_Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax_
_London, Dover Street_
The moment, Fairfax, the trying, the great, the glorious moment
approaches. Every possible contributing cause calls aloud for
expedition, and reprobates delay. This gardening fellow is gone. For
his absence I thank him, but not for the resolute spirit with which he
intends to attack his father and make him yield. He has a tongue that
would silence the congregated clamours of the Sorbonne, and dumb-found
Belial himself in the hall of Pandemonium. 'Tis certain he has a tough
morsel to encounter, and yet I fear he will succeed.
This would destroy all--Marry her?--No!--By heaven, no! If the hopes of
Abimelech be not stubborn enough to persevere, they must and shall be
strengthened. His refusal is indispensably necessary in every view,
unless the view of marriage, which I once more tell you, Fairfax, I now
detest. I should have no plea with her, were that of delay removed.
What is still worse, this delay may be removed by another and more
painful cause. My mother it appears declines rapidly: her death is even
feared, and should it happen, I cannot pretend to insist on the
obstacles which her maternal cares and provisionary fears have raised.
I can think of no certain expedient, for this Abimelech, but that of an
anonymous letter. Neither the writing nor the style must appear to be
mine; nor must the hand that writes it understand its purport. Tyros
and ignorant as my opponents are, in the tricks and intrigues of
amorous stratagem, still they have too much understanding not to be
redoubtable.
Those old necromancers Subtlety and Falsehood must forge the magic
armour, and the enchanted shield, under which I fight. Like wizards of
yore, they must render me invisible; and the fair form of the foolish
Clifton they have imagined must only be seen.
Honest Aby, or I mistake him, is too worthy a fellow to desert so good
a cause. And this cloud-capt lady, whose proud turrets I have sworn to
level with the dust, will not descend to plead the approaching death of
my mother, when I shall urge the injustice of delay--Ay, Fairfax, the
injustice! I mean to command, to dare, to overawe; that is the only
oratory which can put her to the rout. She loves to be astonished, and
astonished she shall be. If I do not shrink from myself her fall is
infallible.
My heart exults in the coming joy! Never more will the milky pulp of
compassion rise to mar the luxurious meal! She has been writing to the
fellow, Fairfax; ay and has shewn me her letter! For, let her but
imagine that truth, or virtue, or principle, or any other abortive
being of her own creation, requires her to follow the whims of her
disjointed fancy, and what frantic folly is there of which she is
incapable?
'Tis maddening to recollect, but she doats on the fellow; absolutely
doats! I am the tormenting demon that has appeared to interrupt her
happiness; she the devoted victim, sacrificed to shield me from harm!
The thought of separation from him is distracting, and every power must
be conjured up to avert the horrid woe!
Never before did my feelings support such various and continual
attacks; never did I endure infidelity so open or insult so unblushing.
But, patience; the day of vengeance is at hand, or rather is here! This
moment will I fly and take it! Expect to hear 'of battles, sieges,
disastrous chances, and of moving accidents; but not of hair breadth
'scapes!'--Escape she cannot! I go! She falls!