The fallacious symptoms in the progress of Charles’s malady, which
had deceived his wife and mother, assumed, on the third day, the most
alarming appearance. Mr. Keelevin, who, from the interview, had taken
an uncommon interest in his situation, did not, however, hear of his
illness till the doctors, from the firmest persuasion that he could
not survive, had expressed some doubts of his recovery; but, from
that time, the inquiries of the honest lawyer were frequent; and,
notwithstanding what had passed on the former occasion, he resolved to
make another attempt on the sympathies of the father. For this purpose,
on the morning of the fifth day, which happened to be Sunday, he called
at Charles’s house, to inquire how he was, previous to the visit which
he intended to pay to Grippy. But the servant who attended the door was
in tears, and told him that her master was in the last struggles of
life.
Any other general acquaintance would, on receiving such intelligence,
however deeply he might have felt affected, have retired; but the
ardent mind and simplicity of Mr. Keelevin prompted him to act
differently; and without replying to the girl, he softly slipped his
feet from his shoes, and stepping gently to the sick-chamber, entered
it unobserved; so much were those around the death-bed occupied with
the scene before them.
Isabella was sitting at the bed-head, holding her dying husband by
both the hands, and bending over him almost as insensible as himself.
His mother was sitting near the foot of the bed, with a phial in
one hand, and a towel, resting on her knee, in the other, looking
over her left shoulder towards her son, with an eager countenance,
in which curiosity, and alarm, and pity, were, in rapid succession,
strangely and vacantly expressed. At the foot of the bed, the curtains
of which were drawn aside, the two little children stood wondering in
solemn innocence at the mournful mystery which Nature was performing
with their father. Mr. Keelevin was more moved by their helpless
astonishment than even by the sight of the last and lessening heavings
and pantings of his dying friend; and, melted to tears, he withdrew,
and wept behind the door.
In the course of three or four minutes, a rustle in the chamber roused
him; and on looking round, he saw Isabella standing on the floor, and
her mother-in-law, who had dropped the phial, sitting, with a look of
horror, holding up her hand, which quivered with agitation. He stepped
forward, and giving a momentary glance at the bed, saw that all was
over; but, before he could turn round to address himself to the ladies,
the children uttered a shrill piercing shriek of terror; and running
to their mother, hid their little faces in her dress, and clasped her
fearfully in their arms.
For some minutes he was overcome. The young, the beautiful, the
defenceless widow, was the first that recovered her self-possession. A
flood of tears relieved her heart; and bending down, and folding her
arms round her orphans, she knelt, and said, with an upward look of
supplication, ‘God will protect you.’
Mr. Keelevin was still unable to trust himself to say a word; but
he approached, and gently assisting her to rise, led her, with the
children, into the parlour, where old Lady Plealands was sitting alone,
with a large psalm-book in her hand. Her spectacles lying on a table in
the middle of the room, showed that she had been unable to read.
He then returned to bring Leddy Grippy also away from the body, but
met her in the passage. We dare not venture to repeat what she said to
him, for she was a mother; but the result was, a request from her that
he would undertake to communicate the intelligence to her husband, and
to beg him either to come to her in the course of the day, or send her
some money: ‘For,’ said she, ‘this is a bare house, Mr. Keelevin; and
Heaven only knows what’s to become o’ the wee orphans.’
The kind-hearted lawyer needed, however, no argument to spur him on
to do all that he could in such a time, and in such circumstances, to
lighten the distress and misery of a family whose necessities he so
well knew. On quitting the house, he proceeded immediately towards
Grippy, ruminating on the scene he had witnessed, and on the sorrows
which he foresaw the desolate widow and her children were destined to
suffer.
The weather, for some days before, had been unsettled and boisterous;
but it was that morning uncommonly fine for the advanced state of the
season. Every thing was calm and in repose, as if Nature herself had
hallowed the Sabbath. Mr. Keelevin walked thoughtfully along, the
grief of his reflections being gradually subdued by the benevolence
of his intentions; but he was a man well stricken in years, and the
agitation he had undergone made the way appear to him so long, that he
felt himself tired, insomuch that when he came to the bottom of the
lane which led to Kilmarkeckle, he sat down to rest himself on the
old dike, where Claud himself had sat, on his return from the town,
after executing the fatal entail. Absorbed in the reflections to which
the event of the morning naturally gave rise, he leaned for some time
pensively forward, supporting his head on his hand, insensible to
every object around, till he was roused by the cooing of a pigeon in
the field behind him. The softness and the affectionate sound of its
tones comforted his spirits as he thought of his client’s harsh temper,
and he raised his eyes and looked on the beautiful tranquillity of the
landscape before him, with a sensation of freshness and pleasure, that
restored him to confidence in the charity of his intentions. The waters
of the river were glancing to the cloudless morning sun,--a clear
bright cheerfulness dwelt on the foreheads of the distant hills,--the
verdure of the nearer fields seemed to be gladdened by the presence
of spring,--and a band of little schoolboys, in their Sunday clothes,
playing with a large dog on the opposite bank of the river, was in
unison with the general benevolence that smiled and breathed around,
but was liveliest in his own heart.