_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
Louisa!--My dear, my kind, my affectionate Louisa!--My friend!--What
shall I say? How shall I begin? I am going to rend your heart.--
Keep this letter from the sight of Mrs. Clifton: if she have not
already been told, do not let her know such a letter exists--Oh this
brother!--But he is not your brother--Error so rooted, so malignant, so
destructive exceeds all credibility!
He came to me yesterday morning, as was his custom. There was something
in his look which, could I but have read it, was exceedingly
descriptive of the workings of his heart. It was painful to see him.
He endeavoured to smile and for a moment to talk triflingly, but could
not. He was in a tremor; his mouth parched, his lips white.
His next essay was to philosophise; but in this attempt too he was
entirely at fault.
The passions are all sympathetic, and none more so than this of
trepidation. I cannot recollect what the ideas were that passed hastily
through my mind; but I know he excited much alarm, doubt, and I believe
suspicion.
But, though he had found all this difficulty to begin, having begun he
recovered himself very surprisingly. His colour returned, his voice
became firm, his ideas clear, his reasoning energetic, and his manner
commanding. He seemed to mould my hopes and apprehensions as he
pleased, to inspire terror this moment, and the excess of confidence
the next.
Louisa, my heart bleeds to say it, but his purposes were vile, his
hypocrisy odious, and--I must forbear, and speak of foul deeds in fair
terms. I know not how many prejudices rise up to warn me; one that I am
a woman, or rather a girl; another that I am writing to the man's
sister; a third that she is my friend, and so on with endless et
ceteras. No matter that truth is to this friend infinitely more
precious than a brother. I may be allowed to feel indignation, but not
to express my feeling.
But the most distressing, the most revolting part of all is, that he
harangued like the apostle of truth, the name of which he vilely
prophaned, in favour of the basest, most pitiful, most contemptible of
vices; the mere vain glory of seduction. He has not even so much as the
gratification of sensual appetite to plead in his excuse. I am wrong;
it was not vain glory. Vanity itself, contemptible as such a stimulus
would have been, was scarcely a secondary motive. It was something
worse; it was revenge. My mind has been wholly occupied in retracing
his past behaviour; I can think on no other subject, and every trait
which recollection adds is a confirmation of this painful idea. He does
not wish to marry me, and I almost doubt whether he ever did, at least
fully and unreservedly.
He came to me, Louisa, and began with painting the torments of delay
and the pangs of jealousy, which he endeavoured to excuse; and
concluded with a bold appeal to my justice; a daring, over-awing,
confounding appeal. He called upon me at my peril, and as I respected
truth and virtue, to deny his claim.
And what was this claim?--I was his wife!--In every pure and virtuous
sense his wife; and he demanded the privilege of a husband!--Demanded,
Louisa!--Demanded!--And demanded it in such a tone, with such rapid,
overbearing, bold expressions, and such an apparent consciousness of
right, that for a moment my mind was utterly confused!
Not that it ceded; no, not an instant. I knew there was answer, a just
and irrefragable one, but I could not immediately find it. He
perceived my disorder, and you cannot imagine what a shameless and
offensive form his features assumed! I know not what he would not
instantly have attempted, had not, while I was endeavouring to awake
from my lethargy, Mrs. Clarke come in! She brought me a letter--It was
sent express!--The hand writing was Frank's! Agitated as I was,
suspicion influenced me, and I retreated a few steps. I opened the
letter, and the first words I saw were--'Beware of Mr. Clifton.'--
It contained only half a dozen lines, and I read on. What follows were
its contents--
Beware of Mr. Clifton!--Had I not good cause, madam, I would not be so
abrupt an accuser: but I am haunted, tortured by the dread of
possibilities, and therefore send this away express--Beware of Mr.
Clifton!--I will not be long after the letter, and I will then explain
why I have written what to you may appear so strange.