HE SEES MISS WALTON, AND IS HAPPY.
HARLEY was one of those few friends whom the malevolence of fortune had
yet left me; I could not therefore but be sensibly concerned for his
present indisposition; there seldom passed a day on which I did not make
inquiry about him.
The physician who attended him had informed me the evening before, that
he thought him considerably better than he had been for some time past.
I called next morning to be confirmed in a piece of intelligence so
welcome to me.
When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, leaning on
his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude of thoughtful
inspiration. His look had always an open benignity, which commanded
esteem; there was now something more—a gentle triumph in it.
He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave him the good
accounts I had had from his physician, “I am foolish enough,” said he,
“to rely but little, in this instance, upon physic: my presentiment may
be false; but I think I feel myself approaching to my end, by steps so
easy, that they woo me to approach it.
“There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time, when the
infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear
Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed
for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay; a thousand
things occurred, where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I
thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to
have done otherwise.—It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of
disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned
to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue.
I look back on the tenor of my life, with the consciousness of few great
offences to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in
some degree the picture. But I know the benignity of the Supreme Being,
and rejoice at the thoughts of its exertion in my favour. My mind
expands at the thought I shall enter into the society of the blessed,
wise as angels, with the simplicity of children.” He had by this time
clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon
it.—His eye began to moisten too—we sat for some time silent.—At last,
with an attempt to a look of more composure, “There are some
remembrances,” said Harley, “which rise involuntary on my heart, and make
me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who
redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tenderest emotion,
the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them; but we shall meet again,
my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps
are too tender to be suffered by the world.—The world is in general
selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation of romance
or melancholy on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot
think but in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of
mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist;—they are
called,—perhaps they are—weaknesses here;—but there may be some better
modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues.”
He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them,
when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. “My
dear,” said she, “here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come
and inquire for you herself.” I could observe a transient glow upon his
face. He rose from his seat—“If to know Miss Walton’s goodness,” said
he, “be a title to deserve it, I have some claim.” She begged him to
resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my
leave. Mrs. Margery accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss
Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about his health. “I believe,”
said he, “from the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that
they have no great hopes of my recovery.”—She started as he spoke; but
recollecting herself immediately, endeavoured to flatter him into a
belief that his apprehensions were groundless. “I know,” said he, “that
it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes, which
your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet
death as becomes a man, is a privilege bestowed on few.—I would endeavour
to make it mine;—nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it
than now:—It is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its
approach.” “Those sentiments,” answered Miss Walton, “are just; but your
good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has its proper value.—As the
province of virtue, life is ennobled; as such, it is to be desired.—To
virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough
even here to fix its attachment.”
The subject began to overpower her.—Harley lifted his eyes from the
ground—“There are,” said he, in a very low voice, “there are attachments,
Miss Walton”—His glance met hers.—They both betrayed a confusion, and
were both instantly withdrawn.—He paused some moments—“I am such a state
as calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it—It is perhaps the last
time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the
acknowledgment, yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it is by a sense
of my presumption, by a sense of your perfections”—He paused again—“Let
it not offend you, to know their power over one so unworthy—It will, I
believe, soon cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose
the latest.—To love Miss Walton could not be a crime;—if to declare it is
one—the expiation will be made.”—Her tears were now flowing without
control.—“Let me intreat you,” said she, “to have better hopes—Let not
life be so indifferent to you; if my wishes can put any value on it—I
will not pretend to misunderstand you—I know your worth—I have known it
long—I have esteemed it—What would you have me say?—I have loved it as it
deserved.”—He seized her hand—a languid colour reddened his cheek—a smile
brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her, it grew dim, it
fixed, it closed—He sighed and fell back on his seat—Miss Walton screamed
at the sight—His aunt and the servants rushed into the room—They found
them lying motionless together.—His physician happened to call at that
instant. Every art was tried to recover them—With Miss Walton they
succeeded—But Harley was gone for ever.