My mother and Louisa were to leave town on the day after I set out, and are by this time at Selby—would that I could say enjoying the quiet of that beautiful place; but the former, poor soul, is not happy any where, and my sister, alas, though she feels little pleasure in the scenes which she has left behind, cannot be expected to derive much from those which in providing food, and giving time for meditation, bring no peace to a bosom at war within itself. Louisa, I predict, will be an altered character, but the work will be slow, and experience many interruptions. I see, however, some very promising circumstances on which to build my hopes. Adelaide’s marriage is already acting as a salutary beacon; and I have extorted a faithful promise from Louisa that she will no longer give encouragement to Lord G. Villiers, whose attentions, if they ended in a serious address, would be directed by the same base motives which brought Crayton and Adelaide together. Thus one great point is gained, but every step which I achieve with Louisa, throws me farther back in my mother’s regard; so the task is like that of Sisyphus, and very disheartening.
On reaching this place, I received letters from Falkland, and one from my brother-in-law, entreating my interference with my uncle for a loan. This I must peremptorily refuse, and cordially do I wish that the latter had returned home a poor man, that such of his family, as are inclined to love him, might indulge the feeling without suspicion of its purity; and that such as would prey upon his very vitals, without regard to any thing but the most sordid self-interest, should be kept from persecuting and injuring his fine mind, by increasing the measure of its distrust. He is not fond of me, but I love him because he has good taste enough to distinguish you. Say every thing kind and respectful to him for me, which you do not think him likely to reject, and with tender loves to the rest of the dear group, I am, dearest Frederick, in haste,
Your affectionate,
A. Howard.
LETTER XXIX.
Mrs. Douglas to Mrs. E. Sandford.
You would have reason, my Elizabeth, to complain of my silence, were your heart less alive than it is to the interesting occupations which have devolved upon your friends of the valley; and though I am blessed with such coadjutors as few can boast, there is employment for us all in our several departments.
My dear brother’s health declines so slowly, that the progress of disease is scarcely perceptible, and deceives all the young group, as well as the sanguine Oliphant; but I feel that Edward Otway and I are prophets but too true when we agree in prognosticating a termination to all his sufferings, whether of mind or body, that belong to this world, and that too at no great distance of time. He has been so wearied out by medicines, that he now resolves on trying the effects of a system in which nature and affection shall be chief instruments. I submit to his views in the full belief that a winter’s repose is necessary to his existence, and as my solicitude is increased by the responsibility which we encounter in permitting this dear invalid to remain so far removed from what is called “the best advice,” you may suppose how continually my thoughts are employed about him.
I had been prepared by Edward Otway’s letters, while he remained in London, for finding my brother’s character deeply interesting; but I had no notion in what degree, and my heart still lingers with him in the moments of our necessary separation. He is a theme so engrossing, that I could dilate much more upon it than the limits which I have prescribed to myself will allow; but all that I have not time to write, you shall one day hear, for I lay up every word that he utters, not only because of the intrinsic value which I attach to his sentiments and opinions, but they derive a sacredness from his present situation (hovering as the bright spirit now is upon the confines of eternity), which keeps me almost breathless in his company, lest I should lose a syllable that falls from his lips. You already know what a mine we have discovered, of the richest treasure, under that scaly armour, in which he had fortified himself against the anticipated assaults of such sordid principles as he was accustomed to see govern the conduct of those men with whom early habit had associated him. Imagine then the happiness of seeing all this rough coating drop off, and present the sweetest, most confiding nature to our view.