My father now said that, after my very great exertion, in riding such a distance, which he had reckoned up, while I was gone, as being eighty-six miles, rest must be necessary for me; and he therefore did not choose that I should ride any farther, for fear I should make myself ill also; otherwise, he felt a great desire to know how the reaping went on, as neither of us had seen the reapers since they began. I gaily told him I was not at all exhausted; and that if such a thing could in the least add to his pleasure or his comfort, I knew that I could ride to Bath and back again without any difficulty. I added, that as to the reapers, I had anticipated what would be his wish, and consequently, before I came in, I had ordered the saddle to be put upon his horse; and, after my sister had given me some tea, I intended to see all the reapers, both upon his farms and my own—"Ah, my dear son!" he replied, "it must be all yours during this harvest at any rate; no cure that can be performed upon me will enable me to get about during this harvest. I am delighted with your alacrity to please me; and, as I have full confidence in you, and know your capability, I shall not give myself one moment's uneasiness about the business."
Having taken some tea with my father and sister, I mounted the third horse, and rode round the fields, and saw every one of the reapers and other servants. I recollect that there were seventy-six reapers at work in my father's fields, and twenty-eight in mine, making in the whole one hundred and four persons, who had that day begun reaping our wheat crop, which was remarkably fine. I had an opportunity, for the first time since I left home, which was about half-past three in the morning, to call and see my wife; of whom I had not had a sight, though I had passed by the house both in going and returning to Devizes and back, and to Bath and back, four times during the day. I informed her of the true situation of my father, and told her that I should return and sit up with him all night.
By the time I had performed my task it was between nine and ten o'clock, and I had literally tired the third horse. My poor father objected so strongly to my sitting up, that about twelve o'clock I retired to an adjoining room to rest myself, but to sleep I found it impossible. I rose again at four, and after I had enquired how he had passed the night, I rode again round the farms more to pass away the hours previous to the arrival of the surgeons and the physician than for any other purpose. A little before eight, according to their appointment, they drove into the yard in Mr. Grant's chariot with four horses. Oh God! what a moment for me! I shall never forget the agitated state of my mind, divided as it was between hope and fear. At the same instant that I hastened them to the bed-room of my father, I would have given any thing to have delayed the fatal, much-dreaded decision. But no time was to be lost. Seeing the agony in which I stood speechless before them, Mr. Grant took me by the hand, and said, "my good young friend, you must exert all your courage, and be prepared for the worst; my old friend Clare has given me such a description of your father's leg, that I have no hopes of a favourable result." Old Dr. Hill, the physician, now said, "come! come! Mr. Grant, do you bear up; do not make the young man down-hearted, "there are a great many slips between the cup and the lip." It is not so bad as you imagine." Good Heaven! what a strong recollection I at this moment have, of the look of scorn and contempt which Mr. Grant bestowed upon the old Devizes physician! He did not utter a word, but his look was enough.
Having informed my father of their arrival, they all three proceeded to his bed-room; a most awful anxious moment for me, and I never before prayed so devoutly for any thing in my life, as I now did for a propitious decision from Mr. Grant. After the first salutation was over, the surgeons began to examine his leg; and Mr. Grant pointed out to Clare a deep red streak, that passed up the inside of his thigh, quite up to the body. He asked my father whether he had any objection to have his leg opened; to which my father promptly replied "not in the least. I beg you will do any thing you think proper." Mr. Grant then said it would be necessary to make a pretty deep incision, to ascertain the state of the inflamed part. "Proceed as you please, sir," said my father, "I am quite capable of bearing pain." Mr. Clare then made an incision in the calf of his leg, three inches deep, quite down to the bone, and five or six inches in length. The flesh appeared as black as mahogany, and very little blood flowed. This my father bore without the least flinching. Some cloths were wrapped round it, and they desired him to lie down, and compose himself a little. "I will lie down, sir," he replied, "but I hope that I do not appear discomposed." All this while I stood like a statue, as pale as ashes, watching every look of Mr. Grant with intense anxiety. "Well, sir," said Mr. Grant, "I will consult with Mr. Clare, who understands these matters quite as well as I do, and, in fact, as well as any surgeon in England, and we will settle the course you shall follow. Your leg is in a dreadful state, but we will see what can be done for you."
