That, which in a weak woman is called vanity, in a man of sense is termed
pride. Make one a degree stronger, or the other a degree weaker, and the
dean and his wife were infected with the self-same folly. Yet, let not
the reader suppose that this failing (however despicable) had erased from
either bosom all traces of humanity. They are human creatures who are
meant to be portrayed in this little book: and where is the human
creature who has not some good qualities to soften, if not to
counterbalance, his bad ones?
The dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget his brother, nor
eradicate from his remembrance the friend that he had been to him: he
resolved, therefore, in spite of his wife's advice, to make him some
overture, which he had no doubt Henry's good-nature would instantly
accept. The more he became acquainted with all the vain and selfish
propensities of Lady Clementina, the more he felt a returning affection
for his brother: but little did he suspect how much he loved him, till
(after sending to various places to inquire for him) he learned--that on
his wife's decease, unable to support her loss in the surrounding scene,
Henry had taken the child she brought him in his arms, shaken hands with
all his former friends--passing over his brother in the number--and set
sail in a vessel bound for Africa, with a party of Portuguese and some
few English adventurers, to people there the uninhabited part of an
extensive island.
This was a resolution, in Henry's circumstances, worthy a mind of
singular sensibility: but William had not discerned, till then, that
every act of Henry's was of the same description; and more than all, his
every act towards him. He staggered when he heard the tidings; at first
thought them untrue; but quickly recollected, that Henry was capable of
surprising deeds! He recollected with a force which gave him torture,
the benevolence his brother had ever shown to him--the favours he had
heaped upon him--the insults he had patiently endured in requital!
In the first emotion, which this intelligence gave the dean, he forgot
the dignity of his walk and gesture: he ran with frantic enthusiasm to
every corner of his deanery where the least vestige of what belonged to
Henry remained--he pressed close to his breast, with tender agony, a coat
of his, which by accident had been left there--he kissed and wept over a
walking-stick which Henry once had given him--he even took up with
delight a music book of his brother's--nor would his poor violin have
then excited anger.
When his grief became more calm, he sat in deep and melancholy
meditation, calling to mind when and where he saw his brother last. The
recollection gave him fresh cause of regret. He remembered they had
parted on his refusing to suffer Lady Clementina to admit the
acquaintance of Henry's wife. Both Henry and his wife he now
contemplated beyond the reach of his pride; and he felt the meanness of
his former and the imbecility of his future haughtiness towards them.
To add to his self-reproaches, his tormented memory presented to him the
exact countenance of his brother at their last interview, as it changed,
while he censured his marriage, and treated with disrespect the object of
his conjugal affection. He remembered the anger repressed, the tear
bursting forth, and the last glimpse he had of him, as he left his
presence, most likely for ever.
In vain he now wished that he had followed him to the door--that he had
once shaken hands and owned his obligations to him before they had
parted. In vain he wished too, that, in this extreme agony of his mind,
he had such a friend to comfort him, as Henry had ever proved.