_To Henry Colden_
Philadelphia, November 23.
You impose on me a painful task. Persuaded that reflection was useless,
I have endeavoured to forget this fatal letter and all its consequences. I
see you will not allow me to forget it; but I must own it is weakness to
endeavour to shun the scrutiny.
Some one, my friend, must be in fault; and what fault can be more
atrocious than this? To defraud, by forgery, your neighbour of a few
dollars, is a crime which nothing but a public and ignominious death will
expiate; yet how trivial is that offence, compared with a fraud like this,
which robs a helpless woman of her reputation,--introduces mortal enmity
between her and those whose affection is necessary to render life
tolerable!
Whenever I think of this charge, an exquisite pain seizes my heart.
There must be the blackest perfidy somewhere. I cannot bear to think that
any human creature is capable of such a deed,--a deed which the purest
malice must have dictated, since there is none, surely, in the world, whom
I have ever intentionally injured.
I cannot deal in conjectures. The subject, I find by my feelings since
I began this letter, is too agonizing,--too bewildering. It carries back
my thoughts to a time of misery, to which distance, instead of soothing it
into apathy, only adds a new sting.
A spotless reputation was once dear to me, but I have now torn the
passion from my heart. I am weary of pursuing a phantom. No one has
pursued it with more eagerness and perseverance than I; and what has been
the fruit of my labour but reiterated mortification and
disappointment?
An upright demeanour, a self-acquitting conscience, are not sufficient
for our safety. Calumny and misapprehension have no bounds to their rage
and their activity.
How little did my thoughtless heart imagine the horrid images which
beset the minds of my mother and my husband! Happy ignorance! Would to
Heaven it had continued! Since knowledge puts it not in my power to remove
the error, it ought to be avoided as the greatest evil.
While I know my own motives, and am convinced of their purity, let me
hold in contempt the opinions of the world respecting me. They can never
have a basis in truth. Be they favourable or otherwise, they cannot fail
to be built on imperfect knowledge. The praise of others is therefore as
little to be sought or prized as their censure to be dreaded or
shunned.
Heaven knows how much I value the favour and affection of my mother;
but, clear as it is, I must give it up. How can I retain it? I cannot
confute the charge. I must not acknowledge a guilt that does not belong to
me. Added, therefore, to her belief of my guilt, must be the persuasion of
my being a hardened and obdurate criminal.
What will she think of my last two letters? The former tacitly
confessing my unworthiness and promising compliance with all her wishes,
the next asserting my innocence and refusing her generous offers. My first
she will probably ascribe to an honourable compunction, left to operate
without your control. In the second she will trace your influence. Left to
myself, she will imagine me capable of acting as she wishes; but, guided
by you, she will lose all hopes of me, and resign me to my fate.
Indeed, I have given up my mother. There is no other alternative but
that of giving up you; and in this case I can hesitate, indeed, but I
cannot decide against you.
I am placed in a very painful situation. I feel as if every hour spent
under this roof was an encroachment on another's rights. My mother's
bounty is not withheld, merely because my rebellion against her will is
not completed; but I that feel no doubt, and whom mere consideration of
her pleasure, important as it is, will never make swerve from my
purpose,--ought I to enjoy goods to which I have forfeited all title?
Ought I to wait for an express command to begone from her doors? Ought
I to lay her under the necessity of declaring her will?
Yet if I change my lodgings immediately, without waiting her
directions, will she not regard my conduct as contemptuous? Shall I not
then be a rebel indeed?--one that scorns her favour, and is eager to get
rid of all my obligations?
How painful is such a situation! yet there is no escaping from it, that
I can see. I must, perforce, remain as I am. But perhaps her next letter
will throw some light upon my destiny. I suppose my positive assertions
will show her that a change of purpose cannot be hoped for from me.
The bell rings. Perhaps it is the postman, and the intelligence I wish
for has arrived. Adieu.