Yes; two letters had come to the door at once, this morning,--one for
Mrs. Fielder and the other for her daughter. Jane expected its arrival,
and showed the utmost impatience when the hour approached. She walked
about her chamber, listened, with a start, to every sound, continually
glanced from her window at the passengers.
She did not conceal from Molly the object of her solicitude. The good
girl endeavoured to soothe her, but she checked her with vehemence:--"Talk
not to me, Molly. On this hour depends my happiness,--my life. The
sacrifice my mother asks is too much or too little. In bereaving me of my
love, she must be content to take my existence also. They never shall be
separated."
The weeping girl timorously suggested that she had already given me
up.
"True, Molly, in a rash moment I told him that we meet no more; but two
days of misery have convinced me that it cannot be. His answer will decide
my fate as to this world. If he accept my dismissal, I am thenceforth
undone. I will die. Blessing my mother, and wishing her a less stubborn
child, _I will die_."
These last words were uttered with an air the most desperate, and an
emphasis the most solemn. They chilled me to the heart, and I was unable
longer to keep my seat. Molly, unbidden, went on.
"Your letter at last came. I ran down to receive it. Mrs. Fielder was
at the street-door before me, but she suffered me to carry my mistress's
letter to her. Poor lady! She met me at the stair-head, snatched the paper
eagerly, but trembled so she could not open it. At last she threw herself
on the bed, and ordered me to read it to her. I did so. At every sentence
she poured forth fresh tears, and exclaimed, wringing her hands, 'Oh,
what--what a heart have I madly cast away!'"
The girl told me much more, which I am unable to repeat. Her visit was
self-prompted. She had caught a glimpse of me as I passed the door, and,
without mentioning her purpose to her mistress, set out as soon as it was
dusk.
"Cannot you do something, Mr. Colden, for my mistress?" continued the
girl. "She will surely die if she has not her own way; and, to judge from
your appearance, it is as great a cross to you as to her."
Heaven knows, that, with me, it is nothing but the choice of dreadful
evils. Jane is the mistress of her own destiny. It is not I that have
renounced her, but she that has banished me. She has only to recall the
sentence, which she confesses to have been hastily and thoughtlessly
pronounced, and no power on earth shall sever me from her side.
Molly asked my permission to inform her mistress of my being in the
city, and conjured me not to leave it, during the next day at least. I
readily consented, and requested her to bring me word in the morning in
what state things were.
She offered to conduct me to her then. It was easy to effect an
interview without Mrs. Fielder's knowledge; but I was sick of all
clandestine proceedings, and had promised Mrs. Fielder not to seek another
meeting with her daughter. I was likewise anxious to visit Miss Jessup,
and ascertain what was to be done by means of the letter in my pocket.
Can I, my friend,--can I, without unappeasable remorse, pursue this
scheme of a distant voyage? Suppose some fatal despair should seize my
friend. Suppose--it is impossible. I will not stir till she has had time
to deliberate; till resignation to her mother's will shall prove a task
that is practicable.
Should I not be the most fragrant of villains if I deserted one that
loved me? My own happiness is not a question. I cannot be a selfish being
and a true lover. Happiness, without her, is indeed a chimerical thought;
but my exile would be far from miserable, while assured of her
tranquillity, and possession would confer no peace, if she whom I
possessed were not happier than a different destiny would make her.
Why have all these thoughts been suspended for the last two days? I had
wrought myself up to a firm persuasion that marriage was the only remedy
for all evils; that our efforts to regain the favour of her mother would
be most likely to succeed when that which she endeavoured to prevent was
irretrievable. Yet that persuasion was dissipated by her last letter.
_That_ convinced me that her lot would only be made miserable by
being united to mine. Yet now, is it not evident that our fates must be
inseparable?
What a fantastic impediment is this aversion of her mother! And yet,
can I safely and deliberately call it fantastic? Let me sever myself
_from_ myself, and judge impartially. Be my heart called upon to urge
its claims to such affluence, such love, such treasures of personal and
mental excellence, as Jane has to bestow. Would it not be dumb? It is not
so absurd as to plead its devotion to her as an atonement for every past
guilt, and as affording security for future uprightness.
