LETTER LXI.
_From the same to the same._
This letter will contain little beyond the particulars of a scene which
recently passed in Miss Flint’s room. Our dear Mary’s solicitude is
unavoidable, and her wish to know what passes here ought to be indulged.
Mrs. Allen was requested to witness the signing of Miss Flint’s will,
she cheerfully complied; Douglass and Mrs. Warner joining with her.
When this business was terminated, she requested the doctor to inform
the captain that she wished to see him after dinner; and, with a languid
smile, she added, tell him that Mrs. Allen shall give him his coffee.
When alone with our friend she begged of her to be the witness to the
conversation she meditated on for the evening. “Do not refuse me,”
continued she. “I have a few instructions to leave with my brother, and
you will be useful; you will hear nothing to grieve _you_, although it
may affect him, and flatter me; but I wish to finish my business with
this world!”
The captain, in Mrs. Allen’s words, was punctual to his time. His sister
was on the sopha, but looked flushed and fatigued. “He was agitated,”
continued Mrs. Allen, “and I said, we are doing well to day, Sir.” He
took his seat by her, and pressed her offered hand with his lips. She
immediately spoke of Mr. Oliver Flint’s death, making some obvious
reflexions on the event. Then suddenly looking at her brother’s dress,
she said, I hope, Percival, you do not mourn that poor Oliver has given
to a brother who stood by him as a son, an inheritance that ought in the
eye of justice to have been yours. The captain coloured, and replied
with eagerness, that he was perfectly contented with the proofs he had
received of his brother’s consideration. He has rendered me comfortable,
added he, for the remainder of my life, and has placed Mary in a
condition fully adequate to her ambition. I am grateful, and sincerely
hope, that Philip Flint will live to show the world he was worthy of the
man whom he has succeeded. Miss Flint was softened to tears. God grant,
said she with emotion, that my will may be thus satisfactory to you! I
have done for the best, Percival, I have been governed by only one
principle. Let me die in the hope that you will accept it as an evidence
of my repentance for having so long overlooked your _just claims_!—She
spoke this with agony.
My dear Lucretia, said the captain hastily, and startled at the disorder
she was in, let us drop a subject so useless. I have no wants, no wishes
ungratified, but that of seeing you well. I cannot bear your kindness,
replied the poor weeping Miss Flint; I have not deserved it! Say not so
to _me_, answered the brother with tenderness. We have all, my dear
sister, to make this acknowledgment to our Maker. We have all of us
errors to regret, and something for contrition, but we have a merciful
Judge, who knows that we are weak and fallible: let me conjure you to
endeavour to recover your spirits. Let us employ the allotted space
allowed us in acts of love and mutual aid. Your friend, as well as
physician, assures me, that your malady is augmented by the depression
of your mind. Exert your faith; animate your spirits by reflecting, that
you are in the hands of a Being infinite in mercy. Would you like to
have Mary with you? She wishes to see you, and might be useful to you. I
could not bear to see her, answered Miss Flint with a voice broken by
sorrow; but it is not from unkindness, that I reject her, it is not
hatred nor cruelty that govern me. I am certain it is not, replied the
captain; No: my dear sister! their empire is over; and a temper, to
which worlds would be nothing in the balance, has now a place in your
heart. Oh! live to enjoy the blessed exchange! live for my comfort!
“I thought his sister must have fainted,” continued Mrs. Allen, wiping
the tears of sympathy from her honest face; and I hinted that she wanted
her cordial. The captain understood me, and I believe would have gladly
retired himself and left her to my care; for he rose and observed, he
had staid too long, and that she needed rest. Rest, repeated she,
detaining him, oh, be not so deceived; I need no rest, I can find none
that cheers me like seeing you. He again took his seat, and with
composure observed, that she had promised him coffee: and that he would
remain, on condition she would try to be quiet and listen to our chat.
She smiled, and I took my post.
Again he offered to leave her, when, with composure, she said, my dear
Percival you must indulge me; this is the last time I will mention
business which may distress you; but I shall not be easy until I have
finally settled my concerns with this world. Whatever you find done in
this way, when I am dead, remember what I have already said, I have done
all in love, and have been as just as I could be to you. You will find
my will in that cabinet, continued she, directing his attention to it.
Lady Maclairn has my instructions in respect to all that it contains
except the will; she will inspect it in your presence.
Here is a present for my niece. May it prove to her, what of late it has
been to me, a blessing! The captain paced the room in silence. This
picture, my dear and invaluable friend, continued she, addressing me,
you will see buried with me. She gazed intently on the miniature of Mr.
