Stranger to civil and religious rage,
The good man walk'd innoxious through his age.
No courts he saw.--
POPE.
Few people were ever endowed with a greater capacity of receiving
pleasureable emotions than Selina Seymour, and the whole tenor of her
joyful life had hitherto tended to increase this inestimable gift of
nature. She had been as happy at Mrs. Sullivan's ball, as it was
possible for any innocent being, without a care for the present or a
regret for the past; and the pleasure of her own mind was reflected back
to her tenfold in the approving smiles of her father and aunt. Her
delight in the gay scene was unalloyed by envy or competition. She had
never been taught to estimate her _happiness_ by her height in the scale
of admiration; for her fond relatives, thinking her always charming, and
ever considering her felicity more than the gratification of their own
pride, had not tortured her by preparations for exhibition; and, as long
as she danced with pleasure to herself, they cared not _how_. The happy
girl so keenly enjoyed the brilliant scene, was so grateful for the
marked attention she received, that she had not time to stop to consider
whether she was _admired_ or not; and, perhaps, if this query had even
occurred to her mind, the answer to it might have been a matter of
indifference--sufficient was it to her felicity to know she was
_beloved_.
But all Selina's delight would have been turned to pain the more
exquisite, could one fold of the veil of futurity have been raised to
show her the near approach of misery. On that night she first saw
pleasure decked in her festal robe, her brow crowned with flowers, her
countenance radiant with smiles, presenting her enchantments with one
hand--but saw not the other beckoning to the hovering forms of disease
and death, to array her in the garb of wo:--a task they too quickly
performed; for alas! this scene of gaiety was but the antechamber of
grief.
Selina rose next day, refreshed with a few hours sound sleep; and,
animated with more than her general vivacity, was skipping down stairs
with her usual velocity, when she was stopped by Mrs. Galton; and,
terrified at the expression of her countenance, "Good God, aunt Mary!"
exclaimed she, "what is the matter you look so pale--are you ill?" "No,
my dear, no; but I am sorry to say your father is very unwell. Don't be
so much alarmed, my dear child--he is better now. Where are you going?"
continued she, holding Selina fast. "To see my dear papa." "You must
not, Selina, Mr. Lucas is with him, endeavouring to compose him to
sleep.--Come to the library, my love, and let us have breakfast." They
proceeded quietly and sorrowfully; and Selina, on entering it, perceived
her aunt was in the dress of the night before. "Why, my dear aunt, you
have never changed your dress. Oh, that vile ball! my dear dear father
has got cold. I wish we had never gone;" and here, quite overcome by the
acuteness of her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of tears. Mrs.
Galton was not sorry to see her give way to her grief; but when she
became a little composed, addressed her with much solemnity of manner,
saying, "Selina, my dear Selina, command yourself! I require you to
exert all your fortitude; you must not, in a scene like this, render
yourself worse than useless. Do not selfishly give yourself up to your
own feelings. Remember, my child, you may be of much comfort to your
father." Selina answered but by a motion of the hand, and, retiring for
a short time to a solitary apartment, threw herself on her knees, and,
by a fervent supplication for support from Heaven, at last composed
herself so far as to return to her aunt with a calm countenance, though
still unable to speak. One expressive look told Mrs. Galton she was
aware of her father's danger, and was prepared to make every proper
exertion. Sir Henry had at Webberly House most imprudently accompanied
his darling Selina in one of her visits to the hermitage; and, in
consequence of the draughts of air and damps to which he had thereby
exposed himself, was, on his return to the Hall, seized with the gout in
his stomach in a most alarming manner. Mr. Lucas had been immediately
sent for, and, pronouncing him in imminent danger, had requested that
better advice might be procured without delay. At length the violence of
the attack seemed to give way to the remedies administered; and Mr.