On my own merit I am, and ever have been, mute. I have plead with Mrs.
Fielder, not for myself, but for Jane. It is her happiness that forms the
object of my supreme regard. I am eager to become hers, because
_her_, not because _my_ happiness, though my happiness certainly
_does_, demand it.
I am then resolved. Jane's decision shall be deliberate. I will not
bias her by prayers or blandishments. Her resolution shall spring from her
own judgment, and shall absolutely govern me. I will rivet myself to her
side, or vanish forever, according to her pleasure.
I wish I had written a few words to her by Molly, assuring her of my
devotion to her will. And yet, stands she in need of any new assurances?
She has banished me. I am preparing to fly. She recalls me, and it is
impossible to depart.
I must go to Miss Jessup's. I will take up the pen ('tis my sole
amusement) when I return.
* * * * *
I went to Miss Jessup's; her still sealed letter in my pocket; my mind
confused, perplexed, sorrowful; wholly undetermined as to the manner of
addressing her, or the use to be made of this important paper. I
designedly prolonged my walk, in hopes of forming some distinct conception
of the purpose for which I was going, but only found myself each moment
sinking into new perplexities. Once I had taken the resolution of opening
her letter, and turned my steps towards the fields, that I might examine
it at leisure; but there was something disgraceful in the violation of a
seal, which scared me away from this scheme.
At length, reproaching myself for this indecision, and leaving my
conduct to be determined by circumstances, I went directly to her
house.
Miss Jessup was unwell; was unfit to see company; desired me to send up
my name. I did not mention my name to the servant, but replied I had
urgent business, which a few minutes' conversation would despatch. I was
admitted.
I found the lady in a careless garb, reclining on a sofa, wan, pale,
and of a sickly aspect On recognising me, she assumed a languidly-smiling
air, and received me with much civility. I took my seat near her. She
began to talk:--
"I am very unwell; got a terrible cold, coming from Dover; been laid up
ever since; a teasing cough, no appetite, and worse spirits than I ever
suffered. Glad you've come to relieve my solitude; not a single soul to
see me; Mrs. Talbot never favours a body with a visit. Pray, how's the
dear girl? Hear her mother's come; heard, it seems, of your intimacy with
Miss Secker; determined to revenge your treason to her goddess; vows she
shall henceforth have no more to say to you."
While waiting for admission, I formed hastily the resolution in what
manner to conduct this interview. My deportment was so solemn, that the
chatterer, glancing at my face in the course of her introductory harangue,
felt herself suddenly chilled and restrained:--
"Why, what now, Colden? You are mighty grave, methinks. Do you repent
already of your new attachment? Has the atmosphere of Philadelphia
reinstated Jane in all her original rights?"
"Proceed, madam. When you are tired of raillery, I shall beg your
attention to a subject in which your honour is deeply concerned; to a
subject which allows not of a jest."
"Nay," said she, in some little trepidation, "if you have any thing to
communicate, I am already prepared to receive it."
"Indeed, Miss Jessup, I _have_ something to communicate. A man of
more refinement and address than I can pretend to would make this
communication in a more circuitous and artful manner; and a man less
deeply interested in the establishment of truth would act with more
caution and forbearance. I have no excuse to plead, no forgiveness to ask,
for what I am now going to disclose. I demand nothing from you but your
patient attention while I lay before you the motives of my present
visit.
"You are no stranger to my attachment to Mrs. Talbot. That my passion
is requited is likewise known to you. That her mother objects to her union
with me, and raises her objections on certain improprieties in my
character and conduct, I suppose, has already come to your knowledge.
"You may naturally suppose that I am desirous of gaming her favour; but
it is not by the practice of fraud and iniquity, and therefore I have not
begun with denying or concealing my faults. Very faulty, very criminal,
have I been; to deny that would be adding to the number of my
transgressions: but I assure you, Miss Jessup, there have been limits to
my follies; there is a boundary beyond which I have never gone. Mrs.
