  Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax London, Dover-Street For a few days after having secured my tormentors, I enjoyed something like comparative ease: but the ugly imps that haunted me, in fiercer crowds again are swarming round me. I am too miserable to exist in this state; it must be ended. It is a turmoil that surpasses mortal sufferance! If she will wrestle against fate, it is not my fault. I have no wish to practise more upon her than is necessary. But the thing must be. Sleep I have none, rest I have none, peace I have none. I get up and sit down, walk out and come back, mutter imprecations unconsciously to myself, and turn the eyes of insolent curiosity and ridiculous apprehension upon me in the street. A fellow has just now watched me home; deeming me a lunatic I suppose; for he had seen my agitation, and heard the curses which I knew not were uttered aloud, till his impertinent observation of me brought it to my recollection. But this shall not be! It shall end! Though I rend her heart-strings for it, I will have ease! The evening approaches; my horse is ordered and I will be gone. I will not, cannot endure this longer! Brompton-House I am here, and have talked with Laura. She owns she is suspected, and that her mistress takes the key out of the bed-chamber door, when they go to rest, and hides it: Laura by accident has discovered where. She puts it on the ledge behind the head of her bed, but within the reach of her arm. This has suggested a thought: I will wait here till midnight and sleep have lulled her apprehensions. It will be better than facing her in the glare of day. Her eye, Fairfax, is terrible in her anger. It is too steady, too strong in conscious innocence to encounter. Darkness will give me courage, and her terror and despair. For it must come to that! It cannot otherwise be; and be it must! In the blaze of noon, when fortitude is awake and the heart beating high perhaps with resentment, nothing but the goadings of despair could make me face her. The words she would use would be terrible, but her looks would petrify!—By this stratagem I shall avoid them. Nor do I blush to own my cowardice, in the presence of Anna St. Ives: she being armed with innocence and self-approbation; and I abashed by conscious guilt, violence, and intentional destruction. Why aye!—Let the thick swarth of night cover us! I feel, with a kind of horrid satisfaction, the deep damnation of the deed! It is the very colour and kind of sin that becomes me; sinning as I do against Anna St. Ives! With any other it would be boy's sport; a thing to make a jest of after dinner; but with her it is rape, in all its wildest contortions, shrieks, and expiring groans! I lie stretched on burning embers, and I have hours yet to wait. Oh that I were an idiot!—The night is one dead, dun gloom! It looks as if murrain, mildew, and contagion were abroad, hovering over earth and brooding plagues. I will walk out awhile, among them—Will try to meet them—Would that my disturbed imagination could but conjure up goblins, sheeted ghosts, heads wanting bodies, and hands dropping blood, and realize the legends of ignorance and infancy, so that I could freeze memory and forget the horrors by which I am haunted! It draws near midnight—I am now in her apartment, the room next to her bed-chamber. My orders have been obeyed: the old woman, pretending to lock up her prisoner, shot back the bolts, put down the chain, and left the door ready for me to enter unheard. Laura has her instructions. She is to pretend only, but not really, to undress herself; and I bade her not lie down, lest she should drop asleep. When she thinks it time, she is to glide round, steal the key, and open the door. I am fully prepared; am undressed, and ready for the combat. I have made a mighty sacrifice! Youth, fortune, fame, all blasted; life renounced, and infamy ascertained! It is but just then that I should have full enjoyment of the fleeting bliss. Surely this hussy sleeps? No!—I hear her stir!—She is at the door! Heaven and hell are leagued against me, to frustrate my success! Yet succeed I will in their despite—'Tis now broad day, and here I am, in the same chamber, encountered, reproved, scorned, frantic, and defeated! As soon as I heard Laura with the key in the door, I put out the candles. She turned the lock, the door opened, and I sprang forward. Blundering idiot as I was! I had forgotten to remove a chair, and tumbled over it. The terrified Anna was up and out of bed in an instant. The door opens inward to the bed-chamber. Her fear gave her strength; she threw Laura away, and clapped to the door. By this time I had risen, and was at it. I set my shoulder to it with a sudden effort, and again it half opened. I pushed forward, but was repelled with more than equal opposition. My left arm in the struggle got wedged in the door: the pain was excessive, and the strength with which she resisted me incredible. By a sudden shock I released my hand, but not without bruising it very much, and tearing away the skin. My last effort was returned by one more than equal on her part. But I imagine she had set her foot against something which gave way, for she suddenly came down, with a blow and a sound that made my heart shrink! Still I endeavoured to profit by it, though not soon enough; for the first moment I was too much alarmed. She could not feel pain or blows, and rose instantaneously. I forced the door some little way, and she then gave a single shriek!