Part 31 (1/2)
”If you ever injured Mr. Talbot, your motives for doing so ent.i.tle you to nothing but compa.s.sion, while your present conduct lays claim, not only to forgiveness, but to grat.i.tude. 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 antic.i.p.ate. 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 a.s.siduous to please, familiarly tender and anxiously fond, already a.s.suming 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.”