Lucas was, as Mrs. Galton said, endeavouring to procure sleep for his
patient, when she heard Selina's bell; and, taking a favourable
opportunity of leaving the sick room, was proceeding to break the
intelligence to her, when they met on the stairs. The ladies continued
at the breakfast in perfect silence, Mrs. Galton not even addressing
Selina by a look, as she well knew that a mere trifle would destroy the
composure she was endeavouring to acquire. When they left the breakfast
table, Mrs. Galton took Selina up stairs, to assist her in changing her
dress, as she feared to leave her alone, and wished to employ her in
those little offices of attentive kindness, which, by their very
minuteness, disturb the mind from meditating on any new-born grief,
though they only irritate the feelings, when sorrow has arrived at
maturity. Mrs. Galton's watchful eye soon discovered Dr. Norton's
carriage at the lower end of the avenue; and that Selina might be out
of the way on his entrance, sent her to walk in the garden, promising to
call her the moment she could be admitted to see her father. When Dr.
Norton arrived, he immediately repaired to Sir Henry's apartment; and,
on hearing it, gave a sad confirmation of Mr. Lucas's opinion,
expressing his fears, that though his patient was tolerably easy at that
moment, violent attacks of the complaint might be expected; and if
_they_ should not prove fatal, the weakness consequent on them most
probably would. Mrs. Galton entreated he would remain at Deane Hall till
Sir Henry's fate was decided, which request he, without hesitation,
complied with.
Had Dr. Norton conveyed his intelligence to Selina herself, it could
scarcely have afflicted her more deeply than it did Mrs. Galton. Her
regard for Sir Henry was great, and not less lively was her gratitude
for the constant kindness he had for a long course of years shown her;
so that had not another being on earth been interested in his life, she
would, in her own feelings, have found sufficient cause for sorrow. But
when she anticipated Selina's grief, should the fears of the physician
be realized, her own misery was tenfold aggravated by her commiseration
for the beloved child of her heart--the dearest solace of her existence!
These reflections even increased the usual fondness of Mrs. Galton's
manner to Selina, when, on her return from the garden, she answered the
anxious child's inquiries for her father. She had a hard task to
fulfil--fearful of telling her too much or too little. To avoid any
direct reply, she informed her she might now go to Sir Henry's room, and
Selina, without a moment's delay, was at his bed-side. The poor old man,
anxious, if possible, to postpone the misery of his child, assured her
he was now easy, and desired her to tell him all she thought of the
night before. The innocent girl, on hearing this request, flattered
herself with all the delusion of hope, that her aunt's fears had
exaggerated the danger; and, elated by the idea that her father's
complaint had subsided, talked with much of her usual vivacity, which
increased as she perceived her lively ingenuous remarks cheered the sick
man's face with many smiles.--Little was she aware, they were the last
her own would ever brighten on beholding.
An express, without delay, was dispatched to Mordaunt, requesting his
immediate presence at Deane Hall. When Selina heard of her father's
anxiety for his arrival, her spirits again sunk, and she reflected in an
agony of sorrow, that "Yesterday she could not have supposed it possible
the idea of seeing Augustus could have been a severe affliction to her."
The night of that sad day Selina requested she might pass in attendance
on her father. Her aunt, fearful of what the morrow might bring forth,
gratified her desire. Dreadful were the reflections that night gave
rise to, as she contrasted the awful stillness of Sir Henry's chamber
with the noisy gaiety of the one, in which she had spent the night
before.
Two or three days of dreadful suspense thus passed over Selina's head:
whenever she was permitted she was at her father's bed-side, passing in
an instant from the utmost alarm to hope. But though she saw despair
expressed in every face, her mind still rejected it. She could not bring
herself to believe her beloved father was indeed to die!
Those who most fervently love most ardently hope, and building their
faith on the most trifling circumstances, cling to it with a force none
less deeply interested can imagine. It is well they do. Their fond hopes
make them use exertions, and bestow comforts, they would be otherwise
incapable of. And thus affection is enabled to cheer the bed of death to
the last moment.
And as for the survivors! no anticipation can prepare them for the
overwhelming despair of the moment in which they lose what they most
prize on earth!
Grief, rising supreme in this her hour of triumph, will have her
dominion uncontrolled, and defies alike the past and the future,--even
religion must be aided by time to subdue her giant force.