—It was a dreadful one—and was followed by a repulse which I could not overcome. The door was closed, and like lightning locked. I then heard her begin to pant and heave for breath—After a few seconds she exclaimed—Clifton! You are a bad man!… A treacherous, wicked man, and are seeking your own destruction!… I am your prisoner, but I fear you not!… Mark me, Clifton: I fear you not! I hesitated some time: at last I ventured to ask… Are you hurt, madam? I do not know! I do not care! I value no hurt you can do me! I am above harm from you!—Though you have recourse to perfidy and violence, yet I defy you! In darkness or in light, I defy you! Let me intreat you, madam, to retire to rest. No! I will stand here all night! I will not move! Upon my honour, madam, upon my soul, I will molest you no more to night! I tell you, man, I fear you not! Night or day, I fear you not! I request, I humbly intreat you would not expose yourself to the injuries of the night air, and the want of sleep! I will sleep no more! I want no sleep; I fear no injuries; not even those you intend me! Indeed, madam, you do not know the danger— Mimic benevolence and virtue no more, Clifton! It is base in you! It is beneath a mind like yours!—You are a mistaken man! Dreadfully mistaken! You think me devoted, but I am safe. Unless you kill, you never can conquer me! Beware! Turn back! Destruction is gaping for you, if you proceed! Need she have told me this, Fairfax? Could she think I knew it not?—But she too is mistaken. Her courage is high, I grant, is admirable; and, were any other but I her opponent, as she says, not to be conquered! I adore the noble qualities of her mind; but great though they are, when she defies me she over-rates them. I own her warning was awful! My heart shrunk from it, and I retired; taking care that she should hear me as I went, that she might be encouraged to go to rest. My well-meant kindness was vain. She never did confide in me, and never can. I heard her call Laura, and order her to strike a light, set an arm chair, and bring her clothes: after which I understood, from what I heard, that she dressed herself and sat down in it, with her back to the door, there waiting patiently till the morning. How she will behave, or what she will say to Laura I cannot divine. Most probably she will insist on banishing her the apartment; for she never gave servants much employment, and always doubted whether the keeping of them were not an immoral act, therefore is little in want of their assistance. But let her discard this treacherous and now ineffective tool. I want her no more. I will not quit the house, Fairfax; I will neither eat nor sleep, till I have put her to the trial which she so rashly defies! At her uncle's table she defied me, and imagined she had gazed me into cowardice. She knew me not: it was but making vengeance doubly sure. This experience ere now should have taught her. Has she escaped me? Is she not here? Does she not feel herself in the ravisher's arms? If not, a few hours only and she shall! Let her not be vain of this second repulse she has given me; it ought to increase her terror, for it does but add to my despair. My distempered soul will take no medicine but one, and that must be administered; though more venomous than the sting of scorpion or tooth of serpent, and more speedy in dissolution. I left her room that she might breakfast undisturbed. There is something admirably, astonishingly firm, in the texture of her mind. Laura has been down, babbling to me all she knew. At eight o'clock, when it had been light a full hour, Anna, after once or twice crossing her chamber to consider, turned the key and resolutely opened the door; expecting by her manner, Laura says, to see me rush in; for she threw it suddenly open, as if fearful it should knock her down. She walked out, looked steadfastly around, examined every part of the chamber, and after having convinced herself I was not there, sat down to write at the table where not an hour before I had been seated. When the breakfast was brought, she bade Laura take it away again; saying she had no appetite: but immediately recollecting herself, ejaculated—'Fie!—It is weak! It is wrong!'—and added—'Stay Laura! Put it down again!' She then, with a calm and determined sedateness, began to serve herself and Laura; treating this perfidious woman [For no matter that I made her so, such she is.] with the same equanimity of temper and amenity as formerly. The mistress ate, for she was innocent and resolved; but the maid could not, for she was guilty and in a continual tremor. 