Page images
PDF
EPUB

versal coldness he complained of; and left him with a promise of returning in a few hours, when he had finished some visits, which he was under a necessity of making in the village.

When he returned, he found Mr Annesly altered for the worse; the cold, which the latter felt before, having given place to a burning heat. He therefore told Mrs Wistanly, at going away, that in the evening he would bring a physician, with whom he had an appointment at a gentleman's not very distant, to see Mr Annesly, as his situation appeared to him to be attended with some alarming circumstances.

His fears of danger were justified by the event. When these gentlemen saw Mr Annesly in the evening, his fever was increased. Next day, after a restless night, they found every bad symptom confirmed; they tried every method which medical skill could suggest for his relief, but, during four successive days, their endea vours proved ineffectual; and at the expiration of that time, they told his friend, Mrs Wistanly, who had enjoyed almost as little sleep as the sick man whom she watched, that unless some favourable crisis should happen soon, the worst consequences were much to be feared.

CHAP. XXVIII.

The arrival of Mr Rawlinson. Annesly's discourse with him. That Gentleman's account of his Friend's illness, and its consequences.

Ar this melancholy period it happened that Mr Rawlinson arrived, in pursuance of that promise which Annesly had obtained from him, at the time of his departure for London.

There needed not that warmth of heart we have formerly described in this gentleman, to feel the accumulated distress to which his worthy friend was reduced. Nor was his astonishment at the account which he received of Harriet's elopement less, than his pity for the sufferings it had brought upon her father.

From the present situation of Annesly's family, he did not choose to incommode them with any trouble of provision for him. He took up his quarters, therefore, at the only inn, a paltry one indeed, which the village afforded, and resolved to remain there till he saw what issue his friend's present illness should have, and endeavour to administer some comfort, either to the last moments of his life, or to that affliction which his recovery could not remove. In the evening of the day on which he arrived, Annesly seemed to feel a sort of relief from the violence of his disease. He spoke with a degree of coolness which he had never before been able to command; and after having talked some little time with his physician, he told Abraham, who seldom quitted his bed-side, that he thought he had seen Mr Rawlinson en

ter the room in the morning, though he was in a confused slumber at the time, and might have mistaken a dream for the reality. Upon Abraham's informing him, that Mr Rawlinson had been there, that he had left the house but a moment before, and that he was to remain in the village for some time, he expressed the warmest satisfaction at the intelligence; and having made Abraham fetch him a paper which lay in his bureau sealed up in a particular manner, he dispatched him to the inn where his friend was with a message, importing an earnest desire to see him as soon as should be convenient.

Rawlinson had already returned to the house, and was by this time stealing up stairs, to watch the bed-side of his friend, for which task Mrs Wistanly's former unceasing solicitude had now rendered her unfit. He was met by Abraham with a gleam of joy on his countenance, from the happy change which he thought he observed in his master; and was conducted to the side of the bed by that faithful domestic, who placed him in a chair, which the doctor had just occupied by his patient.

Annesly stretched out his hands, and squeezed that of Rawlinson between them for some time without speaking a word. "I bless God," said he at last," that he has sent me a comforter, at a moment when I so much need one. must by this time have heard, my friend, of that latest and greatest of my family misfortunes, with which Providence has afflicted me."

You

"You know, my dear sir," answered Rawlinson," that no one would more sincerely feel for your sorrows than I; but at present it is a subject too tender for you.""Do not say so," replied his friend; "it will ease my labouring heart to speak of it to my Rawlinson; but, in the first place, I have a little business, which I will now dispatch. Here is a deed, making over all my effects to you, sir; and at your death, to any one you shall name your executor in that trust for my children-if I have any children remaining !—Into your hands I deliver it with a peculiar satisfaction, and I know there will not need the desire of a dying friend to add to your zeal for their service.Why should that word startle you? death is to me a messenger of consolation!" He paused.Rawlinson put up the paper in silence; for his heart was too full to allow him the use of words for an answer.

"When I lost my son," continued Annesly, "I suffered in silence; and though it preyed on me in secret, I bore up against the weight of my sorrow, that I might not weaken in myself that stay which Heaven had provided for my Harriet.-She was then my only remaining comfort, saved like some precious treasure from the shipwreck of my family; and I fondly hoped, that my age might go down smoothly to its rest, amidst the endearments of a father's care.

to get more perfect intelligence; his faithful Abraham met me at the door. Oh sir,' said he, my poor master!'- What is the mat ter?' I fear, sir, he is not in his perfect senses; for he talks more wildly than ever, and yet he is broad awake.'-He led me into the room, I placed myself directly before him; but his eye, though it was fixed on mine, did not seem to acknowledge its object. There was a glazing on it that deadened its look.

