The irregularities which F. had committed abroad had reached the ears of his parents, and given them many hours of sorrow. As their love for him was unbounded, their fears lest his happiness might be shipwrecked amongst the dangerous quicksands of temptation on the one hand, and indulgence in vicious passions on the other, were painfully increased; and they zealously exerted themselves in all their influence to promote the views of his dying uncle.
The behaviour of their son left them no cause now for uneasiness. He had conversed several times with each of the ladies, and declared himself much pleased with them both; but his partiality appeared to predominate in favour of the elder. His friends constantly importuned him to expedite the arrangements necessary for the completion of their happiness: to these entreaties he would answer, that however anxious he felt to identify their wishes with his own happiness, yet while his uncle continued in so doubtful a state, he would not make that darkness which he was persuaded the loss of so good a friend would long fix on his mind, more visible by unseasonably lighting the torch of Hymen. This answer, while it demonstrated his growing attachment for the young lady, and the grateful respect he had for his uncle, was highly pleasing to all parties.
Meanwhile his time was spent either in friendly visits to the young ladies, or in attendance on his uncle, whose health declined so fast that none of his friends any longer entertained a hope, and in a few days he paid the awful debt of nature. On this occasion F. was a sincere mourner: indeed his grief was often extravagant. To divert his mind, and to dispel that darkness which he himself had predicted, a journey to London was recommended, which he consented to with some reluctance.
Under the influence of grief, that elasticity of mind and naturally complaisant manner for which he was ever distinguished, entirely forsook him. Irritable, petulant, dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him, he suddenly left the country without giving any notice to his parents, or to her whom it was thought his own voluntary choice had determined to be the partner of his joys and sorrows.
Three weeks had already elapsed, and all inquiries to discover his retreat proved unsuccessful. At length he addressed a letter to his mother, in which was inclosed another to his bride-elect, informing them of his being in London, and in somewhat better health and spirits than when he left the country; and offering some apology for his conduct. Both his letters were answered by the ladies, and each had questions to ask, which in their turn they requested to have answered: but a fortnight was suffered to pass before he could find time or inclination to reply; and when he did, his letters were evasive and unsatisfactory.
His father wrote to him and urged the performance of the promise he had made to his uncle, which he assured him was registered in heaven, and was in effect a solemn oath: he finally enjoined him to return to the country. But his condition was considerably altered since his father’s last mandate reached him at Naples; the estate left him by his uncle was more than sufficient to meet the wants of prodigality.
No longer dependent on his father’s bounty, which heretofore had been liberal even to profusion, he now ventured to treat him with less ceremony, and determined to remain in town. His father’s health had long been imperceptibly declining; and this act of unseasonable and unaccountable ingratitude affected him greatly, under the conviction that self interest, devoid of affection, had hitherto directed the obedience which had been manifested by his son.
The mind of F. had now shaken off all the gloom and sadness occasioned by his uncle’s death. He had corresponded very regularly for some months with the young lady to whom it was expected he would soon be united, and his letters of late were soothing and affectionate. She received one from him, stating that the death of a friend in Ireland would make his presence there indispensable; that he would return in three weeks or a month at most, and then “he hoped she would crown all his wishes, and make him happy.”
It is truly painful to contemplate the deep villainy this letter was intended to conceal. Instead of visiting Ireland, as mentioned in his letter, he allured an unthinking creature, “not quite fourteen,” the daughter of a respectable tradesman in London, to accompany him to Scotland, under a solemn promise that he would marry her there. He had calculated that three weeks would be sufficient to glut his savage appetite, when the credulous victim of his passion was to be disposed of to any of his brutal companions, or in any other way that he could most conveniently get rid of her.
When he disclosed his real purpose, she fell into a state that occasioned him some apprehension. She fainted away, but of this he thought little; and, having profited by experience, he was able to act the part which the infamous W. had performed for him in Bourdeaux: accordingly stimulants were speedily procured and administered. On recovering, he tried to cajole her, but his sophistry effected nothing. Frantic with disappointment, and goaded by despair, her fury became ungovernable, which he allowed to rage uncontrolled; tritely remarking, Whatever is violent cannot last long. He was not in this mistaken, for she fell senseless at his feet, and blood foamed from her mouth.