_Sunday morning._
Will my Lucy need from me the obvious reflexions, which will result from
the perusal of this letter? “No:” nor have I time to make them, though
the impressions on my mind are such as will indelibly remain, as
admonitions to warn me against too much security in this world’s air
bubbles!
I had so well sustained my part with my pen, in writing to Sir Murdoch,
that I had produced a cheerfulness on the pensive brow of his wife; and
she detained me with her, until it was too late to finish my letter to
you. I therefore continued to read and chat with my friend till near the
dining hour. The appearance of Doctor Douglass was nothing new; but we
were equally struck with his manner and countenance; and her ladyship,
with alarm, asked him, whether Lucretia was worse. “No,” replied he,
with visible distress, “there is no material change; but she has asked
for you.” Lady Maclairn immediately quitted us to go to her sister’s
room. “She is dying,” observed I, “you think so, I am certain; why do
you flatter Lady Maclairn with hopes?” “Poor creature!” answered he, “I
wish she had only this shock to support, there would then be little to
justify my fears for her; but I am a coward, Miss Cowley, and you must
assist me, and yet I tremble even in soliciting your aid; for these
exertions can do you no good.” “Never think of me,” said I eagerly.
“What are the dreadful tidings you bring?” “That a sinner is departed,”
answered he with solemnity; “that Lady Maclairn has no longer a brother.
Let me conduct you to your apartment,” continued he, seeing me pale and
trembling, “I must consult you; and we shall be interrupted here.” I
made no reply; but yielded to his assistance.
A burst of tears relieved me. “Wherefore is it,” observed poor Douglass,
with compassion, “that you seem destined, by Providence, to be the
support of this unfortunate family; and, by the continual exertions of
your fortitude and humanity, thus to diminish your own comforts and
weaken your health?” I admire you, and I reverence your Mrs. Hardcastle;
but your strength of mind is uncommon! “Try it,” replied I, “let me hear
the whole of this dreadful affair; it cannot be worse than I apprehend.”
“Nor is it better,” answered he; “and we have to guard against
surprises. It must be discovered. The public papers will have the
intelligence, and Lady Maclairn must be prepared; are you equal to the
task?” “I trust I am,” answered I, “otherwise my strength of mind is no
virtue.” He grasped my hand, and said some words, expressive of his
approbation, then proceeded to inform me, that Captain Flint had found
on his table the preceding evening, on returning from his sister’s, the
packet which he now produced. “I was sent for,” added the doctor, “and
we passed nearly the whole night in reading the contents, and consulting
the best means of communicating them to Lady Maclairn. The captain
declared he was unable to do it; and thought himself peculiarly
disqualified for the office, it being no secret, that he despised the
man, and was not surprised at his end.” “I have no heart on such
occasions,” continued Douglass, rising and pacing the room. “I have a
trick of looking beyond “this diurnal sphere,” and I hate to announce
the death of the wicked. There are the letters; I will leave you for an
hour and then return; you may want me as a physician.”
To the hasty perusal of them, followed my thanks to Providence for the
absence of Sir Murdoch; and without suffering the energy of my mind to
relax, I sent for Lady Maclairn to my room. She instantly perceived my
emotion, and I at once acknowledged that I had bad news to communicate
from Jamaica; and which Captain Flint was unequal to the task of doing.
She gasped for breath. “Nothing can equal,” continued I, “Mr. Philip
Flint’s solicitude for you, thank God! he has stood the shock: his
friends are without alarm for him. Mr. Flamall’s death must be
supported, my dear Lady Maclairn; let me see you composed.” “It was
sudden?” said she, fixing her eyes on my face, “It was——I made no other
answer, than falling on her shoulder and weeping.” “It is enough,” said
she, trembling and sinking from my embrace. I was terrified, for she did
not faint as I expected, but with her eyes fixed, and with a deadly
groan she articulated the name of Duncan. I immediately perceived the
dreadful idea, which had taken possession of her mind. “He is at rest,
my dear friend,” said I, “and now blessed for his faithfulness to you.”
