_To James Montford_
December 13.
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, honour, 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, Canst 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?
Canst thou, with a true and fervent zeal, resign her to her mother?