happiness requires me to be blotted out of
existence. Let me unfold myself to myself; let me ask my
soul—can'st thou wish to be rejected, renounced, and forgotten
by Jane? Does it please thee that her happiness
should be placed upon a basis absolutely independent of
thy lot. Can'st thou, with a true and fervent zeal, resign
her to her mother.
I can. I do.
* * * * * * * * * *
I wish I had words, my friend—yet why do I wish for
them. Why sit I here, endeavoring to give form, substance,
and duration to images, to which it is guilty and opprobrious
to allow momentary place in my mind? Why do I thus lay
up for the few that love me, causes of affliction?
Yet, perhaps, I accuse myself too soon. The persuasion
that I have one friend, is sweet. I fancy myself talking to
oe who is interested in my happiness, but this shall satisfy
me. If fate impel me to any rash and irretrievable act, I
will take care that no legacy of sorrow shall be left to my
survivors. My fate shall be buried in oblivion. No busy
curiosity, no affectionate zeal shall trace the way that I have
gone. No mourning footsteps shall haunt my grave.
I am, indeed, my friend—never, never before, spiritless,
and even hopeless as I have sometimes been, have my
thoughts been thus gloomy. Never felt I so enamored of
that which seems to be the cure-all.
Often have I wished to slide obscurely and quietly into
the grave; but this wish, while it saddened my bosom,
never raised my hand against my life. It made me willingly
expose my safety to the blasts of pestilence; it made
me court disease, but it never set my imagination in search
after more certain and speedy means.
Yet I am wonderfully calm. I can still reason on the
folly of despair. I know that a few days; perhaps a few
hours, will bring me some degree of comfort and courage;
will make life, with all its disappointments and vexations,
endurable at least.
Would to heaven I were not quite alone. Left thus to
my greatest enemy, myself, I feel that I am capable of
deeds which I fear to name.
A few minutes ago I was anxious to find Miss Jessup;
to gain another interview with Mrs. Fielder. Both the one
and the other have left the city. Jane's dwelling is deserted.
Shortly after I left it, they set out upon their journey, and
Miss Jessup, no doubt, to avoid another interview with me,
has precipitately withdrawn into the country.
I shall not pursue their steps. Let things take their
course. No doubt, a lasting and effectual remorse will,
sometime or other, reach the heart of Miss Jessup, and this
fatal error will be rectified. I need not live, I need not
exert myself, to hasten the discovery. I can do nothing.
