On Friday morning I received the original letter from Anna St. Ives, of
which the inclosed is a copy; and on the following day about a quarter
of an hour before midnight my mother expired. I mention these
circumstances together because they were noticed, by those who were
necessarily acquainted with them, as having a relation to each other;
whether real or imaginary, much or little I do not pretend to
determine; but I will relate the facts and leave them to your own
reflection; and I will forbear all colouring, that I may not be
suspected of injustice.
My mother as you know has been daily declining, and was indeed in a
very feeble state. She seemed rather more cheerful that morning than
she had been lately, and at her particular request I went to visit the
wife of farmer Beardmore, who is a worthy but poor woman, and who being
at present dejected, in consequence of poverty and ill health, my
mother thought she might be more benefited by the kindness of the
little relief we could afford her if delivered by me, than if sent by a
less soothing and sympathetic hand. I should hope, sir, it would be
some consolation to you to learn that my mother's active virtue never
forsook her, while memory and mind remained. But of this you are the
best judge.
While I was gone the postman brought the letter of my friend; and as
her letters were always read to my mother, and as I likewise have made
it a rule and a duty not to have any secrets to conceal from her, or
indeed from any body, she had no scruple to have the letter opened,
because she expected to find consolation and hope: for, till the
arrival of this, the letters of Anna St. Ives have lately been all
zealous in your praise.
I will leave you, sir, to imagine the effect which a letter beginning
as this did must have on a mind and body worn to such a tremulous state
of sensibility. Coming as it did first into my mother's hand, the very
caution which the benevolent heart of Anna dictated produced the effect
she most dreaded. My mother had still however a sufficient portion of
her former energy to hear it to the end.
In about an hour after this happened I returned, and found her in
extreme agitation of mind. I neglected no arguments, no efforts to calm
her sensations; and I succeeded so far that after a time she seemed to
be tolerably resigned. She could not indeed forget it, and the subject
was revived by her several times during the day.
My chief endeavour was to lead her thoughts into that train which, by
looking forward to the progress of virtue, is most consoling to the
mind of virtue.
She seemed at last fatigued, and about eleven o'clock at night fell
into a doze. About a quarter before twelve I perceived her countenance
distorted; I was alarmed; I spoke to her and received no answer; I
endeavoured to excite attention or motion, but in vain. A paralytic
stroke had deprived her of sensation. In this state she remained
four-and-twenty hours, and about midnight departed.
I have thought it strictly incumbent on me to relate these
circumstances. But I should consider myself as very highly culpable did
I seek to aggravate, or to state that as certainty which can never be
any thing more than conjecture. My mother was so enfeebled that we
began to be in daily apprehension of her death. I must not however
conceal that the thought of your union with Anna St. Ives had been one
of her principal pleasures, ever since she had supposed it probable;
and that she had spoken of it incessantly, and always with that high
degree of maternal affection and cheering hope which you cannot but
know was congenial to her nature.
The disappointment itself was great, but the turpitude that attended it
much greater. This I did not endeavour to palliate. How could I? I have
told you I had no resource for consolation, either for myself or her,
but in turning, like Anna St. Ives, from the individual to the whole.
I would endeavour to say something that should shew you the folly of
such conduct; for the folly of it is even more excessive than the vice;
but, not to mention the state of my own mind at this moment, I despair
of producing any effect, since Anna St. Ives herself, aided by so many
concurring motives, has failed in the generous and disinterested
attempt.
I imagine you will be down at the funeral. Perhaps it is proper. I
cannot say, for indeed I do not very well understand many of what are
called the proprieties of custom. I own I am weak enough to feel some
pain at meeting you, under the present circumstances. But, since it is
necessary I should act and aid you in various family departments, if
you should come down, I will not yield to these emotions, but
considering you as an erring brother, will endeavour to perform what
duty requires.