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Jane Talbot, a novel by Charles Brockden Brown |
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Letter 45 - To Henry Colden |
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_ Letter XLV - To Henry Colden To Henry Colden December 4. Ah, my friend! in what school have you acquired such fatal skill in tearing the heart of an offender? Why, under an appearance of self- reproach, do you convey the bitterest maledictions? Why, with looks of idolatry and accents of compassion, do you aim the deadliest contempts and hurl the keenest censures against me? "You acquit me of all shadow of blame." What! in proving me fickle, inconsistent, insensible to all your merit, ungrateful for your generosity, your love? How have I rewarded your reluctance to give me pain, your readiness to sacrifice every personal good for my sake? By reproaching you with dissimulation. By violating all those vows, which no legal ceremony could make more solemn or binding, and which the highest, earliest, and most sacred voice of Heaven has ordained shall supersede all other bonds. By dooming you to feel "an anguish next to despair." Thus have I requited your unsullied truth, your unlimited devotion to me! By what degrading standard do you measure my enjoyments! "In my mother's tenderness and gratitude; in the affluence and honour which her regard will secure to me," am I to find consolation for unfaithfulness to my engagements; for every evil that may befall you. _You_, whom every hallowed obligation, every principle of human nature, has placed _next_ to myself; whom it has become not a fickle inclination, but a sacred duty, to prefer to all others; whose happiness ought to be my first and chief care, and from whose side I cannot sever myself without a guilt inexpiable! Ah, cruel friend! You ascribe my resolution to a disinterested regard to your good. You wish me to find happiness in that persuasion. Yet you leave me not that phantom for a comforter. You convict me, in every line of your letter, of selfishness and folly. The only consideration that has irresistible weight with me--the restoration of your father's kindness-- you prove to be a mere delusion, and destroy it without mercy! Can you forgive me, Henry? Best of men! Will you be soothed by my penitence for one more rash and inconsiderate act? But, alas! my penitence is rapid and sincere; but where is the merit of compunction that affords no security against the repetition of the fault? And where is _my_ safety? Fly to me. Save me from my mother's irresistible expostulations. I cannot--_cannot_ withstand her tears. Let me find in your arms a refuge from them. Let me no more trust a resolution which is sure to fail. By making the tie between us such as even she will allow to be irrevocable, by depriving me of the power of compliance, only can I be safe. Fly to me, therefore. Be at the front-door at _ten_ this night. My Molly will be my only companion. Be the necessary measures previously taken, that no delay or disappointment may occur. One half-hour and the solemn rite may be performed. My absence will not be missed, as I return immediately. Then will there be an end to, fluctuation, for repentance cannot _undo_. Already in the sight of Heaven, at the tribunal of my own conscience, am I _thy wife_; but somewhat more is requisite to make the compact universally acknowledged. This is _now_ my resolve. I shall keep it secret from the rest of the world. Nothing but the compulsion of persuasion can make me waver, and concealment will save me from that, and _to-morrow_ remonstrance and entreaty will avail nothing. My girl has told me of her interview with you, and where you are to be found. The dawn is not far distant, and at sunrise she carries you this. I shall expect an immediate and (need I add, when I recollect the invariable counsel you have given me?) a compliant answer. And shall I--Let me, while the sun lingers, still pour out my soul on this paper; let me indulge a _pleasing, dreadful thought_--Shall I, ere circling time bring back _this_ hour, become thy---- And shall my heart, after its dreadful languors, its excruciating agonies, know once more a rapturous emotion? So lately sunk into despondency; so lately pondering on obstacles that rose before me like Alps and menaced eternal opposition to my darling projects; so lately the prey of the deepest anguish: what spell diffuses through my frame this ravishing tranquillity? _Tranquillity_, said I? That my throbbing heart gainsays. You cannot see me just now, but the palpitating heart infects my fingers, and the unsteady pen will speak to you eloquently. I wonder how far sympathy possesses you. No doubt--let me see: _ten minutes after four_,--no doubt you are sound asleep. Care has fled away to some other head. Those invisible communicants, those aerial heralds whose existence, benignity, and seasonable succour are parts, thou knowest, of _my_ creed, are busy in the weaving of some beatific dream. At their bidding the world of thy fancy is circumscribed by four white walls, a Turkey-carpeted floor, and a stuccoed ceiling. Didst ever see such before? Was't ever, in thy wakeful season, in the same apartment? Never! And, what is more, and which I desire thee to note well, thou art not hereafter to enter it except in dreams. A poor taper burns upon the toilet,--just bright enough to give the cognizance of something in woman's shape and in negligent attire scribbling near it. Thou needst not tap her on the shoulder; she need not look up and smile a welcome to the friendly vision. She knows that thou art _here;_ for is not thy hand already in hers, and is not thy cheek already wet with her tears? for thy poor girl's eyes are as sure to overflow with joy as with sorrow. And will it be always thus, my dear friend? Will thy love screen me forever from remorse? will my mother's reproaches never intrude amidst the raptures of fondness and poison my tranquillity? What will she say when she discovers the truth? My conscience will not allow me to dissemble. It will not disavow the name or withhold the duties of a wife. Too well do I conceive what she will say,--_how_ she will act. I need not apprehend expulsion from her house. Exile will be a voluntary act:--"You shall eat, drink, lodge, and dress as well as ever. I will not sever husband from wife, and I find no pleasure in seeing those whom I most hate perishing with want. I threatened to abandon you, merely because I would employ _every_ means of preventing your destruction; but my revenge is not so sordid as to multiply unnecessary evils on your head. I shall take from you nothing but my esteem,--my affection,--my society. I shall never see you but with agony; I shall never think of you without pain. I part with you forever, and prepare myself for that grave which your folly and ingratitude have dug for me. "You have said, Jane, that, having lost my favour, you will never live upon my bounty. That will be an act of needless and perverse cruelty in you. It will be wantonly adding to that weight with which you have already sunk me to the grave. Besides, I will not leave you an option. While I live, my watchful care shall screen you from penury in spite of yourself. When I die, my testament shall make you my sole successor. What I have shall be yours,--at least, while _you_ live. "I have deeply regretted the folly of threatening you with loss of property. I should have known you better than to think that a romantic head like yours would find any thing formidable in such deprivations. If other considerations were feeble, this would be chimerical. "Fare you well, Jane, and, when you become a mother, may your tenderness never be requited by the folly and ingratitude which it has been my lot to meet with in the child of my affections!" Something like this has my mother already said to me, in the course of an affecting conversation, in which I ventured to plead for you. And have I, then, resolved to trample on such goodness? Whither, my friend, shall I fly from a scene like this? Into thy arms? And shall I find comfort _there_? can I endure life, with the burden of remorse which generosity like this will lay upon me? But I tell you, Henry, I am resolved. I have nothing but evil to choose. There is but one calamity greater than my mother's anger. I cannot mangle my own vitals. I cannot put an impious and violent end to my own life. Will it be mercy to make _her_ witness my death? and can I live without you? If I must be an ingrate, be her and not you the victim. If I must requite benevolence with malice and tenderness with hatred, be it _her_ benevolence and tenderness, and not _yours_, that are thus requited. Once more, then, note well. The hour of _ten_; the station near the door; a duly-qualified officiator previously engaged; and my destiny in this life fixed beyond the power of recall. The bearer of this will bring back your answer. Farewell. _Remember_. J. TALBOT. _ |
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