YOUR servant entered hastily with the letter—and gave it me with evident tokens of its containing a matter of importance.—My father was present—I broke it open, not without agitation—I read it—but the shock was too severe—it fell from my hands, and I sunk into the chair.
MY fainting was not of any duration. I opened my eyes and found my father supporting me—but the idea of Harriot was still engraven deeply in my heart.—I inquired for my sister—the tear rolled down his cheek—it was a sufficient answer to my inquiry.—He said nothing—there was no necessity of his saying a word.
COULD I ask him to explain your letter? No—my heart anticipated his feelings—the impropriety struck me at once. “You have a tale to unfold.” Do not delay to unfold it.
Adieu!
LETTER XXXIX.
Mrs. Holmes to Myra.
Belleview.
I READILY undertake to give you a sketch of the history of Harriot. Her mother’s name was Maria Fawcet; her person I yet recollect, and forgive me if I drop a tear of pity at the recital of her misfortunes.
MY mother and Mrs. Holmes were remarkable friends, and the intimacy, you know, was maintained between the two families. I was on a visit with my mother when the destiny of Maria led her to Belleview. I was frequently there during her illness—and was with her in her last moments.
IT was the custom of Mrs. Holmes to walk in the garden towards the close of the day. She was once indulging her usual walk, when she was alarmed by the complaints of a woman which came from the road. Pity and humanity were ever peculiar characteristicks of my amiable parent—She hastened to the place whence the sound issued, and beheld a young woman, bathed in tears sitting on the ground. She inquired the cause of her distress, with that eager solicitude to relieve, which a sight so uncommon would naturally occasion. It was sometime before the distressed woman could return an intelligible answer, and then she with difficulty proceeded: “Your goodness, Madam, is unmerited—you behold a stranger, without home—without friends—and whose misery bears her down to an untimely grave—Life is a blessing—but my life is become burthensome, and were the Almighty this moment to command me to the world of spirits, methinks I could gladly obey the summons, and rejoice in the stroke which bade me depart from sorrow and the world.” Moderate your grief, my dear woman, repine not at the will of Providence, nor suffer yourself to despair, however severe your misfortunes.