'Be pacified'—said Anna to her—Compose your thoughts, and take your breakfast. I am much more sorry for than angry at the part you have acted. You have done yourself great injury, but me none: at least, so I trust!—Be appeased and eat your breakfast. Or, if you cannot eat with me, go down and eat it in peace below.' The benevolent suavity of this angel has made the light-minded hussey half break her heart. Her penitential tears now flow in abundance; and she has been officiously endeavouring to petition me not to harm so good, so forgiving, so heavenly a young lady! I begin to fear she would willingly be a traitor next to me, and endeavour to open the doors for her mistress. But that I will prevent. I will not quit the house till all is over! I have said it, Fairfax! I will then immediately set Henley free, tell him where she is, where I am to be found, and leave him to seek his own mode of vengeance! Should he resort to the paltry refuge of law, I own that then I would elude pursuit. But should the spirit of man stir within him, and should he dare me to contention, I would fly to meet him in the mortal strife! He is worthy of my arm, and I would shew how worthy I am to be his opposite! It is now noon, and Laura has again been with me, repeating the same story, with additions and improvements. Anna has been talking to her, and has made a deep impression upon her. She is all penitence and petition, and is exceedingly troublesome, with her whining, her tears, and her importunity, which I have found it difficult to silence. I learn from her own account she has owned all, and betrayed all she knew; and Anna has been telling her that she, and I, and all such sinners however deep and deadly, ought to be pitied, counselled, and reformed; and that our errors only ought to be treated with contempt, disdain, and hatred. She has talked to her in the most gentle, soothing, and sympathetic manner; till the fool's heart is ready to burst. Anna has drawn a picture of my state of mind which has terrified her—And so it ought!—She has been sobbing, kneeling, and praying, for my sake, for Anna's sake, for God's sake to be merciful, and do no more mischief! 'Her mistress is an angel and not a woman!'—Why true!—'Never had a young lady so forgiving, so kind, and so courageous a heart!'—True again!—'But it is impossible, if I should be so wicked as to lay violent hands upon her, for her not to sink, and lie for mercy at my feet.'—Once more true, true!— Mercy!—I have it not, know it not, nor can know! She herself has banished it, from my breast and from her own: at least the mercy I would ask—For could it be—? Were there not a Henley—? No, no!—There is one wide destruction for us all! I am on the brink, and they must down with me!—Have they not placed me there? Are they not now pulling me, weighing me, sinking me? This is the moment in which I would conjure up all the wrongs, insults, contempts, and defiances she has heaped upon me—What need I?—They come unbidden!—And now for the last act of the tragedy! I have kept my word, Fairfax: I have been, have faced her, have—! You shall hear! I will faithfully paint all that passed. I will do her justice, and in this shew some sparks of magnanimity of which perhaps she does not think me capable—No matter— It was necessary the temper of my mind should be wound up to its highest pitch, before I could approach her. I rushed up stairs, made the bolts fly, and the lock start back. Yet the moment the door opened, I hesitated— However, I shook myself with indignation, entered, and saw her standing firmly in the middle of the apartment, ready to assert the bold defiance she had given me. The fixed resolution of her form, the evident fortitude of her soul, and the steadfast encounter of her eye, were discomfiting. Like a coward I stood I cannot tell how long, not knowing what to say, she looking full upon me, examining my heart, and putting thought to the rack. Benignant as she is, at such onsets of the soul she feels no mercy. Self-resentment at the tame crestfallen countenance I wore at last produced an effort, and I stammered out—Madam— Her only answer was a look—I endeavoured to meet her eye, but in vain. I continued.—From my present manner you will perceive, madam, I am conscious of the advantage you have over me; and that my own heart does not entirely approve all I have done. I see something of your confusion—I wish I saw more. But neither can it forget its injuries! What are they? The time was when I met you with joy, addressed you with delight, and gazed on you with rapture!—Nay I gaze so still! Poor, weak man! Yes, madam, I know how much you despise me! A thousand repeated wrongs inform me of it: they have risen, one over another, in mountainous oppression to my heart, till it could endure no more. Feeble, mistaken man! In those happy days when I approached you first, my thoughts were loyal, my means were honest, and my intentions pure. Pure? Yes, madam, pure. You never yet knew what purity meant! I came void of guile, with an open and honourable offer of my heart. I made no difficulties, felt no scruples, harboured no suspicions. In return for which I was doubted, catechised, chidden, trifled with, and insulted. When I hoped for sympathy I met rebuke; and while my affections glowed admiration yours retorted contempt. Your heart was prepossessed: it had no room for me: it excluded me, scorned me, and at the first opportunity avowed its hatred. Go on!