It was now deemed prudent to call in a professed practitioner, who on his arrival pronounced her dying from the rupture of a large blood-vessel of the lungs. This intelligence startled F. not a little. His humanity was not entirely dead; besides, he was by no means ambitious of being thought her murderer. He inquired eagerly whether any thing could be done; to which he was answered in the negative.
In this state of alarm he evinced more presence of mind as well as sound therapeutical knowledge than the regular practitioner; for, the medical man having given her over, F. begged of him to open a vein as a dernier ressource, which it appears the other never thought of, as the only means by which her life could be prolonged. Finding that the cure would be tedious, or rather that she was likely to linger long, he placed her in lodgings, and provided a more intelligent medical attendant. He was prevailed on by her tears and entreaties to remain with her six weeks, which was double the time he had at first proposed.
Arriving at his lodgings in town, he received intelligence he had not at all expected, and which he was ill prepared to bear. The very day he left London a messenger arrived to inform him, that his father was dying, and desired his immediate attendance. The servants had been instructed to inform all inquirers that their master had gone to Ireland. Day after day messengers arrived, and still the same answer was given. His afflicted mother, suspecting some cheat, determined to travel to London herself, to awaken the slumbering soul of her undutiful son: to her also the same answer was returned; nor could she obtain any hint or clue that might enable her to discover his retreat; she was convinced, however, that he had not gone to Ireland. Although fatigued and almost exhausted by the journey, she could not be persuaded to take any refreshments in town, but hastened back to console her dying husband.
Uncertain what part of Scotland he should visit, and what stay he might make at each place, he had directed his confidential servant not to send any letters after him. A large packet had accumulated in his absence, which the servant put into his hand at the time he communicated the above unwelcome intelligence. Glancing over the letters, his attention was arrested by one in deep mourning, in the hand-writing of his mother; he guessed the rest. It contained an account of his father’s death; but shuddering at the apprehension of its contents, he could not muster resolution sufficient to break the seal.
His carriage was still at the door,—he threw himself in, and ordered the coachman to drive to the country; but the horses were fatigued, and fresh ones must be procured. To fill up the awful interval occasioned by this delay, he again looked over the packet of letters, and found three from his affianced bride. He opened and read one, which was filled with sweet murmurs and gentle upbraidings for his increased delay; the other was to the same effect; but the third was serious and important. It informed him of the death of her father, who, she said, “expired in an instant, without a moment’s warning.”
This news he declared thrust into his bosom like a dagger; and, to make his cup of misery overflow, the certainty of his own father’s death, with the reproaches of his last breath which he expected, only were wanting: his mother’s letter would have removed all doubt on this subject, and no man was more impatient of suspense, yet he durst not venture on the perusal; every time he took it up his heart misgave him, and his soul seemed to die away.
In this most awful uncertainty, with the letter in his hand, he continued till he arrived at his father’s gate. From a servant who came to open the carriage he learned the fatal tidings, that his father had been buried several days, and that his mother was now exceedingly ill. This was too much for endurance,—the dreaded letter fell from his paralysed hand, and he sunk down overwhelmed by racking remorse. The servants conveyed him to his chamber, where he lay some hours in a state of stupor, which was succeeded by a fever, or some disease that entirely deprived him of sense for upwards of three weeks. The journal, however, was discontinued for as many months.
The following is the first paragraph written after his recovery. “My dear mother and the angelic E. visited me this morning, and neither of them upbraided me! Their forgiveness and pity were in effect refined cruelty. I was prepared to hear their keenest reproach,—but their kindness took me by surprise, and wounded me to the soul. My mother wished to amuse me and attempted to be gay, while tears insensibly rolled down her cheeks. She said I must now look upon E. as my own, for her father had bequeathed her to me, and appointed me sole executor of his will. She was going to say something of a last wish of my father’s, when she fainted away.
“Miserable, infatuated wretch that I am! not all the guilty pleasures of a thousand years could compensate for the torture my soul endured at that moment.—Sainted father! methinks I hear thee in the clouds thundering thy abhorrence of my ungrateful and impious neglect, and threatening me with the vengeance of indignant Heaven. With what crimes am I not debased?—Innocence murdered—human happiness wantonly sacrificed in every spot I could meet with it—my family dishonoured and my life defiled by every species of hellish debauchery—the end of my being perverted—the intention of my Creator defeated by my own monstrous deeds—Alas! alas! I see nothing but an interminable gulf before me—God frowning from above—and the jaws of death and hell extended wide, ready to receive me—and close upon me for ever!”
Who, after reading this soliloquy, would expect to find the author of it again resuming those vicious practices which had occasioned him such intense misery? How humiliating to a proud but virtuous mind is the contemplation of human nature and reason so degraded and debased!