* * * * *
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 unceremoniously 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 ease."
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 parlour. 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?'7
"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 favourable ear: all I ask is an audience from you of a few
minutes."
"This preface, sir," (her motions less and less controllable,) "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 eyeing
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 ascendency
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 honour of this visit, and contained something
like a promise to shun any further 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.