Fielder imagines me much more criminal than I really am, and her opinion
of me--which, if limited in the strictest manner by my merits, would amply
justify her aversion to my marriage with her daughter--is, however,
carried further than justice allows.
"Mrs. Fielder has been somewhat deceived with regard to me. She thinks
me capable of a guilt of which, vicious as I am, I am yet incapable. Nay,
she imagines I have actually committed a crime of which I am wholly
innocent.
"What think you, madam," (taking her hand, and eyeing her with
steadfastness;) "she thinks me at once so artful and so wicked that I have
made the wife unfaithful to the husband; that I have persuaded Mrs. Talbot
to forget what was due to herself, her fame, and to trample on her
marriage-vow.
"This opinion is not a vague conjecture on suspicion. It is founded in
what seems to be the most infallible of all evidence; the written
confession of her daughter. The paper appears to be a letter which was
addressed to the seducer soon after the guilty interview. This paper came
indirectly into Mrs. Fielder's hands. To justify her charge against us,
she has shown it to, us. Now, madam, the guilt imputed to us is a stranger
to our hearts. The crime which this letter confesses never was committed,
and the letter which contains the confession never was written by Jane. It
is a forgery.
"Mrs. Fielder's misapprehension, so far as it relates to me, is of very
little moment. I can hope for nothing from the removal of this error while
so many instances of real misconduct continue to plead against me, but her
daughter's happiness is materially affected by it, and for her sake I am
anxious to vindicate her fame from this reproach.
"No doubt, Miss Jessup, you have often asked me in your heart, since I
began to speak, why I have stated this transaction to you. What interest
have you in our concerns? What proofs of affection or esteem have you
received from us, that should make you zealous in our behalf? Or what
relation has your interest in any respect to _our_ weal or woe? Why
should you be called upon as a counsellor or umpire in the little family
dissensions of Mrs. Talbot and her mother?
"And do indeed these questions rise in your heart, Miss Jessup? Does
not memory enable you to account for conduct which, to the distant and
casual observer, to those who know not what _you_ know, would appear
strange and absurd?
"Recollect yourself. I will give you a moment to recall the past. Think
over all that has occurred since your original acquaintance with Mrs.
Talbot or her husband, and tell me, solemnly and truly, whether you
discern not the cause of his mistake. Tell me whether you know not the
unhappy person whom some delusive prospect of advantage, some fatal
passion, has tempted to belie the innocent."
I am no reader of faces, my friend. I drew no inferences from the
confusion sufficiently visible in Miss Jessup. She made no attempt to
interrupt me, but quickly withdrew her eye from my gaze; hung her head
upon her bosom; a hectic flush now and then shot across her check. But
these would have been produced by a similar address, delivered with much
solemnity and emphasis, in any one, however innocent.
I believe there was no anger in my looks. Supposing her to have been
the author of this stratagem, it awakened in me not resentment, but pity.
I paused; but she made no answer to my expostulation. At length I resumed,
with augmented earnestness, grasping her hand:--
"Tell me, I conjure you, what you know. Be not deterred by any
self-regard; but, indeed, how can your interest be affected by clearing
up a mistake so fatal to the happiness of one for whom you have always
professed a friendly regard?
"Will your own integrity or reputation be brought into question? In
order to exculpate your friend, will it be necessary to accuse yourself?
Have you been guilty in withholding the discovery? Have you been guilty in
contriving the fraud? Did your own hand pen the fatal letter which is now
brought in evidence against my friend? Were you yourself guilty of
counterfeiting hands, in order to drive the husband into a belief of his
wife's perfidy?"
A deadly paleness overspread her countenance at these words. I pitied
her distress and confusion, and waited not for an answer which she was
unable to give.
"Yes, Miss Jessup, I well know your concern in this transaction. I mean
not to distress you; I mean not to put you to unnecessary shame; I have no
indignation or enmity against you. I came hither not to injure or disgrace
you, but to confer on you a great and real benefit; to enable you to
repair the evil which your infatuation has occasioned. I want to relieve
your conscience from the sense of having wronged one that never wronged
you.