"He muttered something in a very low voice. How does my friend?" said I.—He suffer ed me to take his hand, but answered nothing.

-I have now lived to see the last resting-place which my soul could find in this world, laid waste and desolate !-yet to that Being, whose goodness is infinite, as his ways are inscrutable, let me bend in reverence! I bless his name, that he has not yet taken from me that trust in Him, which to lose is the only irremediable calamity; it is now indeed that I feel its efficacy most, when every ray of human comfort is extinguished. As for me my deliverance is at hand; I feel something here at my heart that tells me, I shall not have long to strive with insufferable affliction. My poor deluded daughter-I commit to thee, Father of all! by whom the wan--After listening some time, I could hear the derings of thy unhappy children are seen with pity, and to whom their return cannot be too late to be accepted! If my friend should live to see her look back with contrition towards that path from which she has strayed, I know his goodness will lead her steps to find it.-Shew her her father's grave! yet spare her for his sake, who cannot then comfort or support her!" The rest of this narration I will give the reader in Mr Rawlinson's own words, from a letter of his I have now lying before me, of which I will transcribe the latter part, beginning its recital at the close of this pathetic address of his friend.

[ocr errors]

"As I had been told," says this gentleman, "that he had not enjoyed one sound sleep since his daughter went away, I left him now to compose himself to rest, desiring his servant to call me instantly if he observed any thing particular about his master. He whispered me, 'that when he sat up with him the night before, he could overhear him at times talk wildly, and mutter to himself like one speaking in one's sleep; that then he would start, sigh deeply, and seem again to recollect himself. I went back to his master's bed-side, and begged him to endeavour to calm his mind so much as not to prevent that repose which he stood so greatly in need of. I have prevailed on my physician,' answered he, 'to give me an opiate for that purpose, and I think I now feel drowsy from its effects.' I wished him good-night. 'Good-night,' said he, but give me your hand; it is perhaps the last time I shall ever clasp it !' He lifted up his eyes to heaven, holding my hand in his, then turned away his face, and laid his head upon his pillow.-I could not lay mine to rest. Alas! said I, that such should be the portion of virtue like Annesly's! yet to arraign the distribution of Providence, had been to forget that lesson which the best of men had just been teaching me;-but the doubtings, the darkness of feeble man, still hung about my heart.

"When I sent in the morning, I was told that he was still asleep, but that his rest was observed to be frequently disturbed by groans and startings, and that he breathed much thicker than he had ever done hitherto. I went myself

name of Harriet. Do you want any thing, my dear sir?' He moved his lips, but I heard not what he said.-I repeated my question; he looked up piteously in my face, then turned his eye round as if he missed some object on which it meant to rest. He shivered, and caught hold of Abraham's hand, who stood at the side of the bed opposite me. He looked round again, then uttered, with a feeble and broken voice,

[ocr errors]

Where is my Harriet ? lay your hand on my head-this hand is not my Harriet's-she is dead, I know ;-You will not speak-my poor child is dead! Yet I dreamed she was alive, and had left me; left me to die alone!--I have seen her weep at the death of a linnet! poor soul, she was not made for this world-we shall meet in heaven !-Bless her! bless her!-there! may you be as virtuous as your mother, and more fortunate than your father has been !-My head is strangely confused!-but tell me, when did she die? you should have waked me, that I might have prayed by her.-Sweet innocence! she had no crimes to confess! I can speak but ill, for my tongue sticks to my mouth.-Yet -oh!-most Merciful, strengthen and support" -He shivered again-into thy hands !'-He groaned, and died !"

Sindall! and ye who, like Sindall-but I cannot speak !-speak for me their consciences.

CHAP. XXIX.

What befel Harriet Annesly on her leaving her
Father.

I AM not in a disposition to stop in the midst of this part of my recital, solicitous to embellish, or studious to arrange it. My readers shall receive it simple, as becomes a tale of sorrow; and I flatter myself they are at this moment readier to feel than to judge it.

