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.
Letter XLVI
To James Montford
December 9.
Once more, after a night of painful musing or troubled repose, I am at the pen. I am plunged into greater difficulties and embarrassments than ever.
It was scarcely daylight, when a slumber into which I had just fallen was interrupted by a servant of the inn. A girl was below, who wanted to see me. The description quickly proved it to be Molly. I rose and directed her to be admitted.
She brought two letters from her mistress, and was told to wait for an answer. Jane traversed her room, half distracted and sleepless during most of the night. Towards morning she sat down to her desk, and finished a letter, which, together with one written a couple of days before, was despatched to me.