He went up, knocked at the chamber door, and its not being opened, made him push it with some violence. He heard a bustling noise within, and again made a fruitless attempt to open the door. At this the noise increased, and Mr. Bragwell was struck to the heart at the sound of a pistol from within. He now kicked so violently against the door that it burst open, when the first sight he saw was his daughter falling to the ground in a fit, and Mr. Squeeze dying by a shot from a pistol which was dropping out of his hand. Mr. Bragwell was not the only person whom the sound of the pistol had alarmed. The servants, the company, all heard it, and all ran up to the scene of horror. Those who had the best of the game took care to bring up their tricks in their hands, having had the prudence to leave the very few who could be trusted, to watch the stakes, while those who had the prospect of losing profiled by the confusion, and threw up their cards. All was dismay and terror. Some ran for a surgeon, others examined the dying man; some removed Mrs. Squeeze to her bed, while poor Bragwell could neither see, nor hear, nor do any thing. One of the company took up a letter which lay open upon the table, and was addressed to him; they read it, hoping it might explain the horrid mystery. It was as follows:
"TO MR. BRAGWELL.
"Sir—Fetch home your daughter; I have ruined her, myself, and the child to which she every hour expects to be a mother. I have lost my contracts. My debts are immense. You refuse me money; I must die then; but I will die like a man of spirit. They wait to take me to prison; I have two executions in my house; but I have ten card-tables in it. I would die as I have lived. I invited all this company, and have drank hard since dinner to get primed for this dreadful deed. My wife refuses to write to you for another thousand, and she must take the consequences. Vanity has been my ruin; it has caused all my crimes. Whoever is resolved to live beyond his income is liable to every sin. He can never say to himself, Thus far shalt thou go and no further. Vanity led me to commit acts of rapine, that I might live in splendor; vanity makes me commit self-murder, because I will not live in poverty. The new philosophy says that death is an eternal sleep; but the new philosophy lies. Do you take heed; it is too late for me: the dreadful gulf yawns to swallow me; I plunge into perdition: there is no repentance in the grave, no hope in hell.
"Yours, etc.
"Dashall Squeeze."
The dead body was removed, and Mr. Bragwell remaining almost without speech or motion, the company began to think of retiring, much out of humor at having their party so disagreeably broken up: they comforted themselves however, that it was so early (for it was now scarcely twelve) they could finish their evening at another party or two; so completely do habits of pleasure, as it is called, harden the heart, and steel it not only against virtuous impressions, but against natural feelings! Now it was, that those who had nightly rioted at the expense of these wretched people, were the first to abuse them. Not an offer of assistance was made to this poor forlorn woman; not a word of kindness or of pity; nothing but censure was now heard, "Why must these upstarts ape people of quality?" though as long as these upstarts could feast them, their vulgarity and their bad character had never been produced against them. "As long as thou dost well unto thyself, men shall speak good of thee." One guest who, unluckily, had no other house to go to, coolly said, as he walked off, "Squeeze might as well have put off shooting himself till morning. It was monstrously provoking that he could not wait an hour or two."
As every thing in the house was seized Mr. Bragwell prevailed on his miserable daughter, weak as she was, next morning to set out with him to the country. His acquaintance with polite life was short, but he had seen a great deal in a little time. They had a slow and sad journey. In about a week, Mrs. Squeeze lay-in of a dead child; she herself languished a few days, and then died; and the afflicted parents saw the two darling objects of their ambition, for whose sakes they had made too much haste to be rich, carried to the land where all things are forgotten. Mrs. Bragwell's grief, like her other passions, was extravagant; and poor Bragwell's sorrow was rendered so bitter by self-reproach, that he would have quite sunk under it, had he not thought of his old expedient in distress, that of sending for Mr. Worthy to comfort him.