Mr. Grant now took my father by the hand, and was wishing him good morning, when my father, holding his hand, firmly raised himself upon his bed, and said, "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Grant, for the trouble you have taken to come such a long journey to see me; and my son will most cheerfully remunerate you. There is, however, one thing more which I shall request you to do before you leave me. It is that you will give me your candid and honest opinion of my situation. Have you any well-grounded hopes of my recovery? If you have not, you will confer a great obligation upon me by saying so." Doctor Hill, who was standing at the other side of the bed, prevented any answer, by saying, "Come! come! Mr. Hunt, you are low spirited; come! come! you must not indulge in any such notions; you will do very well again by and by." Upon which my father, turning indignantly round, replied with a firm and rather strong voice, "stand back, and keep your peace for once, Dr. Hill, and do not expose yourself—I am neither low-spirited, nor so weak as to be put off by your common-place cant. Have the modesty, at any rate, to listen with patience to what I am going to say to Mr. Grant, who appears to be a sensible, honest man, or else be so obliging as to leave the room." Then, turning back to Mr. Grant, he said, "I have, sir, contrived so to live as not to fear to die. You are a perfect stranger to me; but you have the character of knowing your profession well, and also of being a humane man; at least my son informs me that you have been induced to take this journey more from humanity than for your fee. I have therefore, a perfect reliance upon your judgment with respect to my case; you see that I have nerve to hear my fate; and it will be a great relief to my mind, and it will afford me even comparative consolation, to be informed of it from your lips, rather than be left in suspence. Nay, I appeal to your humanity, to speak the truth boldly at once, to save my poor afflicted son the pain of communicating it."
Having said this, my father paused, to receive a reply. Oh! what an agonising, heart-rending moment was this for me! Mr. Grant took my father's hand, and seriously delivered himself as follows:—"After what you have said, sir; after the calm and manly appeal which you have made to me, and with so laudable and rational a desire to spare pain to the feelings of your son, I should be doing an injustice to my own sense of duty, and be imposing upon you, if I were to withhold any longer my honest opinion; which is this, that, as a mortification had taken place, for many hours even before Clare first saw you, and as it has approached your body, I cannot, unless some very extraordinary interposition of Providence shall occur, see any hopes of your recovery."
My father, who, during this sad speech, had looked him firmly in the face, calmly and rather cheerfully replied, "I thank you, sir, most sincerely. I am content! the Lord's will be done! Pray take care of my poor son." The last words of the Doctor had produced such an awful effect upon me, that, unperceived by them, I had sunk senseless into a chair.
As soon as I recovered a little I was led out of the room, more dead than alive; and even at this moment the words of Mr. Grant vibrate afresh upon my ear. Though I had anticipated such an answer, and had, indeed, no reason to expect any other, yet when the blow came, it was much more stunning, much more overwhelming, than I had any idea of. I was dumb with sorrow; I now, by cruel experience, understood, what dumb sorrow meant. I could neither speak nor give vent to my feelings by tears. The agony of my poor sister, who saw enough to convince her what was the fatal sentence, and who immediately went into violent hysterics, was the first thing that recalled me to myself. The sight of her distress roused me from my lethargy; yet it was with a sort of stupor that I moved to her assistance, and when she had in some degree recovered, my brain was still whirled round and bewildered. I had received such a shock that all the world appeared as one vacant blank before my eyes.
Mr. Clare, at length, called my attention to the wish of Mr Grant to return; and the chaise being brought to the door, he reminded me of the doctor's fee. I asked Clare what would be proper; to which he replied that twenty guineas would be handsome. I, however, gave him thirty, with which he expressed himself very well satisfied; and on his departure he politely requested that he might be numbered among my friends. I made my friend Clare promise to return in the evening; and poor Hill, who had eyed with a mixture of surprise and envy the large sum paid to Mr. Grant, received his two guineas for his two visits, and left the place, cursing, I have no doubt, Mr. Grant in his heart, for having spoken out so plainly as to render his future visits useless, and thereby deprived him of three or four more guineas in fees.
The moment they were gone I returned to my father, endeavouring to suppress my sorrow as much as possible. Taking me by the hand, he said, most tenderly, "My dear son, though I do not feel myself weak, yet, as we must part so soon, pass as much of your time with me as you conveniently can; for I feel at present in very sound mind, and I shall be enabled to give you some good advice, which I hope will be of lasting service to you; and, as it will be given at such a time as this, I am sure that it will sink deep into your heart. In the first place you must not give way to sorrow; for you must be a father to your sister, and to your unfortunate little brothers, who are at school in London. I shall not for one moment repine upon my own account. I am not afraid to meet a merciful Creator; he is not the implacable being that some find it their interest to represent him. I always have had, and shall, to the last, continue to have, full and implicit confidence in his loving kindness and mercy. Be you, therefore, calm and temperate in your grief, and consider that you have a great duty to perform. It must be your task to comfort your father in his last moments, when, perhaps, by the exhaustion of his bodily powers, he may become weak in mind. If this be the Divine will, which, however, may Heaven avert, be it your care to soothe, to comfort, and to cherish; and, if possible, collect and controul my wandering senses. Promise me that you will not leave me long at a time. In you I place my trust, and I know you will not deceive me." I solemnly assured him that I would not leave the house. "Nay,[">[ said he, "do not say so; all our large farms, with two or three hundred servants, require your attendance, sometimes; but do not leave me long at a time. I feel no symptoms of my approaching end. Send for your wife. She will comfort and be a good companion for your sister, and will assist her to nurse me. I know that you will all make me as comfortable as you can while I remain here." To which I replied, by entreating him not to doubt my affectionate attention.