They have seen Harriet Annesly, by the arti fice of Sindall, and the agency of Camplin, tempt ed to leave the house of her father, in hopes of meeting the man who had betrayed her, and of receiving that only reparation for her injuries which it was now in his power to make.

But Sir Thomas never entertained the most distant thought of that marriage, with the hopes of which he had deluded her. Yet, though he was not subject to the internal principles of honour or morality, he was man of the world enough to know their value in the estimation of others. The virtues of Annesly had so much en deared him to every one within their reach, that this outrage of Sindall's against him, under the disguise of sacred friendship and regard, would have given the interest and character of Sir Thomas such a blow, as he could not easily have recovered, nor conveniently borne. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that he wished for some expedient to conceal it from the eyes of the public.

For this purpose he had formed a scheme, which all the knowledge he had of the delicacy of Harriet's affection for him, did not prevent his thinking practicable, (for the female who once falls from innocence, is held to be sunk into perpetual debasement;) and that was, to provide a husband for her in the person of another. And for that husband he pitched on Camplin, with whose character he was too well acquainted, to doubt the bringing him over to any baseness which danger did not attend, and a liberal reward was to follow. Camplin, who at this time was in great want of money, and had always an appetite for those pleasures which money alone can purchase, agreed to his proposals; they settled the dowry of his future wife, and the scheme which he undertook to procure her. Part of its execution I have already related; I proceed to relate the rest.

When they had been driven with all the fury which Camplin had enjoined the postillions, for about eight or nine miles, they stopt at an inn, where they changed horses. Harriet expressed her surprise at their not having already reached the place where Sir Thomas waited them; on which Camplin told her, that it was not a great way off, but that the roads were very bad, and that he observed the horses to be exceedingly jaded.

After having proceeded some miles farther, on a road still more wild and less frequented, she repeated her wonder at the length of the way; on which Camplin, entreating her pardon for being concerned in any how deceiving her, confessed that Sir Thomas was at a place much farther from her father's than he had made her believe; which deceit he had begged of him (Camplin) to practise, that she might not be alarmed at the distance, which was necessary, he said, for that plan of secrecy Sir Thomas had formed for his marriage. Her fears were sufficiently roused at this intelligence, but it was now too late to retreat, however terrible it might be to go on.

Some time after, they stopt to breakfast, and changed horses again, Camplin informing her that it was the last time they should have occa

sion to do so. Accordingly, in little more than an hour, during which the speed of their progress was nowise abated, they halted at the door of a house, which Harriet, upon coming out of the chaise, immediately recollected to be that fatal one to which Sindall had before conveyed her. She felt, on entering it, a degree of horror, which the remembrance of that guilty night she had before passed under its roof, could not fail to suggest; and it was with difficulty she dragged her trembling steps to a room above stairs, whither the landlady, with a profusion of civility, conducted her.

"Where is Sir Thomas Sindall?" said she, looking about with terror on the well-remembered objects around her. Camplin, shutting the door of the chamber, told her, with a look of the utmost tenderness and respect, that Sir Thomas was not then in the house, but had desired him to deliver her a letter, which he now put into her hands for her perusal. It contained what follows:

I

"It is with inexpressible anguish I inform my ever-dearest Harriet, of my inability to perform engagements, of which I acknowledge the solemnity, and which necessity alone has power to cancel. The cruelty of my grandfather is deaf to all the remonstrances of my love; and having accidentally discovered my attachment for you, he insists upon my immediately setting out on my travels, a command, which, in my present situation, I find myself obliged to comply with. I feel, with the most poignant sorrow and remorse, for that condition to which our ill-fated love has reduced the loveliest of her sex. would therefore endeavour, if possible, to conceal the shame which the world arbitrarily affixes to it. With this view I have laid aside all selfish considerations so much, as to yield to the suit of Mr Camplin that hand, which I had once the happiness of expecting for myself. This step the exigency of your present circumstances renders highly eligible, if your affections can bend themselves to a man, of whose honour and good qualities I have had the strongest proofs, and who has generosity enough to impute no crime to that ardency of the noblest passion of the mind, which has subjected you to the obloquy of the undiscerning multitude. As Mrs Camplin, you will possess the love and affection of that worthiest of my friends, together with the warmest esteem and regard of your unfortunate, but ever devoted, humble servant,

THOMAS SINDALL."

