LETTER LX.
To Mrs. Montford.
Ah! dear madam! how much has your letter afflicted;
how much has it consoled me.
You have then some hope of his return; but, you say,
'twill be a long time first. He has gone where I cannot
follow him; to the end of the world; where even a letter
cannot find him; into unwholesome climates; through dangerous
elements; among savages—
Alas! I have no hope. Among so many perils, it cannot
be expected that he should escape. And did he not say
that he meant not to return?
Yet one thing consoles me. He left not his curses or
reproaches on my head. Kindly, generously, and justly
didst thou judge of my fidelity, Henry. While thou livest,
and as long as I live, will I cherish thy image.
I am coming to pass the winter in your city. I adopt
this scheme merely because it will give me your company.
I feel as if you were the only friend I have in the world.
Do not think me forward or capricious. I will not deny
that you owe your place in my affections chiefly to your relation
to the wanderer; but no matter whence my attachment
proceeds. I feel that it is strong; merely selfish,
perhaps; the child of a distracted fancy; the prop on which
a sinking heart relies in its uttermost extremity.
Reflection stings me to the quick, but it does not deny
me some consolation. The memory of my mother calls
forth tears, but they are not tears of bitterness. To her, at
least, I have not been deficient in dutiful observance. I
have sacrificed my friend and myself, but it was to her
peace. The melancholy of her dying scene will ever be
cheered in my remembrance, by her gratitude and blessing.
Her last words were these;—
"Thou hast done much for me, my child. I begin to
fear that I have exacted too much. Your sweetness, your
patience have wrung my heart with compunction.
"I have wronged thee, Jane. I have wronged the absent.
I greatly fear, I have. Forgive me. If you ever
meet, entreat him to forgive me, and recompense yourself
and him, for all your mutual sufferings.
"I hope all, though sorrowful, has been for the best. I
hope that angelic sweetness, which I have witnessed, will
continue when I am gone. That belief only can make my
grave peaceful.
"I leave you affluence and honor at least. I leave you
the means of repairing my injury. That is my comfort; but
forgive me, Jane. Say, my child, you forgive me for what
has past."—
She stretched her hand to me, which I bathed with my
tears—But this subject afflicts me too much.
Give my affectionate compliments to Mr. Montford, and
tell me that you wish to see your