"Do not imagine that in all this I am aiming at my own selfish
advantage. This is not the mother's only objection to me, or only proof of
that frailty she justly ascribes to me. To prove me innocent of this
charge will not reconcile her to her daughter's marriage. It will only
remove one insuperable impediment to her reconciliation with her
daughter.
"Mrs. Fielder is, at this moment, not many steps from this spot. Permit
me to attend you to her. I will introduce the subject. I will tell her
that you come to clear her daughter from an unmerited charge, to confess
that the unfinished letter was taken by you, and that, by additions in a
feigned hand, you succeeded in making that an avowal of abandoned
wickedness, which was originally innocent, at least, though perhaps
indiscreet."
All this was uttered in a very rapid but solemn accent. I gave her no
time to recollect herself; no leisure for denial or evasion. I talked as
if her agency was already ascertained; and the feelings she betrayed at
this abrupt and unaware attack confirmed my suspicions.
After a long pause, and a struggle, as it were, for utterance, she
faltered out, "Mr. Colden, you see I am very sick: this conduct has been
very strange. Nothing,--I know nothing of what you have been saying. I
wonder at your talking to me in this manner: you might as well address
yourself in this style to one you never saw. What grounds can you have for
suspecting me of any concern in this transaction?"
"Ah, madam," replied I, "I see you have not strength of mind to confess
a fault. Why will you compel me to produce the proof that you have taken
an unauthorized part in Mrs. Talbot's concerns? Do you imagine that the
love you bore her husband, even after his marriage, the efforts you used
to gain his favour, his contemptuous rejection of your advances,--can you
imagine that these things are not known?
"Why you should endeavour to defraud the wife of her husband's esteem,
is a question which your own heart only can answer. Why you should watch
Mrs. Talbot's conduct, and communicate your discoveries, in anonymous
letters and a hand disguised, to her mother, I pretend not to say. I came
not to inveigh against the folly or malignity of such conduct. I came not
even to censure it. I am not entitled to sit in judgment over you. My
regard for mother and daughter makes me anxious to rectify an error fatal
to their peace. There is but one way of doing this effectually, with the
least injury to your character. I would not be driven to the necessity of
employing _public_ means to convince the mother that the charge is
false, and that you were the calumniator; means that will humble and
disgrace you infinitely more than a secret interview and frank confession
from your own lips.
"To deny and to prevaricate in a case like this is to be expected from
one capable of acting as you have acted; but it will avail you nothing. It
will merely compel me to have recourse to means less favourable to you. My
reluctance to employ them arises from regard to you, for I repeat that I
have no enmity for you, and propose, in reality, not only Mrs. Talbot's
advantage, but your own."
I cannot paint the alarm and embarrassment which these words
occasioned. Tears afforded her some relief, but shame had deprived her of
all utterance.
"Let me conjure you," resumed I, "to go with me this moment to Mrs.
Fielder. In ten minutes all may be over. I will save you the pain of
speaking. Only be present while I explain the matter. Your silent
acquiescence will be all that I shall demand."
"Impossible!" she exclaimed, in a kind of agony; "I am already sick to
death! I cannot move a step on such a purpose. I don't know Mrs. Fielder,
and can never look her in the face."
"A letter, then," replied I, "will do, perhaps, as well. Here are pen
and paper. Send to her, by me, a few lines. Defer all circumstance and
comment, and merely inform her who the author of this forgery was. Here,"
continued I, producing the letter which Talbot had shown to Mrs.
Fielder,--"here is the letter in which my friend's hand is counterfeited,
and she is made to confess a guilt to the very thought of which she has
ever been a stranger. Enclose it in a paper, acknowledging the stratagem
to be yours. It is done in a few words, and in half a minute."
My impetuosity overpowered all opposition and remonstrance. The paper
was before her, the pen in her reluctant fingers; but that was all.
"There may never be a future opportunity of repairing your misconduct.
You are sick, you say; and, indeed, your countenance bespeaks some
deeply-rooted malady. You cannot be certain but that this is the last
opportunity you may ever enjoy. When sunk upon the bed of death, and
unable to articulate your sentiments, you may unavailingly regret the
delay of this confession. You may die with the excruciating thought of
having blasted the fame of an innocent woman, and of having sown eternal
discord between mother and child."