Camplin was about to offer his commentary upon this letter; but Harriet, whose spirits had just supported her to the end of it, lay now lifeless at his feet. After several successive faintings, from which Camplin, the landlady, and other assistants, with difficulty recovered her, a shower of tears came at last to her relief, and

she became able to articulate some short exclamations of horror and despair! Camplin threw himself on his knees before her. He protested the most sincere and disinterested passion, and that, if she would bless him with the possession of so many amiable qualities as she possessed, the uniform endeavour of his life should be to promote her happiness." I think not of thee!" she exclaimed; "O Sindall! perfidious, cruel, deliberate villain!" Camplin again interrupted her with protestations of his own affection and regard. Away!" said she," and let me hear no more! Or, if thou wouldst shew thy friendship, carry me to that father from whom thou stolest me. You will not-but if I can live so long, I will crawl to his feet, and expire before him."

[ocr errors]

She was running towards the door; Camplin gently stopped her. "My dearest Miss Annesly, said he, "recollect yourself but a moment; let me conjure you to think of your own welfare, and of that father's whom you so justly love. For these alone, could Sir Thomas Sindall have thought of the expedient which he proposes. If you will now become the wife of your adoring Camplin, the time of the celebration of our marriage need not be told to the world. Under the sanction of that holy tie, every circumstance of detraction will be overlooked, and that life may be made long and happy, which your unthinking rashness would cut off from yourself and your father." Harriet had listened little to this speech, but the swelling of her anger had subsided; she threw herself into a chair, and burst again into tears. Camplin drew nearer, and pressed her hand in his; she drew it hastily from him. "If you have any pity," she cried, "I intreat you, for Heaven's sake, to leave me." He bowed respectfully, and retired, desiring the landlady to attend Miss Annesly, and endeavour to afford her some assistance and consolation.

She had, indeed, more occasion for her assistance than he was then aware of, the violent agitation of her spirits having had such an effect on her, that, though she wanted a month of her time, she was suddenly seized with the pains of child-birth, and they were but just able to procure a woman who acted as a midwife in the neighbourhood, when she was delivered of a girl. Distracted as her soul was, this new object drew forth its instinctive tenderness; she mingled tears with her kisses on its cheeks, and forgot the shame attending its birth, in the natural meltings of a

[blocks in formation]

ployed very actively in the progress of his designs on Miss Annesly, entered the room with a look of the utmost consternation and horror; the nurse beckoned to him to make no noise, signifying, by her gestures, that the lady was asleep; but the opening of the door had already awakened her, and she lay listening, when he told the cause of his emotion. It was the intelligence, which he had just accidentally received, of Mr Annesly's death. The effect of this shock on his unfortunate daughter may be easily imagined; every fatal symptom, which sudden terror or surprise causes in women at such a season of weakness, was the consequence, and next morning a delirium succeeded them.

She was not, however, without intervals of reason, though these were but intervals of anguish much more exquisite. Yet she would sometimes express a sort of calmness and submission to the will of Heaven, though it was always attended with the hopes of a speedy relief from the calamities of her existence.

In one of these hours of recollection, she was asked by her attendants, whose pity was now moved at her condition, if she chose to have any friend sent for who might tend to alleviate her distress; upon which she had command enough of herself to dictate a letter to Mrs Wistanly, reciting briefly the miseries she had endured, and asking, with great diffidence however of obtaining, if she could pardon her offences so far, as to come and receive the parting breath of her once innocent and much-loved Harriet. This letter was accordingly dispatched, and she seemed to feel a relief from having accomplished it; but her reason had held out beyond its usual limits of exertion, and immediately after, she relapsed into her former unconnectedness.

Soon after the birth of her daughter, Camp lin, according to his instructions, had proposed sending it away, under the charge of a nurse, whom the landlady had procured, to a small hamlet where she resided, at a little distance. But this the mother opposed with such earnest ness, that the purpose had been delayed till now, when it was given up to the care of this woman, accompanied with a considerable sum of money to provide every necessary for its use, in the most ample and sumptuous manner.

When Mrs Wistanly received the letter we have mentioned above, she was not long in doubt as to complying with its request. Her heart bled for the distresses of that once amiable friend, whom virtue might now blame, but goodness could not forsake. She set out therefore immediately in a chaise, which Camplin had provided for her, and reached the house, to which it conveyed her on the morning of the following day; her impatience not suffering her to consider either the danger or inconvenience of travelling all night. From her recital, I took down the account contained in the following chapter.

CHAP. XXX.

