Mr. Wolmar set out yesterday for Etange, and you can scarce conceive in what a melancholy state his departure has left me. I think the absence of his wife would not have affected me so much as his. I find myself under greater restraint, than even when he is present; a mournful silence takes possession of my heart; its murmurs are stifled by a secret dread; and, being less tormented with desires than apprehensions, I experience all the horrors of guilt, without being exposed to the temptations of it.
Can you imagine, my Lord, where my mind gains confidence, and loses these unworthy dreads? In the presence of Mrs. Wolmar. As soon as I approach her, the sight of her pacifies my inquietude; her looks purify my heart. Such is the ascendency of hers, that it always seems to inspire others with a sense of her innocence, and to confer that composure which is the effect of it. Unluckily for me, her system of life does not allow her to devote the whole day to the society of her friends; and in those moments which I am obliged to pass out of her company, I should suffer less, if I was farther distant from her.
What contributes to feed the melancholy which oppresses me, is a reflection which she made yesterday after her husband's departure. Though till that moment she kept up her spirits tolerably, yet for a long time her eyes followed him with an air of tenderness, which I then imagined was only occasioned by the departure of that happy husband; but I found by her conversation, that the emotion was to be imputed to another cause, which was a secret to me. You see, said she, in what manner we live together, and you may judge whether he is dear to me. Do not imagine; however, that the sentiment which attaches me to him, though as tender and as powerful as that of love, is likewise susceptible of its weakness. If an interruption of the agreeable habit of living together is painful to us, we are consoled by the firm hope of resuming the same habit again. A fate of such permanence admits few vicissitudes which we have reason to dread; and in an absence of a few days, the pain of so short an interval does not affect me so strongly, as the pleasure of seeing an end to it. The affliction, which you read in my eyes, proceeds from a more weighty cause, and though it is relative to Mr. Wolmar, it is not occasioned by his departure.
My dear friend, she continued, with an affecting tone, there is no true happiness on earth. My husband is one of the most worthy and affectionate of men; the duty which incites us is cemented by mutual inclination; he has no desires but mine; I have children which give, and promise pleasure hereafter to their mother; there cannot be a more affectionate, virtuous, and amiable friend, than her whom my heart doats on, and with whom I shall pass my days; you yourself contribute to my felicity, by having so well justified my esteem and affection for you; a long and expensive law-suit, which is nearly finished, will soon bring the best of fathers to my arms; every thing prospers with us; peace and order reign throughout the family; our servants are zealous and faithful; our neighbours express every kind of attachment to us; we enjoy the good will of the public. Blest with every thing which heaven, fortune, and men can bestow, all things conspire to my happiness. A secret uneasiness, one trouble only, poisons all, and I am not happy. She uttered these last words with a sigh, which pierced my soul, and which I had no share in raising. She is not happy, said I, sighing in my turn, and I am no longer an obstacle to her felicity!
That melancholy thought disordered my ideas in a moment, and disturbed the repose which I began to taste. Unable to endure the intolerable state of doubt into which her conversation had thrown me, I importuned her so eagerly to disclose her whole mind to me, that at length she deposited the fatal secret with me, and allows me to communicate it to you. But this is the hour of recreation, Mrs. Wolmar is come out of the nursery to walk with her children, she has just told me as much. I attend her, my Lord; I leave you for the present; and I shall resume, in my next, the subject I am now obliged to quit.
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