Such was the letter which got into Mr. Aubrey's hands just as the time which had been fixed by Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, for payment of their bill, was expiring, and which occasioned him, as may be easily imagined, dreadful disquietude. It had found him in a state of the deepest depression—but yet vigorously striving to preserve, in the presence of his wife and sister, a semblance of composure and cheerfulness. More to pacify them than to satisfy himself, he had walked about town during the two preceding days till nearly dropping with exhaustion, in fruitless quest of those who might be disposed to advance him a thousand pounds on his own personal security, and on terms he scarce cared how exorbitant, to free him, at all events for a while, from his present exigency. All had been, however, in vain—indeed he had had no hopes from the first. And what was then to be done? His soul seemed dying away within him. At times he almost lost all consciousness of his situation, and of what was passing around him. It appeared to be the will of Heaven that his misfortunes should press him down, as it were, by inches into the dust, and crush him. Those there were, he well knew, who needed but to be apprised of his circumstances, to step forward and generously relieve him from his difficulties. But where was all that to end? What real good could it serve? Awfully involved as he was already—one, alone, of his friends being at that moment under a liability which must be discharged within a few months, of nearly eleven thousand pounds—was he to place others in a similar situation? What earthly prospect had he of ever repaying them? Lamentable as was his position, his soul recoiled from the bare thought. But then came before his anguished eye, his wife—his sister—his children; and he flung himself, in an ecstasy, on his knees, remaining long prostrate—and, for a while, the heaven that was over his head seemed to be brass, and the earth that was under him, iron. His heart might be wrung, however, and his spirit heavy and darkened; but no extent or depth of misery could cause him to forget those principles of honor and integrity by which all his life had been regulated. He resolved, therefore, to submit to the stroke apparently impending over him, with calmness, as to inevitable ruin; nor would he hear of any further applications to his friends, which, indeed, he felt would be only encouragement to those who held him in thraldom, to renew their exactions, when they found each succeeding pressure successful. Poor Kate had told him, as soon as her letter had been put into the post, with trembling apprehension as to the consequences, of her application to Lady Stratton; but did she think her fond broken-hearted brother could chide her? He looked at her for a moment, with quivering lip and eyes blinded with tears—and then wrung her hand, simply expressing a hope, that, since the step had been taken, it might be, in some measure at least, successful.
Mr. Gammon's letter, as I have already intimated, filled Mr. Aubrey with inexpressible alarm. Again and again he read it over with increasing agitation, and at the same time uncertain as to its true character and import—as to the real motive and object of its writer. Was he guilty of the duplicity which Mrs. Aubrey and Kate so vehemently imputed to him? Was he actuated by revenge? Or was he, as represented by Mr. Quirk's letter, overpowered by his partners, and still sincere in his wishes to shield Mr. Aubrey from their rapacity? Or was Mr. Gammon suggesting flight only as a snare? Was Mr. Aubrey to be seduced into an act warranting them in proceeding to instant extremities against him? What could be the other matters so darkly alluded to in the letter? Were they the two promissory notes of five thousand pounds each, which he had deposited with Mr. Gammon, who at length was peremptorily required by Mr. Titmouse to surrender them up, and permit them to be put in suit? They were payable on demand—he shuddered! Might it be, that Titmouse was desperately in want of money, and had therefore overpowered the scruples of Gammon, and disregarded the sacred pledge under which he assured Titmouse the notes had been given? Mr. Aubrey rejoiced that Mr. Gammon's letter had been placed in his hands by the servant when alone in his study, whither he had gone to write a note to Mr. Runnington; and resolved not to apprise Mrs. Aubrey and Kate of its arrival. The fourth day after the receipt of Messrs. Quirk and Snap's letter had now elapsed. Mr. Aubrey did not venture to quit the house. All of them were, as may well be imagined, in a state of pitiable distress, and agitation, and suspense. Thus also passed the fifth day—still the blow descended not. Was the arm extended to inflict it, held back, still, by Mr. Gammon continuing thus the "incredible efforts" spoken of in his note?
The sixth morning dawned on the wretched family. They all rose at a somewhat earlier hour than usual. They could scarce touch the spare and simple breakfast spread before them, nor enjoy—nay, they could hardly bear—the prattle and gambols of the lively little ones, Charles and Agnes, whom at length they despatched back again to the nursery; for they were, in the highest possible state of excitement and anxiety, awaiting the arrival of the postman—this being the first morning on which they could, in the ordinary course, receive a letter from Lady Stratton in answer to that of Kate. 'T was now a little past ten. The breakfast things had been removed; and on hearing the agitating though long-expected rat-tat of the postman a few doors down the street, Mrs. Aubrey and Kate started to the window. Their hearts beat violently when their eye at length caught sight of him, with his arm full of letters, knocking at the door opposite. Oh, had he a letter for them? How long were their opposite neighbors in answering his summons, and in paying the postage! Then he stood for nearly a minute laughing with a servant in the adjoining area—intolerable indeed was all this, to the agitated beings who were thus panting for his arrival! Presently he glanced at the packet in his hand, and taking one of the letters from it, crossed the street, making for their door.
