LETTER LXIV.
Sunday morning.
Will my Lucy need from me the obvious reflexions, which will result from the perusal of this letter? “No:” nor have I time to make them, though the impressions on my mind are such as will indelibly remain, as admonitions to warn me against too much security in this world’s air bubbles!
I had so well sustained my part with my pen, in writing to Sir Murdoch, that I had produced a cheerfulness on the pensive brow of his wife; and she detained me with her, until it was too late to finish my letter to you. I therefore continued to read and chat with my friend till near the dining hour. The appearance of Doctor Douglass was nothing new; but we were equally struck with his manner and countenance; and her ladyship, with alarm, asked him, whether Lucretia was worse. “No,” replied he, with visible distress, “there is no material change; but she has asked for you.” Lady Maclairn immediately quitted us to go to her sister’s room. “She is dying,” observed I, “you think so, I am certain; why do you flatter Lady Maclairn with hopes?” “Poor creature!” answered he, “I wish she had only this shock to support, there would then be little to justify my fears for her; but I am a coward, Miss Cowley, and you must assist me, and yet I tremble even in soliciting your aid; for these exertions can do you no good.” “Never think of me,” said I eagerly. “What are the dreadful tidings you bring?” “That a sinner is departed,” answered he with solemnity; “that Lady Maclairn has no longer a brother. Let me conduct you to your apartment,” continued he, seeing me pale and trembling, “I must consult you; and we shall be interrupted here.” I made no reply; but yielded to his assistance.
A burst of tears relieved me. “Wherefore is it,” observed poor Douglass, with compassion, “that you seem destined, by Providence, to be the support of this unfortunate family; and, by the continual exertions of your fortitude and humanity, thus to diminish your own comforts and weaken your health?” I admire you, and I reverence your Mrs. Hardcastle; but your strength of mind is uncommon! “Try it,” replied I, “let me hear the whole of this dreadful affair; it cannot be worse than I apprehend.” “Nor is it better,” answered he; “and we have to guard against surprises. It must be discovered. The public papers will have the intelligence, and Lady Maclairn must be prepared; are you equal to the task?” “I trust I am,” answered I, “otherwise my strength of mind is no virtue.” He grasped my hand, and said some words, expressive of his approbation, then proceeded to inform me, that Captain Flint had found on his table the preceding evening, on returning from his sister’s, the packet which he now produced. “I was sent for,” added the doctor, “and we passed nearly the whole night in reading the contents, and consulting the best means of communicating them to Lady Maclairn. The captain declared he was unable to do it; and thought himself peculiarly disqualified for the office, it being no secret, that he despised the man, and was not surprised at his end.” “I have no heart on such occasions,” continued Douglass, rising and pacing the room. “I have a trick of looking beyond “this diurnal sphere,” and I hate to announce the death of the wicked. There are the letters; I will leave you for an hour and then return; you may want me as a physician.”
To the hasty perusal of them, followed my thanks to Providence for the absence of Sir Murdoch; and without suffering the energy of my mind to relax, I sent for Lady Maclairn to my room. She instantly perceived my emotion, and I at once acknowledged that I had bad news to communicate from Jamaica; and which Captain Flint was unequal to the task of doing. She gasped for breath. “Nothing can equal,” continued I, “Mr. Philip Flint’s solicitude for you, thank God! he has stood the shock: his friends are without alarm for him. Mr. Flamall’s death must be supported, my dear Lady Maclairn; let me see you composed.” “It was sudden?” said she, fixing her eyes on my face, “It was——I made no other answer, than falling on her shoulder and weeping.” “It is enough,” said she, trembling and sinking from my embrace. I was terrified, for she did not faint as I expected, but with her eyes fixed, and with a deadly groan she articulated the name of Duncan. I immediately perceived the dreadful idea, which had taken possession of her mind. “He is at rest, my dear friend,” said I, “and now blessed for his faithfulness to you.” I was proceeding, but she heard me not. Horror had transfixed her to her seat. She was as cold as marble, and not a tear fell. I rang the bell with violence. The doctor entered at the same moment; he instantly bled her, and she was put into my bed. Douglass watched her, under great uneasiness, until she appeared to me to be dead. I really thought she was, when her eyes closed and her stiffened limbs relaxed. “Take courage,” said he, “the worst is passed; she will recover.” The