A perfect concert of grief, as I may say, broke out the moment I entered
the parlour.
My cousin Harlowe, the dear creature's father, as soon as he saw me,
said, O Cousin, Cousin, of all our family, you are the only one who have
nothing to reproach yourself with!--You are a happy man!
The poor mother, bowing her head to me in speechless grief, sat with her
handkerchief held to her eyes with one hand. The other hand was held by
her sister Hervey, between both her's; Mrs. Hervey weeping upon it.
Near the window sat Mr. John Harlowe, his face and his body turned from
the sorrowing company; his eyes red and swelled.
My cousin Antony, at his re-entering the parlour, went towards Mrs.
Harlowe--Don't--dear Sister, said he!--Then towards my cousin Harlowe--
Don't--dear Brother!--Don't thus give way--And, without being able to
say another word, went to a corner of the parlour, and, wanting himself
the comfort he would fain have given, sunk into a chair, and audibly
sobbed.
Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in before me, and
seemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced mother some words of
comfort. But she was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother's
chair; and, inclining her face over it, on the unhappy lady's shoulder,
seemed to claim the consolation that indulgent parent used, but then was
unable, to afford her.
Young Mr. Harlowe, with all his vehemence of spirit, was now subdued.
His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the cause of it.
And what, Sir, must their thoughts be, which, at that moment, in a
manner, deprived them of all motion, and turned their speech into sighs
and groans!--How to be pitied, how greatly to be pitied! all of them!
But how much to be cursed that abhorred Lovelace, who, as it seems, by
arts uncommon, and a villany without example, has been the sole author
of a woe so complicated and extensive!--God judge me, as--But I stop--
the man (the man can I say?) is your friend!--He already suffers, you
tell me, in his intellect.--Restore him, Heaven, to that--If I find the
matter come out, as I apprehend it will--indeed her own hint of his usage
of her, as in her will, is enough--nor think, my beloved cousin, thou
darling of my heart! that thy gentle spirit, breathing charity and
forgiveness to the vilest of men, shall avail him!--But once more I stop
--forgive me, Sir!--Who could behold such a scene, who could recollect it
in order to describe it, (as minutely as you wished me to relate how this
unhappy family were affected on this sad occasion,) every one of the
mourners nearly related to himself, and not to be exasperated against the
author of all?
As I was the only person (grieved as I was myself) from whom any of them,
at that instant, could derive comfort; Let us not, said I, my dear
Cousin, approaching the inconsolable mother, give way to a grief, which,
however just, can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourselves, and cannot
recall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wish it, if
you know with what assurance of eternal happiness she left the world--She
is happy, Madam!--depend upon it, she is happy! And comfort yourselves
with that assurance!
O Cousin, Cousin! cried the unhappy mother, withdrawing her hand from
that of her sister Hervey, and pressing mine with it, you know not what
a child I have lost!--Then in a low voice, and how lost!--That it is that
makes the loss insupportable.
They all joined in a kind of melancholy chorus, and each accused him and
herself, and some of them one another. But the eyes of all, in turn,
were cast upon my cousin James, as the person who had kept up the general
resentment against so sweet a creature. While he was hardly able to bear
his own remorse: nor Miss Harlowe her's; she breaking out into words, How
tauntingly did I write to her! How barbarously did I insult her! Yet
how patiently did she take it!--Who would have thought that she had been
so near her end!--O Brother, Brother! but for you!--But for you!--Double
not upon me, said he, my own woes! I have every thing before me that has
passed! I thought only to reclaim a dear creature that had erred! I
intended not to break her tender heart! But it was the villanous
Lovelace who did that--not any of us!--Yet, Cousin, did she not attribute
all to me?--I fear she did!--Tell me only, did she name me, did she speak
of me, in her last hours? I hope she, who could forgive the greatest
villain on earth, and plead that he may be safe from our vengeance, I
hope she could forgive me.
She died blessing you all; and justified rather than condemned your
severity to her.
Then they set up another general lamentation. We see, said her father,
enough we see, in her heart-piercing letters to us, what a happy frame
she was in a few days before her death--But did it hold to the last? Had
she no repinings? Had the dear child no heart burnings?
None at all!--I never saw, and never shall see, so blessed a departure:
and no wonder; for I never heard of such a preparation. Every hour, for
weeks together, were taken up in it. Let this be our comfort: we need
only to wish for so happy an end for ourselves, and for those who are
nearest to our hearts. We may any of us be grieved for acts of
unkindness to her: but had all happened that once she wished for, she
could not have made a happier, perhaps not so happy an end.
Dear soul! and Dear sweet soul! the father, uncles, sister, my cousin
Hervey, cried out all at once, in accents of anguish inexpressibly
affecting.
We must for ever be disturbed for those acts of unkindness to so sweet a
child, cried the unhappy mother!--Indeed! indeed! [softly to her sister
Hervey,] I have been too passive, much too passive in this case!--The
temporary quiet I have been so studious all my life to preserve, has cost
me everlasting disquiet!----There she stopt.
Dear Sister! was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
I have done but half my duty to the dearest and most meritorious of
children, resumed the sorrowing mother!--Nay, not half!--How have we
hardened our hearts against her!----Again her tears denied passage to her
words.
My dearest, dearest Sister!--again was all Mrs. Hervey could say.
Would to Heaven, proceeded, exclaiming, the poor mother, I had but once
seen her! Then, turning to my cousin James, and his sister--O my son!
O my Arabella! if WE were to receive as little mercy--And there again she
stopt, her tears interrupting her farther speech; every one, all the
time, remaining silent; their countenances showing a grief in their
hearts too big for expression.
Now you see, Mr. Belford, that my dearest cousin could be allowed all her
merit!--What a dreadful thing is after-reflection upon a conduct so
perverse and unnatural?
O this cursed friend of your's, Mr. Belford! This detested Lovelace!--To
him, to him is owing--
Pardon me, Sir. I will lay down my pen till I have recovered my temper.