—Neither your mistakes, your accusations, nor your anger shall move me—I pity your errors. Continue to ascribe that to my injustice, or to a worse motive, if a worse you can find, which was the proper fruit of your irascible and vindictive temper. Reconcile your own actions to your own heart, if you can; and prove to yourself I merit the perfidy, assault, and imprisonment you have practised upon me: as well as the mischief which I have every reason to suppose you intend. Then, madam, avoid it! Spare both yourself and me the violence you forebode? What! Sink before unruly passion? Stand in awe of vice? Willingly administer to shameless appetites, and a malignant spirit of revenge?—Never, while I have life! Stop!—Beware!—I am not master of my own affections! I am in a state little short of phrensy! Be the means fair or foul, mine you shall be—The decrees of Fate are not more fixed—I have sworn it, and though fire from Heaven waited to devour me, I will keep my oath!—Could you even yet but think of me as perhaps I deserve—! I say, could you, madam— I cannot will not marry you! Nothing you can say, nothing you can threaten, nothing you can act shall make me! Be less hasty in your contempt!—Fear me not!—Scorn for scorn, injury for injury, and hate for hate! I hate only your errors! I scorn nothing but vice—On the virtues of which a mind like yours is capable my soul would dilate with ecstasy, and my heart would doat! But you have sold yourself to crookedness! Base threats, unmanly terrors, and brute violence are your despicable engines!—Wretched man! They are impotent!—They turn upon yourself; me they cannot harm!—I am above you! I care not for myself—I have already secured infamy—I have paid the price and will enjoy the forfeiture—Had you treated me with the generous ardent love I so early felt for you, all had been well—I the happiest of men, and you the first of women! But your own injustice has dug the pit into which we must all down—It is wide and welcome ruin!—Even now, contemned as I have been, scorned as I am, I would fain use lenity and feel kindness. I will take retribution—no power shall prevent me—but I would take it tenderly. Oh shame upon you, man!—Tenderly?—Can the mischief and the misery in which you have involved yourself and so many others, can treachery, brutal force, bruises, imprisonment, and rape be coupled with tenderness? If you have any spark of noble feeling yet remaining in your heart, cherish it: but if not, speak truth to yourself! Do not attempt to varnish such foul and detestable guilt with fair words. I would advise, not varnish! What I have done I have done—I know my doom—I am already branded! Opprobrium has set her indelible mark upon me! I am indexed to all eternity! You mistake, Clifton!—Beware!—You mistake! You mistake! [It is impossible to imagine, Fairfax, the energy with which these exclamations burst from her—It was a fleeting but false cordial to my heart.] Of all your errors that is the most fatal! Whatever rooted prejudices or unjust laws may assert to the contrary, we are accountable only for what we do, not for what we have done. Clifton beware! Mark me—I owe you no enmity for the past: I combat only with the present. Do not delude me with shadows. Bring your doctrine to the test: if you bear me no enmity, if what I have done can be forgotten, and what I would do—! Madam—! Anna—!—Once more, and for the last time—take me! It cannot be!—It cannot be! Then, since you will shew no mercy, expect none. Your menaces are vain, man! I tell you again I do not fear you! I will beg no pity from you—I dare endure more than you dare inflict! I am not to be braved from my purpose! The basis of nature is not more unshaken! High as your courage is, you will find a spirit in me that can mount still higher! Courage? Oh shame! Name it not! Where was your courage when you decoyed my defender from me? The man you durst not face?—Where is he?—What have you done with him?—Laura has given you my letter—Should your practices have reached his life!—But no! It cannot be! An act so very vile as that not even the errors of your mind could reach!—Courage?—Even me you durst not face in freedom! Your courage employed a band of ruffians against me, singly; a woman too, over whom your manly valour would tower! But there is no such mighty difference as prejudice supposes. Courage has neither sex nor form: it is an energy of mind, of which your base proceedings shew I have infinitely the most. This bids me stand firm, and meet your worst daring undauntedly! This be assured will make me the victor! I tell you, man, it places me above you! |
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