"Heavens! He has a letter!" cried Miss Aubrey, excitedly—"I sha'n't wait for Fanny!" and, flying to the front door, plucked it open the instant after the postman had knocked. He touched his hat on seeing, instead of a servant, the beautiful but agitated lady, who stretched forth her hand and took the letter, exclaiming, "Fanny will pay you"—but in an instant her cheek was blanched, and she nearly fell to the floor, at sight of the black border, the black seal, and the handwriting, which she did not at the instant recognize. For a moment or two she seemed to have lost the power of speech or motion; but presently her trembling limbs bore her into the parlor. "Oh! Charles—Agnes—I feel as if I were going to die—look"—she faltered, sinking into the nearest chair, while Mr. Aubrey, with much agitation, took the ominous-looking letter which she extended towards him. 'T was from Mr. Parkinson; and told the news of Lady Stratton's death, and the lamentable circumstances attending it; that—as the reader has heard—she had died intestate—and that Mr. Titmouse had, as next of kin, become entitled to administration to her effects. All this disastrous intelligence was conveyed in a very few hurried lines. "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, on having glanced over them. His color fled, and he pressed his hand against his forehead. "She is dead!" said he, in a low tone, at the same time giving Kate the letter, and hastening to Mrs. Aubrey, who seemed nearly fainting. Each had uttered a faint scream on hearing his words. Mrs. Aubrey swooned in his arms —and Kate sat like a statue, without even glancing at the fatal letter which she held in her hand, but gazing in a sort of stupor at her brother. She was unable to rise to Mrs. Aubrey's assistance—of whose state, indeed, she appeared, from her vacant eye, to be hardly aware. At length a slight sigh announced the returning consciousness of Mrs. Aubrey; and at the same time Miss Aubrey, with a manifestly desperate effort, regained her consciousness, and with a cheek white as the paper at which she was looking, read it over.
"This is very—very—dreadful—Heaven is forsaking us!" at length she murmured, gazing wofully at her brother and sister.
"Say not so—but rather God's will be done," faltered Mr. Aubrey, his voice and his countenance evincing the depth of his affliction. "God help us!" he added in a tone which at length, thrilling through the overcharged heart of his sister, caused her to weep bitterly; and if ever there was a mournful scene, it was that which ensued, ere this doomed family, slowly recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock which they had just received, had become aware of the full extent of their misery. They had ever felt towards Lady Stratton—who, as has been already said, had been poor Kate's godmother—as towards a parent; and their affection had been doubled after the death of Mrs. Aubrey. Now she was gone; she who would have stood for a little while at least between them and ruin, was gone! And by an inscrutable and awful Providence, that which she had sacredly destined to them, and made great sacrifices to secure to them—and which would have effectually shielded them from the cruelty and rapacity of their enemies—had been diverted from them, into the coffers of the most selfish and worthless of mankind—who seemed, indeed, as if he had been called into existence only to effect their ruin; even, as it were, the messenger of Satan to buffet them! At length, however, the first natural transports of their grief having subsided, their stricken hearts returned to their allegiance towards Heaven; and Mr. Aubrey, whose constancy at once strengthened and encouraged his partners in affliction, with many expressions of sincere and confident piety and resignation reminded them that they were in the hands of God, who intended all earthly suffering—however unaccountable—however harsh and apparently undeserved its infliction—to contribute infallibly to the ultimate benefit of His children. And he reminded them, on that melancholy occasion, of the example afforded by one whose griefs had far transcended theirs—the patriarch Job; on whom were suddenly—and to him apparently without any reason or motive, except the infliction of evil—accumulated almost every species of misfortune which could befall humanity. The sudden and total loss of his substance, and of all his servants, he appears to have borne with fortitude. At length, however, was announced to him the loss of all his sons and daughters——
"Then Job arose and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground and worshipped,
"And said, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.
"In all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly."
Out of respect to the memory of their dear, venerable, departed friend, they drew down all the blinds of their little house, thereby spreading around them a gloom similar to that within. A sad, a mournful little group they looked! This last sorrow seemed for a while to divert their thoughts from the peril which momentarily menaced them. They talked with frequent emotion, and with many tears, of their late friend—recalling, fondly, innumerable little traits of her gentle and benignant character. Towards the close of the day their souls were subdued into resignation to the will of the all-wise Disposer of events: they had, in some measure, realized the consolations of an enlightened and scriptural piety.
They met the next morning, at breakfast, with a melancholy composure. The blinds being drawn down, prevented the bright sunshine out of doors from entering into the little room where their frugal breakfast was spread, and where prevailed a gloom more in unison with their saddened feelings. To all who sat round the table, except little Charles, the repast was slight indeed: he had shortly before begun to breakfast down-stairs, instead of in the nursery; and, merry little thing!—all unconscious of the destitution to which, in all human probability, he was destined—and of the misery which oppressed and was crushing his parents—he was rattling away cheerfully, as if nothing could disturb or interrupt the light-heartedness of childhood. They all started on hearing the unexpected knock of the general postman. He had brought them a letter from Dr. Tatham; who, it seemed, was aware of that which had been the day before despatched to them by Mr. Parkinson. The little doctor's letter was exceedingly touching and beautiful; and it was a good while before they could complete its perusal, owing to the emotion which it occasioned them. 'T was indeed full of tender sympathy—of instructive incentives to resignation to the will of God.
"Is not that indeed the language of a devout and venerable minister of God?" said Mr. Aubrey—"whose figure is daily brightening with the glory reflected from the heaven which he is so rapidly approaching? In the order of nature, a few short years must see him, also, removed from us."