The patient had, however, declined but little in appetite, when the disorder fixed itself in his throat, and he ceased to have the power of eating: he now entirely gave himself up as a person who must die of hunger. This melancholy scene almost distracted me. The doctor gave us little consolation; and Hartpole himself, though reduced to such a state, was really the most cheerful of the party, evincing a degree of resignation at once heroic and touching. His will had been prepared by Mr. Lemans of Bristol, (to me a perfect stranger,) and executed whilst I was in Ireland: he informed us all that I was joint executor with two of his uncles.
On the morning of Hartpole’s death he sent for me to rise and come to him. I found him in an agony of hunger—perspiration in large drops rolling down his face. He said neither food nor liquid could descend into his stomach; that his ribs had contracted inward, as if convulsively drawn together; and that he was in great pain. I cannot describe my emotion! He walked about his room and spoke to me earnestly on many subjects, on some of which I have been, and ever shall be, totally silent. At length he called me to the window:—“Barrington,” said he, “you see at a distance a very green field?” “Yes,” I replied. “Well,” continued George, “it is my dying request that I may be buried there to-morrow evening.”
He spoke so calmly and strongly, that I felt much surprised. He observed this, and said, “It is true: I am in the agonies of death.” I now called in the doctor and Hartpole’s servant: the invalid sat down upon the bed; and when he took me by the hand, I shuddered, for it was burning hot, whilst every nerve and sinew seemed to be in spasmodic action, then iced and clammy. I never had been in collision with a dying person before: he pressed my hand with great fervour, and murmured, “My friend!”—these were the last words I heard him utter. I looked in his face: his eyes were glazed—his lips quivered—he laid his head on the pillow, and expired.
This awful scene, to me so perfectly new, overpowered me, and for a few minutes I was myself totally insensible.
I disobeyed Hartpole’s injunctions respecting his funeral; for I had his body enclosed in a leaden coffin and sent to be interred at Shrewl Castle, in the cemetery of his ancestors, wherein his remains were not admitted without much reluctance by his ungrateful sister and her husband, who resided there in his absence.
On the reading of the will, his first bequest appeared to be to “his friend Barrington, six thousand pounds,” together with the reversion of his landed estates and collieries, by moieties, on the death of each of his sisters without children: one had been some years married and had none; the other was unmarried, but soon after made a match with a respectable gentleman of very considerable property, but whom I should think few young ladies of fortune would have fancied.
The uncles would not act as executors; considered me as an interloper; and commenced a suit to annul the will, as prepared under undue influence. Fortunately for my reputation, I had never known or even seen the persons who prepared it. I was in another kingdom at the time, and had not seen Hartpole for many months before its execution: his sister was with him; not I.—I was utterly unacquainted with his will or its contents.
I got a decree without delay. The family of Stratford, who preferred law to all other species of pastime, appealed. My decree was confirmed, and they were burdened with the whole costs; and in effect paid me six thousand pounds, on an amicable arrangement. My reversion yielded me nothing; for I fancy the sisters have since had nearly twenty children between them to inherit it.
Thus ended Hartpole’s life, and thus did a family become extinct, of the most respectable description. I neither looked to nor expected any legacy from my friend, beyond a mourning-ring. He left numerous other bequests, including a considerable one to Mary Sleven, whose fate I never heard.
The sequel of Maria Otway’s history was not much less melancholy than that of her unhappy partner, as she died prematurely, by the most affecting of all deaths, some time after—childbirth. I saw her after the separation, but never after George’s decease. As I predicted, her style of beauty was not calculated to wear well; and even before she was out of her teens, Maria Otway had been much handsomer. Her manner became more studied—of course, less graceful: and that naïveté, which had rendered her so engaging to my friend, was somewhat superseded by the affectation of fashionable manners.