I said a good deal more in this strain, by which she was deeply
affected; but she demanded time to reflect. She would do nothing then; she
would do all I wished to-morrow. She was too unwell to see anybody, to
hold a pen, at present.
"All I want," said I, "are but few words. You cannot be at a loss for
these. I will hold, I will guide your hand; I will write what you dictate.
Will you put your hand to something which I will write this moment in your
presence and subject to your revision?"
I did not stay for her consent, but, seizing the pen, put down hastily
these words:--
"Madam: the enclosed letter has led you into mistake. It has persuaded
you that your daughter was unfaithful to her vows; but know, madam, that
the concluding paragraph was written by me. I found the letter unfinished
on Mrs. Talbot's desk. I took it thence without her knowledge, and added
the concluding paragraph, in a hand as much resembling hers as possible,
and conveyed it to the hands of her husband."
This hasty scribble I read to her, and urged her, by every
consideration my invention could suggest, to sign it. But no; she did not
deny the truth of the statement it contained, but she must have time to
recollect herself. Her head was rent to pieces by pain. She was in too
much confusion to allow her to do any thing just now deliberately.
I now produced the letter I received from Hannah Seeker, and said, "I
see, madam, you will compel me to preserve no measures with you.
_There_ is a letter which you wrote to Mrs. Fielder. Its contents
were so important that you would not at first trust a servant with the
delivery of it at the office. This, however, you were finally compelled to
do. A fellow-servant, however, stole it from your messenger, and, instead
of being delivered according to its address, it has lately come into my
hands.
"No doubt," (showing the superscription, but not permitting her to see
that the seal was unbroken,) "no doubt you recognise the hand; the hand of
that anonymous detractor who had previously taken so much pains to
convince the husband that his wife was an adulteress and a
prostitute."
Had I foreseen the effect which this disclosure would have had, I
should have hesitated. After a few convulsive breathings, she fainted. I
was greatly alarmed, and, calling in a female servant, I stayed till she
revived. I thought it but mercy to leave her alone, and, giving directions
to the servant where I might be found, and requesting her to tell her
mistress that I would call again early in the morning, I left the
house.
I returned hither, and am once more shut up in my solitary chamber. I
am in want of sleep, but my thoughts must be less tumultuous before that
blessing can be hoped for. All is still in the house and in the city, and
the "cloudy morning" of the watchman tells me that midnight is past. I
have already written much, but must write on.
What, my friend, can this letter contain? The belief that the contents
are known and the true writer discovered produced strange effects. I am
afraid there was some duplicity in my conduct. But the concealment of the
unbroken seal was little more than chance. Had she inquired whether the
letter was opened, I should not have deceived her.
Perhaps, however, I ascribe too much to this discovery. Miss Jessup was
evidently very ill. The previous conversation had put her fortitude to a
severe test. The tide was already so high, that the smallest increase
sufficed to overwhelm her. Methinks I might have gained my purpose with
less injury to her.
But what purpose have I gained? I have effected nothing; I am as far,
perhaps further than ever from vanquishing her reluctance. A night's
reflection may fortify her pride, may furnish some expedient for eluding
my request. Nay, she may refuse to see me when I call on the morrow, arid
I cannot force myself into her presence.
If all this should happen, what will be left for me to do? _That_
deserves some consideration. This letter of Miss Jessup's may possibly
contain the remedy for many evils. What use shall I make of it? How shall
I get at its contents?
There is but one way. I must carry it to Mrs. Fielder, and deliver it
to her, to whom it is addressed. Carry it myself? Venture into her
presence by whom I am so much detested? She will tremble with mingled
indignation and terror at the sight of me. I cannot hope a patient
audience. And can I, in such circumstances, rely on my own equanimity? How
can I endure the looks of one to whom I am a viper, a demon; who, not
content with hating me for that which really merits hatred, imputes to me
a thousand imaginary crimes?
Such is the lot of one that has forfeited his reputation. Having once
been guilty, the returning path to rectitude is forever barred against
him. His conduct will almost always be liable to a double construction;
and who will suppose the influence of good motives, when experience has
proved the influence, in former cases, of evil ones?
