LETTER XLIII.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
Now you shall hear the servant’s account—I long to tell you all about an affair, which is to clear my friend;—for a moment you must not think ill of him.
Charles set out from Mr. Friendly’s soon after dinner, Harry, his man, of course attended him. The weather had been all day lowering; they quickened their pace; but such a thick mist arose gradually, they could scarcely see two yards before them. Charles, though he is very courageous, shewed some signs of fear, and they then rode slowly, observing every step, when they saw at some little distance, a man lying in the middle of the road. What is that? said Charles, holding-in his horse. A man who has drank more than he ought, I suppose, answered Harry. Pray, Sir, ride a little quicker, it grows late. No, replied Charles, for if the man is drunk, we must endeavour to help him out of the highway, or he may be rode over in the dark. Saying so, he jumped off his horse: but how terrifying was the sight!—He saw an old officer lying weltering in his blood. He spoke to him; but received no answer. The gentleman is dead, cried Harry. No, no, interrupted Charles, he has only fainted through loss of blood. What shall we do? What can we do? replied Harry. Let us gallop on to the first village to procure assistance. What, and leave the man bleeding, said Charles, with warmth; he would die before we could even reach the village.—Do you not see how he bleeds? Tie our horses fast to that tree, and make haste to assist me, I must not let a man die without doing my best to save him. He then pulled off his clothes, and tore his shirt; and finding that the wound was in the head, he wiped away the gore, and bound the linen round it; he did it several times before he could stop the effusion. After the operation, they lifted him cautiously, and laid him on the grass, near the road side. Good heavens, said Harry, it begins to be quite dark, and the mist is so thick, we shall never be able to find our way; and how uneasy they will all be at home. O that is true, said Charles; come, let us go.—And he advanced a step or two; but turning his eyes on the poor officer, they filled with tears, and he stood thinking half a moment—and then burst out.—No, I cannot, will not leave you in this condition; I do not occasion the uneasiness my parents will feel to gratify myself; I ought not to deliberate a moment: ride on directly to the next village, or to the first cottage you spy, and prevail on some man to return with you; and all together we may carry this poor man to a shelter, and procure further help.
HARRY.
I dare not leave you here alone, your father would never forgive me.
CHARLES.
Heaven will preserve me; and as to the blame, I will take care it shall not fall on you. I tell you, if you will not go, I will go myself.
Harry did not wait to expostulate any more, but did as he was ordered; and fortunately soon reached a little farm-house, which they might have seen from the road, had it been a clear night. He went in and told the case to the man who lived there, and begged him and his son immediately to go with him. The farmer at first seemed reluctant, he was tired, and just preparing to go to bed, after a hard day’s work; but when Harry told him he should be well recompensed, he fetched a sort of handbarrow, and laid a mattrass on it, and followed to the place. Before they reached it, Charles had the satisfaction to see the officer open his eyes, and come gradually to himself; and looking wistfully at Charles, he said, falteringly, Who are you, young man, who thus alone, this dismal night, supports my wounded head? Did you bind this linen round my temples? I have been so happy, replied Charles, as to arrive in time to be of service to you; I had a servant with me, but I have sent him for further assistance, that you may be removed to some house. What reflection, what fortitude! faintly cried the weak man.—Do not exhaust yourself, Sir, interrupted Charles; I have only done my duty—indeed my heart bled for you, I could not have left you. Harry and the men that moment joined them; they all assisted, and laid the officer on the handbarrow; but the fatigue was too much for him, and he fainted again through weakness. They walked very slow, and at length brought him into the cottage; and Charles sent the farmer for a surgeon. And what is now your intention? asked Harry. To stay here this night, replied Charles; I cannot think of leaving this venerable old man with strangers, who do not seem the most humane people in the world. Do you hasten home, and tell them what has happened, and then I shall wait with comfort till to-morrow, and see myself that the poor man is properly attended—I will be his nurse. Harry was not willing to leave him; but he spoke in such a positive tone of voice, Harry thought it vain to attempt to dissuade him; so, much against his inclination, he rode away; and would certainly have relieved us soon from all our anxiety, if the thick fog, and his vexation together, had not made him lose, or mistake the short by-road, which leads directly through the wood to the house; he wandered about till the first peep of dawn, and then entered the parlour trembling. We had all our eyes and mouths open, ready to catch the news—and we began to ask so many questions in a breath, Sir Charles was obliged to command silence, that we might hear the account. He praised the servant, gave him a guinea, and desired him to go to bed for an hour or two, and then come to him, before he returned to his son, to whom he would send a message, and some money to enable him to pay the surgeon, and supply the wants of the invalide.
But how will the tender heart of my friend suffer, when he hears what we have endured. Lady Grandison went to bed very ill; but, I hope, she is now better; I have not seen her this morning. I long to know if the poor officer is alive or dead.
WILLIAM.