It was Mr. Worthy's way, to warn people of those misfortunes which he saw their faults must needs bring on them; but not to reproach or desert them when the misfortunes came. He had never been near Bragwell during the short but flourishing reign of the Squeezes: for he knew that prosperity made the ears deaf and the heart hard to counsel; but as soon as he heard his friend was in trouble, he set out to go to him. Bragwell burst into a violent fit of tears when he saw him, and when he could speak, said, "This trial is more than I can bear." Mr. Worthy kindly took him by the hand, and when he was a little composed, said, "I will tell you a short story. There was in ancient times a famous man who was a slave. His master, who was very good to him, one day gave him a bitter melon, and made him eat it: he ate it up without one word of complaint. 'How was it possible,' said the master, 'for you to eat so very nauseous and disagreeable a fruit?' The slave replied, 'My good master, I have received so many favors from your bounty, that it is no wonder if I should once in my life eat one bitter melon from your hands.' This generous answer so struck the master, that the history says he gave him his liberty. With such submissive sentiments, my friend, should man receive his portion of sufferings from God, from whom he receives so many blessings. You in particular have received 'much good at the hand of God, shall you not receive evil also?'"
"O! Mr. Worthy!" said Bragwell, "this blow is too heavy for me, I can not survive this shock: I do not desire it, I only wish to die." "We are very apt to talk most of dying when we are least fit for it," said Worthy. "This is not the language of that submission which makes us prepare for death; but of that despair which makes us out of humor with life. O! Mr. Bragwell! you are indeed disappointed of the grand ends which made life so delightful to you; but till your heart is humbled, till you are brought to a serious conviction of sin, till you are brought to see what is the true end of life, you can have no hope in death. You think you have no business on earth, because those for whose sake you too eagerly heaped up riches are no more. But is there not under the canopy of heaven some afflicted being whom you may yet relieve, some modest merit which you may bring forward, some helpless creature you may save by your advice, some perishing Christian you may sustain by your wealth? When you have no sins of your own to repent of, no mercies of God to be thankful for, no miseries of others to relieve, then, and not till then, I consent you should sink down in despair, and call on death to relieve you."
Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to the funeral of his unhappy daughter and her babe. The solemn service, the committing his late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to worms, and to corruption; the sight of the dead infant, for whose sake he had resumed all his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when he thought he had got the better of them; the melancholy conviction that all human prosperity ends in ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, had brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and haughty soul into something of that humble frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see it. As soon as they returned home, he was beginning to seize the favorable moment for fixing these serious impressions, when they were unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, who came to ask Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman who was traveling the country with her child, and was taken in a fit under the church-yard wall? "At first they thought she was dead," said the man, "but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the work-house till she could give some account of herself."
Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interruption, which was, indeed, unseasonable, and told the man that he was at that time too much overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but he would give him an answer to-morrow. "But, my friend," said Mr. Worthy, "the poor woman may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a frame for worldly business; but there is no sorrow too great to forbid our attending the calls of duty. An act of Christian charity will not disturb, but improve the seriousness of your spirit; and though you can not dry your own tears, God may in great mercy permit you to dry those of another. This may be one of those occasions for which I told you life was worth keeping. Do let us see this woman." Bragwell was not in a state either to consent or refuse, and his friend drew him to the work-house, about the door of which stood a crowd of people. "She is not dead," said one, "she moves her head." "But she wants air," said all of them, while they all, according to custom, pushed so close upon her that it was impossible she could get any. A fine boy of two or three years old stood by her, crying, "Mammy is dead, mammy is starved." Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his friend by the arm; in order to give her air he untied a large black bonnet which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell, at that moment casting his eyes on her saw in this poor stranger the face of his own runaway daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could not speak; and as he was turning away to conceal his anguish, the little boy fondly caught hold of his hand, lisping out, "O stay and give mammy some bread." His heart yearned toward the child; he grasped his little hand in his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy, "It is too much, send away the people. It is my dear naughty child; 'my punishment is greater than I can bear.'" Mr. Worthy desired the people to go and leave the stranger to them; but by this time she was no stranger to any of them. Pale and meager as was her face, and poor and shabby as was her dress, the proud and flaunting Miss Polly Bragwell was easily known by every one present. They went away, but with the mean revenge of little minds, they paid themselves by abuse, for all the airs and insolence they had once endured from her. "Pride must have a fall," said one, "I remember when she was too good to speak to a poor body," said another. "Where are her flounces and furbelows now? It is come home to her at last; her child looks as if he would be glad of the worst bit she formerly denied us."