I was proceeding, but she heard me not. Horror had transfixed her to her
seat. She was as cold as marble, and not a tear fell. I rang the bell
with violence. The doctor entered at the same moment; he instantly bled
her, and she was put into my bed. Douglass watched her, under great
uneasiness, until she appeared to me to be dead. I really thought she
was, when her eyes closed and her stiffened limbs relaxed. “Take
courage,” said he, “the worst is passed; she will recover.” The event
shewed his judgment; for in a few minutes she burst into violent
sobbings, and the death-like coldness of her hand gave place to a
friendly perspiration. He gave her a cordial; and ordering no one to
disturb her by speaking, I was left with her. By his orders, I neither
checked her tears, nor evaded her enquiries. I believe, however, that
she dosed for some time, as not a sigh escaped her. At length, putting
aside the curtain, she spoke, and I approached her. “Angel of mercy and
goodness,” said she, kissing my hand, “tell me, has no one seen my
distress?” “The servants saw you in a fainting state,” replied I. “But
they never saw me so ill I believe,” observed she with anxiety, “Did
nothing escape me?” I satisfied her at once on this point, and at her
request briefly, and I think wisely, informed her of the leading events
contained in the captain’s letters. She wept, and I proceeded. “In this
trial of your faith and fortitude,” said I, “it is not possible you can
overlook the merciful Being, who has secured Duncan from guilt, by
removing him to an abode of peace.” “I cannot express my thankfulness,”
replied she, “but I feel the gratitude.—But my wretched lost brother!”
She shuddered anew— “He is before an unerring Judge,” replied I,
interrupting her. “It neither becomes you nor myself to limit infinite
mercy. You are now called upon, by that God of mercy, to submit to his
power and to trust in his goodness and compassion. Let it be your
concern to perform, with courage, the part assigned you. It has been a
difficult one; but not beyond your strength. Remember that you are still
a wife, and a mother; and your duties will give you patience and peace.”
Emulate the man in whose sorrows you have shared; “he was faithful to
the end.” Deprive him not of the glory of having loved your reputation
and your honour more than his own. To Lady Maclairn he sacrificed his
fondest hopes, his vengeance on his oppressor, his ease in life, and
even the name of her faithful Duncan to his last moments. Weep for him!
continued I, with my eyes streaming; neither religion nor virtue forbid
this tribute to his memory; but live to preserve Sir Murdoch Maclairn’s
peace. “I would die rather than disturb it,” said she with agony. “It is
my misery, my past punishment, that whilst my soul mourns the fate of a
man ruined by my affection, _another_ not less worthy, not less beloved
has been involved in all the perils of my miserable condition and
conduct. I cannot live without Maclairn’s esteem and tenderness; I
cannot die without affecting him. I must still wear the odious cloak of
deceit; I must still impose on his noble unsuspecting nature. Oh fatal
consequences of my quitting the paths of truth!” added she, with
interrupted sighs; “wretched fruits of my weak credulity and childish
fears! Had I been firm, had I shown myself to the world as the
reprobated widow of poor Duncan, I should long ere this have smiled at
its contempt, or been at peace in my grave. But for what am I not now
answerable?” “Not for your brother’s wickedness,” replied I eagerly,
“you have a fair account, my dear friend, to set against the errors of
your youth; recollect the place you have filled in society, the years of
suffering your tender cares have mitigated, the duties of the mother you
have performed, the happiness you have administered; and I will add, the
pangs your courage has sustained in order to effect the tranquillity of
others. Secresy is now a duty, and an obligation enforced upon you, by
every motive of virtue and utility. Let me see you, what you may be;
unless, by recalling the past, you destroy your health, and my hopes.
The storm is passed; and if you experience not the joy of an unclouded
sky, yet the evening of your days may be serene and quiet.”
She promised me to be all I wished, and to brace every nerve against her
husband’s return. I think she is more composed to day; and at her
request I have been with Miss Flint. As I expected, she began by
lamenting her ladyship’s sudden indisposition, and added, that Percival
also had a cold which prevented her seeing him. I gave her hopes of her
sister’s speedy recovery, and endeavoured to keep up the conversation;
but she soon dosed, which I find she again does half her time, and I
left her without being noticed.
Good night, I am going to bed, and to sleep if I can. Mrs. Allen will be
with Lady Maclairn. I direct my letters to Sedley. You will understand
by the accompaniments my reason for so doing. Mary might wonder at not
being trusted; Mr. Sedley will give you this packet. Adieu. Let me know
that the intelligence is secure in your hands. My friend wishes you to
keep these with the other papers: she has read them.
I am really quite worn out with one or two night’s watching; but do not
fancy me sick, should I be lazy. We expect Sir Murdoch the day after
to-morrow; and I may have too much business on my hands to write to you
before Saturday.
LETTER LXV.
_From Mr. Paget to Capt. Percival Flint._
(_Enclosed in the preceding._)