LETTER XV.
Charles to William.
Pity me, my friend; Dr. Bartlett has just received a letter from Grandison Hall; he instantly informed me, with seeming emotion, that there was not the least danger, but that my mother was ill, and that if I pleased, we would set off in the morning. Do you say, my dear Sir, if I please; my heart is there already; my mother in danger, and her son so far off! I never was so low spirited in my life; I am sure the Doctor softens the matter to me. I received a few lines from Emilia, delivered privately to me by the servant, which made me very uneasy; I will transcribe part of it.
“Dear, dear Charles,
“What a misfortune happened yesterday! our dear mother suddenly fainted, and I was afraid she was dead; I was alone with her, sitting at my work, and did not perceive her change countenance, so that she was on the ground before I could afford her any assistance. My loud cries brought the servants, but not before I had got my arm under her head: I kissed her forehead, and called upon her a hundred times, as if I could recall her to life. The surgeon soon arrived, and bled her, and in about half an hour she came to herself again. But what did I suffer during that dreadful interval! I wished a thousand times that you were here. Do not delay a moment, dear brother, if you love me; I shall be much easier, I know, when you are with me. We shall assist each other in nursing her, for I will never leave her a moment care of strangers; I remember how she Sat up with us when we had the smallpox and measles, and if she was out of danger, I should feel a pleasure in convincing her, that I love her as dearly as she loves me.”
This is a short transcript, William, of my dear girl’s letter; for with a full heart she has written the same thing over and over again. We shall leave this the first peep of day, and you may expect the earliest account of my mother’s state of health.
CHARLES.
LETTER XVI.
Charles to William.
My mother is out of danger; my sister’s letter made me very apprehensive; the tenderness of her nature makes her tremble at the least indisposition that attacks her parents, and she exaggerates the danger, till she is unable to see things as they really are. But why do I blame her? What have I not suffered myself through anxiety, in my way hither? I sometimes feared my mother was already dead, and we appeared to ride too fast forward: I was afraid to approach the hall one minute, and the next was in a violent perspiration through my eagerness to reach it. In short, William, I had a continual palpitation at my heart, and now find myself by no means well. But I shall not complain; in the morning probably I shall be better.
The time draws near, the time I so eagerly look for, when I was to have visited Holland: all my hopes seem like a dream, and it appears to me wrong even to think of it. I will go and take a little walk in the garden, it may, perhaps, refresh me.
I do not seem much the better for my walk, but I am glad I went, and I will tell you why. As I was going down the lane by the side of the garden, which you know leads to the high road, such a weariness came over me I was obliged to sit down. After resting some moments I rose up, and without considering where I was going, turned down the public road. May we not suppose, William, that heaven directs our steps to be serviceable to our fellow-creatures? for I saw, as I advanced, not far from me, a little child about three years old; it seemed tired, and stood still when it perceived me. At first I supposed some person was near; but not seeing any one, I began to be uneasy, and when it turned from me offered it some flowers which I had gathered in my way; this I did with a smiling aspect, and enquired what was its name, and where it lived? It could only lisp out a few words, such as that its name was Jemmy, and that it lived yonder, pointing with its hand, I could not tell where, for you know there is no house near; I could only make out that it had been a long time seeking its mammy.