event shewed his judgment; for in a few minutes she burst into violent sobbings, and the death-like coldness of her hand gave place to a friendly perspiration. He gave her a cordial; and ordering no one to disturb her by speaking, I was left with her. By his orders, I neither checked her tears, nor evaded her enquiries. I believe, however, that she dosed for some time, as not a sigh escaped her. At length, putting aside the curtain, she spoke, and I approached her. “Angel of mercy and goodness,” said she, kissing my hand, “tell me, has no one seen my distress?” “The servants saw you in a fainting state,” replied I. “But they never saw me so ill I believe,” observed she with anxiety, “Did nothing escape me?” I satisfied her at once on this point, and at her request briefly, and I think wisely, informed her of the leading events contained in the captain’s letters. She wept, and I proceeded. “In this trial of your faith and fortitude,” said I, “it is not possible you can overlook the merciful Being, who has secured Duncan from guilt, by removing him to an abode of peace.” “I cannot express my thankfulness,” replied she, “but I feel the gratitude.—But my wretched lost brother!” She shuddered anew— “He is before an unerring Judge,” replied I, interrupting her. “It neither becomes you nor myself to limit infinite mercy. You are now called upon, by that God of mercy, to submit to his power and to trust in his goodness and compassion. Let it be your concern to perform, with courage, the part assigned you. It has been a difficult one; but not beyond your strength. Remember that you are still a wife, and a mother; and your duties will give you patience and peace.”
Emulate the man in whose sorrows you have shared; “he was faithful to the end.” Deprive him not of the glory of having loved your reputation and your honour more than his own. To Lady Maclairn he sacrificed his fondest hopes, his vengeance on his oppressor, his ease in life, and even the name of her faithful Duncan to his last moments. Weep for him! continued I, with my eyes streaming; neither religion nor virtue forbid this tribute to his memory; but live to preserve Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s peace. “I would die rather than disturb it,” said she with agony. “It is my misery, my past punishment, that whilst my soul mourns the fate of a man ruined by my affection, another not less worthy, not less beloved has been involved in all the perils of my miserable condition and conduct. I cannot live without Maclairn’s esteem and tenderness; I cannot die without affecting him. I must still wear the odious cloak of deceit; I must still impose on his noble unsuspecting nature. Oh fatal consequences of my quitting the paths of truth!” added she, with interrupted sighs; “wretched fruits of my weak credulity and childish fears! Had I been firm, had I shown myself to the world as the reprobated widow of poor Duncan, I should long ere this have smiled at its contempt, or been at peace in my grave. But for what am I not now answerable?” “Not for your brother’s wickedness,” replied I eagerly, “you have a fair account, my dear friend, to set against the errors of your youth; recollect the place you have filled in society, the years of suffering your tender cares have mitigated, the duties of the mother you have performed, the happiness you have administered; and I will add, the pangs your courage has sustained in order to effect the tranquillity of others. Secresy is now a duty, and an obligation enforced upon you, by every motive of virtue and utility. Let me see you, what you may be; unless, by recalling the past, you destroy your health, and my hopes. The storm is passed; and if you experience not the joy of an unclouded sky, yet the evening of your days may be serene and quiet.”
She promised me to be all I wished, and to brace every nerve against her husband’s return. I think she is more composed to day; and at her request I have been with Miss Flint. As I expected, she began by lamenting her ladyship’s sudden indisposition, and added, that Percival also had a cold which prevented her seeing him. I gave her hopes of her sister’s speedy recovery, and endeavoured to keep up the conversation; but she soon dosed, which I find she again does half her time, and I left her without being noticed.
Good night, I am going to bed, and to sleep if I can. Mrs. Allen will be with Lady Maclairn. I direct my letters to Sedley. You will understand by the accompaniments my reason for so doing. Mary might wonder at not being trusted; Mr. Sedley will give you this packet. Adieu. Let me know that the intelligence is secure in your hands. My friend wishes you to keep these with the other papers: she has read them.
I am really quite worn out with one or two night’s watching; but do not fancy me sick, should I be lazy. We expect Sir Murdoch the day after to-morrow; and I may have too much business on my hands to write to you before Saturday.