On the evening of the third day of Sir Henry's illness Augustus Mordaunt
arrived at Deane Hall; the domestics flocked around him, each conveying
to his agonized ear more dismal tidings,--he spent a dreadful half hour
alone in the library, without seeing either Selina or Mrs. Galton, as
Mr. Temple was at that time administering the sacred rites of the church
to Sir Henry, whilst they joined in prayer in the antechamber. When Sir
Henry had finished his devotions, he asked for Selina, and his voice
brought her in a moment to his bed-side; where, kneeling down, in a half
suffocated voice, she implored his blessing, which never father gave
more fervently, nor amiable child received more piously.
"Selina! you have always been a good child, and obeyed me; when I am
gone, mind what Mrs. Galton says to you. If I had followed her advice, I
should have been better now." The baronet spoke with much difficulty,
and, exhausted with the effort, closed his eyes in a temporary lethargy.
Selina answered not, but with streaming eyes kissed his hand in token of
obedience. At last, raising his head from his pillow, "Where is
Augustus? he is a long time coming."--at that instant footsteps were
heard slowly and softly traversing the anteroom. Selina opening the door
admitted Augustus: she would have retired, but her father signed her
approach; and recovering his strength a little, faltered out, "Happy to
see you, my dear boy--I have been a father to you, Augustus, be a
brother to this poor girl."
Augustus poured forth his feelings with more fervency than prudence,
and was stopped in the expression of them by Selina, who perceived her
father was quite exhausted: he once more opened his eyes, saying, "I die
content;" he struggled for utterance, but his words were unintelligible,
and he could only articulate, "Go away,--Send Mrs. Galton." Augustus
flew to bring her, whilst Selina hung in distraction over her dying
parent: as they entered the room, her exclamation of "Oh! my father, my
dear father!" gave them warning, that all was over; and when they
approached the bed, parent and child were lying side by side, the one
apparently as lifeless as the other.
Augustus, in his first distraction, thought he had lost Selina as well
as his beloved and revered friend, but being recalled to his senses by
Mrs. Galton, assisted her in removing Selina to another room. At length
their exertions revived Selina to a dreadful consciousness of her
misfortune--how agonizing was that moment, when, in her frantic grief,
she upbraided their kind care, and wished they had left her to die by
her father's side! "I have no parent now." "Dearest child of my heart,
have I not ever been a mother to you, and will you refuse to be still my
daughter when I stand so much in need of consolation?" Selina threw
herself into her aunt's arms, and gave vent, in tears, to the sorrow of
her bursting heart; at length she cried herself to sleep, like a child,
and her aunt remained at her side all night, ready to soften the horrors
of her waking moments.
Selina, next day, being comparatively calm, was wisely left in perfect
solitude to disburthen her heart: her grief was not insulted by
officious condolence, too often resembling reproof rather than comfort.
The aspect of grief is obnoxious to the comparatively happy, and they
often use but unskilful endeavours to banish her from their sight, more
for their own ease, than for the relief of the unfortunate beings who
are bound down to the earth by her oppressive power. Those who have felt
it, will with caution obtrude themselves on her sacred privacy, and will
know when to be mute in the presence of the mourner.
But where shall the reign of selfishness end?--Her votaries intermeddle
with sorrows they cannot cure, and absent themselves from scenes where
they might bestow comfort: they are to be found in the chamber of the
mourner, but fly from the bed of death, which their presence might
cheer, leaving an expiring relative to look in vain for a loved face, on
which to rest the agonized eye. The friends of the dying do not fulfil
their duty, if they desert the expiring sufferer whilst a spark of life
remains. For who can say the moment when sense _begins_ to cease? Though
the eye is closed, and the tongue mute, the grateful heart may yet be
thankfully alive to the kind voice of affectionate care, or the last
silent pressure of unutterable love!
Scenes of pain may be appalling to the delicate female. But should a
wife, mother, daughter, or sister, shrink from any task, which may be
useful to the object in which her _duty_ and her love are centred? This
is the courage, this the fortitude, it becomes woman to exert!