Oh! my dear mother, we are all here full of anxiety; Charles, who went very early this morning on horseback, with one of the servants, to pay Mr. Friendly a visit, and promised to return early, is not yet come home; and it is past nine o’clock. He was always punctual—some misfortune must have befallen him.—I do not know what to think, or fear. The night is very dark, and the weather stormy. Sir Charles has just sent off a servant to obtain some information:—how we all long for his return!
Eleven o’clock. The servant is come back; but no intelligence of Charles. He left Mr. Friendly’s soon after dinner, about four o’clock. Dear mother, where can he be? Drowned, I fear:—perhaps—perhaps what? I am afraid even to write the strange thoughts and conjectures which come into my head—I never seemed so much alive before, my soul feels as if it would fly out of my body to search for Charles—dear Charles! Lady Grandison sits silent; Emilia does nothing but cry; and Edward runs through the house quite frantic: Sir Charles endeavours to comfort his Lady, and has need of comfort himself. He has sent several servants different ways, and waits impatiently for day-break, when he intends going himself.—O that he would take me with him!
One o’clock, and no news of Charles. We are none of us in bed—and indeed who could sleep! My eyes feel as if they would never close again—I cannot cry.
Half after four. Thank Heaven—Charles is safe. The servant, who attended him, is just arrived. It was not his fault, that we had so much uneasiness; no pleasure—no company detained him.—But Sir Charles insists on it, that we go to bed for a few hours. I cannot sleep, though I must go to bed.—I do not want sleep, Charles is safe. Why does my joy make me cry? I did not weep when I thought I should never, O never see him more.—Well, I must go to this same bed.—Good morning to you, Madam. I declare the birds are beginning to sing—how can I sleep?
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLIII.
William to his Mother.
Now you shall hear the servant’s account—I long to tell you all about an affair, which is to clear my friend;—for a moment you must not think ill of him.
Charles set out from Mr. Friendly’s soon after dinner, Harry, his man, of course attended him. The weather had been all day lowering; they quickened their pace; but such a thick mist arose gradually, they could scarcely see two yards before them. Charles, though he is very courageous, shewed some signs of fear, and they then rode slowly, observing every step, when they saw at some little distance, a man lying in the middle of the road. What is that? said Charles, holding-in his horse. A man who has drank more than he ought, I suppose, answered Harry. Pray, Sir, ride a little quicker, it grows late. No, replied Charles, for if the man is drunk, we must endeavour to help him out of the highway, or he may be rode over in the dark. Saying so, he jumped off his horse: but how terrifying was the sight!—He saw an old officer lying weltering in his blood. He spoke to him; but received no answer. The gentleman is dead, cried Harry. No, no, interrupted Charles, he has only fainted through loss of blood. What shall we do? What can we do? replied Harry. Let us gallop on to the first village to procure assistance. What, and leave the man bleeding, said Charles, with warmth; he would die before we could even reach the village.—Do you not see how he bleeds? Tie our horses fast to that tree, and make haste to assist me, I must not let a man die without doing my best to save him. He then pulled off his clothes, and tore his shirt; and finding that the wound was in the head, he wiped away the gore, and bound the linen round it; he did it several times before he could stop the effusion. After the operation, they lifted him cautiously, and laid him on the grass, near the road side. Good heavens, said Harry, it begins to be quite dark, and the mist is so thick, we shall never be able to find our way; and how uneasy they will all be at home. O that is true, said Charles; come, let us go.—And he advanced a step or two; but turning his eyes on the poor officer, they filled with tears, and he stood thinking half a moment—and then burst out.—No, I cannot, will not leave you in this condition; I do not occasion the uneasiness my parents will feel to gratify myself; I ought not to deliberate a moment: ride on directly to the next village, or to the first cottage you spy, and prevail on some man to return with you; and all together we may carry this poor man to a shelter, and procure further help.
HARRY.
I dare not leave you here alone, your father would never forgive me.