Jane Talbot is young, lovely, and the heiress, provided she retain the
favour of her adopted mother, of a splendid fortune. I am poor, indolent,
devoted, not to sensual, but to visionary and to costly, luxuries. How
shall such a man escape the imputation of sordid and selfish motives?
How shall he prove that he counterfeits no passion, employs no
clandestine or illicit means, to retain the affections of such a woman.
Will his averments of disinterested motives be believed? Why should they
be believed? How easily are assertions made, and how silly to credit
declarations contradicted by the tenor of a man's whole conduct!
But I can truly aver that my motives are disinterested. Does not my
character make a plentiful and independent provision, of more value to me,
more necessary to my happiness than to that of most other men? Can I place
my hand upon my heart, and affirm that her fortune has _no part_ in
the zeal with which I have cultivated Jane's affections? There are few
tenants of this globe to whom wealth is wholly undesirable, and very few
whose actual poverty, whose indolent habits, and whose relish for
expensive pleasure, make it _more_ desirable than to me.
Mrs. Fielder is averse to her daughter's wishes. While this aversion
endures, marriage, instead of enriching me, will merely reduce my wife to
my own destitute condition. How are impartial observers, how is Mrs.
Fielder, to construe my endeavours to subdue this aversion, and my
declining marriage till this obstacle is overcome? Will they ascribe it
merely to reluctance to bereave the object of my love of that affluence
and those comforts without which, in my opinion, she would not be happy?
Yet this is true. My own experience has taught me in what degree a
luxurious education endears to us the means of an easy and elegant
subsistence. Shall I be deaf to this lesson? Shall I rather listen to the
splendid visions of my friend, who thinks my love will sufficiently
compensate her for every suffering,--who seems to hold these enjoyments in
contempt, and describes an humble and industrious life as teeming with
happiness and dignity?
These are charming visions. My heart is frequently credulous, and is
almost raised, by her bewitching eloquence, to the belief that, by
bereaving her of friends and property, I confer on her a benefit. I place
her in a sphere where all the resources of her fortitude and ingenuity
will be brought into use.
But this, with me, is only a momentary elevation. More sober views are
sure to succeed. Yet why have I deliberately exhorted Jane to become mine?
Because I trust to the tenderness of her mother. That tenderness will not
allow her wholly to abandon her beloved child, who has hitherto had no
rival, and is likely to have no successor in her love. The evil, she will
think, cannot be repaired; but some of its consequences may be obviated or
lightened. Intercession and submission shall not be wanting. Jane will
never suffer her heart to be estranged from her mother. Reverence and
gratitude will always maintain their place. And yet, confidence is
sometimes shaken; doubts insinuate themselves. Is not Mrs. Fielder's
temper ardent and inflexible? Will her anger be so easily appeased? In a
contest like this, will she allow herself to be vanquished? And shall I,
indeed, sever hearts so excellent? Shall I be the author of such exquisite
and lasting misery to a woman like Mrs. Fielder? and shall I find that
misery compensated by the happiness of her daughter? What pure and
unmingled joy will the daughter taste, while conscious of having destroyed
the peace, and perhaps hastened the end, of one who, with regard to her,
has always deserved and always possessed a gratitude and veneration
without bounds? And for whom is the tranquillity and affection of the
mother to be sacrificed? For _me_,--a poor, unworthy wretch;
deservedly despised by every strenuous and upright mind; a fickle,
inconsiderate, frail mortal, whose perverse habits no magic can
dissolve.
No. My whole heart implores Jane to forget and abandon _me_; to
adhere to her mother; since no earthly power and no length of time will
change Mrs. Fielder's feelings with regard to me; since I shall never
obtain, as I shall never deserve, her regard, and since her mother's
happiness is, and ought to be, dearer to Jane than her own personal and
exclusive gratification. God grant that she may be able to perform, and
cheerfully perform, her duty!
But how often, my friend, have I harped on this string! Yet I must
write, and I must put down my present thoughts, and these are the
sentiments eternally present.