Mrs Wistanly's recital. Conclusion of the First Part.

"WHEN I entered the house, and had got upon the stairs leading to the room in which Harriet lay, I heard a voice, enchantingly sweet, but low, and sometimes broken, singing snatches of songs, varying from the sad to the gay, and from the gay to the sad: it was she herself sitting up in her bed, fingering her pillow as if it had been a harpsichord. It is not easy to conceive the horror I felt on seeing her in such a situation! She seemed unconscious of my approach, though her eye was turned towards me as I entered; only that she stopt in the midst of a quick and lively movement she had begun, and, looking wistfully upon me, breathed such a note of sorrow, and dwelt on it with a cadence so mournful, that my heart lost all the firmness I had resolved to preserve, and I flung my arms round her neck, which I washed with my burst ing tears! The traces which her brain could now only recollect, were such as did not admit of any object long; I had passed over it in the moment of my entrance, and it now wandered from the idea; she paid no regard to my caresses, but pushed me gently from her, gazing stedfastly in an opposite direction towards the door of the apartment. A servant entered with some medicine he had been sent to procure; she put it by when I offered it to her, and kept looking earnestly upon him; she ceased her singing too, and seemed to articulate certain imperfect sounds. For some time I could not make them out into words, but at last she spoke more distinctly, and with a firmer tone.

"You saved my life once, sir, and I could then thank you, because I wished to preserve it ;-but now-no matter, he is happier than I would have him.-I would have nursed the poor old man till he had seen some better days! Bless his white beard!-look there! I have heard how they grow in the grave!-Poor old man!'

"You weep, my dear sir; but had you heard her speak these words! I can but coldly repeat

them.

"All that day she continued in a state of delirium and insensibility to every object around her; towards evening she seemed exhausted with fatigue, and the tossing of her hands, which her frenzy had caused, grew languid as of one breathless and worn out: about midnight she dropped asleep.

"I sat with her during the night, and when she waked in the morning, she gave signs of having recovered her senses, by recollecting me, and calling me by my name. At first, indeed,

[ocr errors]

her questions were irregular and wild; but in a short time she grew so distinct, as to thank me for having complied with the request of her letter: 'Tis an office of unmerited kindness, which,' said she, (and I could observe her let fall a tear,) will be the last your unwearied friendship for me will have to bestow.' I answered, that I hoped not. 'Ah! Mrs Wistanly,' she replied, can you hope so? you are not my friend, if you do.' I wished to avoid a subject which her mind was little able to bear, and therefore made no other return than by kissing her hand, which she had stretched out to me as she spoke.

[ocr errors]

'is

"At that moment we heard some unusual stir below stairs, and, as the floor was thin and ill laid, the word child was very distinctly audible from every tongue. Upon this she started up in her bed, and with a look piteous and wild beyond description, exclaimed, Oh! my God! what of my child!'-She had scarcely uttered the words, when the landlady entered the room, and shewed sufficiently, by her countenance, that she had some dreadful tale to tell. By signs I begged her to be silent. What is become of my infant?' cried Harriet. No ill, madam,' answered the woman, faultering, come to it, I hope.'-'Speak,' said she,' I charge you, for I will know the worst: speak, as you would give peace to my departing soul !' springing out of bed, and grasping the woman's hands with all her force.- -It was not easy to resist so solemn a charge.— Alas!' said the landlady, 'I fear she is drowned; for the nurse's cloak and the child's wrapper have been found in some ooze which the river had carried down below the ford.' She let go the woman's hands, and wringing her own together, threw up her eyes to heaven till their sight was lost in the sockets. We were supporting her, each of us holding one of her arms.-She fell on her knees between us, and dropping her hands for a moment, then raising them again, uttered with a voice that sounded hollow, as if sunk within her:

"Power omnipotent! who wilt not lay on thy creatures calamity beyond their strength to bear! if thou hast not yet punished me enough, continue to pour out the phials of thy wrath upon me, and enable me to support what thou inflictest! But if my faults are expiated, suffer me to rest in peace, and graciously blot out the offences which thy judgments have punished here!'-She continued in the same posture for a few moments; then leaning on us as if she meant to rise, bent her head forward, and drawing her breath strongly, expired in our arms." Such was the conclusion of Mrs Wistanly's tale of woe!

Spirits of gentleness and peace! who look with such pity as angels feel, on the distresses

« PreviousContinue »