Philip Flint, which she wears in her bosom. Poor fellow! added she
mournfully, he will not soon forget Lucretia! He will regret that he was
not with me.—I cannot stand this! said the agitated captain, and were I
not convinced, Lucretia, that even in this depression of your mind,
there is a healing power more potent than all human aids, you would
break my heart.—I will spare your feelings, answered she, only let me
say a few words more: I wish to have your concurrence. I have nominated
Mr. Greenwood to succeed Snughead in the Farefield living; but if you
think he would like the presentation better from you, speak, and it
shall be so managed. “I do not believe,” added Mrs. Allen, “that the
captain could have uttered a word, had his friend’s being made an
archbishop depended on it; he was quite overcome by his feelings.”
“At length he ventured to say, should you like to see Mr. Greenwood? He
would be sorry to see me, replied she; he is a good man, and will pity
me; but I wish not to see him. I have no want of his assistance;” she
raised her eyes to Heaven, and paused. “You may imagine,” continued Mrs.
Allen, “that her exertions had subdued her. The captain no sooner left
her, than she went to her bed; and I have the comfort of quitting her in
a peaceful sleep.”
This recital, my Lucy, will affect poor Mary; but it will do her no harm
hereafter. Her mind wants firmness for the trials of life; and she must
acquire strength by the usual means. I have occasion for more patience
and fortitude than I possess. I tremble for the consequences which will
result to Mrs. Allen, should Miss Flint continue long in her present
condition. What will you say to the cares and attention that devote my
dear friend to her room the whole day? What will you say to her swelled
legs, got by watching her through half the night? Will it be any comfort
to you, when she is on a sick bed, to be told that her piety and prayers
are the cordials that quiet the perturbed _spirit_ of the miserable
invalid? I have yet much to do with my rebellious one; and I honestly
confess, that, sincerely as I rejoice at Miss Flint’s present temper of
mind, I should murmur to give a saint to her funeral obsequies. My
serious remonstrances have answered; Mrs. Allen is gone to bed, and I
will take care she shall not quit it to-night, to traverse half clothed,
the passages to that of another.
What with fogs within, and fogs without, it has been necessary for me to
make a sun of my own. Sir Murdoch has undertaken to teach me to paint in
oil colours; and I have begun to copy a landscape “très riant,” for I
cannot help laughing at my imitation of a good copy.
_In continuation._
I was summoned below stairs. The enclosed will explain the cause. Sir
Murdoch and his son set out for Putney to-morrow morning; and we are in
a bustle; and somewhat anxious about the _roads_ and _cold weather_. I
must help Lady Maclairn in this alarm.
Adieu, your’s,
R. COWLEY.
LETTER LXII.
_From Mr. Serge to Sir Murdoch Maclairn._
_Putney, Dec. 3._
My dear and honoured friend! It is all over with Jeremiah Serge! The
public papers will tell you that he is desolate. To-morrow I shall lose
sight of her precious remains! But what of that! Do I not see her always
before me? Do I not hear her voice, and the blessed consolations she
gave me. My name was in the last sigh that conveyed her to her God! Oh!
she was a child, Sir Murdoch, worthy of a heavenly Father! She was too
good to be lent me long! and yet I never forgot to be grateful for the
loan: my daily prayers were thanks to God, for the blessings she
imparted! so affectionate, so gentle, so wise, and yet so young! What a
bulwark of defence has my age and weakness lost! I do not know why I
write to you; but I am so oppressed by my thoughts, and my kind friends
here fatigue me. They cannot help it. They do for the best; but what can
be done for me! Is it not hard to see the sapless trunk left to the
wintry blasts; and the blossoms of the spring cut off? If my child had
been spared only a _little while_, she might have closed my eyes, and I
had been at rest. But I must not murmur against God! My Caroline warned
me not to grieve as “one without hope.” And I will hope, Sir Murdoch,
that my present feelings will soon effect my deliverance. I shall soon
be re-united to my child. I am very ill, and I think it is better to
tell you what also disturbs me in this hour of tribulation before I send
away this letter. I have not been negligent in regard to my worldly
concerns, as these relate to the security of my wife and children; for I
lost no time, in executing that duty, after you had so graciously
consented to be my children’s friend. But my heart is now set upon
seeing you and Malcolm once more before I die. You are a good man, Sir
Murdoch, and, in the sight of God, that is the only title that will
survive you. I think you will not refuse to come to me: no comfort on
earth would be so welcome; but do not delay your journey, if you mean to
see me; for indeed I am sinking fast. My poor wife is on a sick bed; she
might have foreseen the blow more than she did, but we have all our
faults! Poor soul! She finds at this hour that life needs more than a
doublet of silk, to guard the pilgrim in his rough journey! I am sure
Malcolm will second me in my request. Tell him, that poor Caroline spoke
of him not an hour before she died, and called him her good brother
Malcolm.
God preserve you, Sir Murdoch, from knowing the sorrow which fills the
heart of