Jane Talbot
Copyright© 2024 by Charles Brockden Brown
Letter XLIX
To James Montford
Philadelphia, December 9.
I WILL imagine, my friend, that you have read the letter [Footnote: The preceding one.] which I have hastily transcribed. I will not stop to tell you my reflections upon it, but shall hasten with this letter to Mrs. Fielder. I might send it; but I have grown desperate.
A final effort must be made for my own happiness and that of Jane. From their own lips will I know my destiny. I have conversed too long at a distance with this austere lady. I will mark with my own eyes the effect of this discovery. Perhaps the moment may prove a yielding one. Finding me innocent in one respect, in which her persuasion of my guilt was most strong, may she not remit or soften her sentence on inferior faults? And what may be the influence of Jane’s deportment, when she touches my hand in a last adieu?
I have complied with Miss Jessup’s wish in one particular. I have sent her the letter which I got from Hannah, unopened; unread; accompanied with a few words, to this effect:--
“If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives for doing so entitle you to nothing but compassion, while your present conduct lays claim, not only to forgiveness, but to gratitude. The letter you intrust to me shall be applied to no purpose but that which you proposed by writing it. Enclosed is the paper you request, the seal unbroken and its contents unread. In this, as in all cases, I have no stronger wish than to act as
“YOUR TRUE FRIEND.”
And now, my friend, lay I down the pen for a few hours, --hours the most important, perhaps, in my eventful life. Surely this interview with Mrs. Fielder will decide my destiny. After it, I shall have nothing to hope.
I prepare for it with awe and trembling. The more nearly it approaches, the more my heart falters. I summon up in vain a tranquil and steadfast spirit; but perhaps a walk in the clear air will be more conducive to this end than a day’s ruminations in my chamber.
I will take a walk.
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.”
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