LETTER LV.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
Forgive me, dear mother, for having been so long silent, but I have only disagreeable tidings to communicate to you. We all wear a face of woe; my worthy benefactor, our dear Sir Charles, is very ill, and has been so for some time. The physicians think him in great danger, and we expect nothing but death. Lady Grandison, as you may well imagine, is almost inconsolable. Emilia is continually weeping, and Edward appears almost distracted. I will give you an account of a conversation we had yesterday, after we left the sick room. Edward clasped his hands together as in despair, and threw himself into a chair in an adjoining chamber. Ah! William, he cried, how it grieves me to think I have so often offended my more than father; yes, my friend, every thing I have done now haunts me, and pains my very soul.
WILLIAM.
My dear Edward be comforted, he is still alive, and God may perhaps restore him to health.
EDWARD.
I know I do not deserve that favour, I have so often offended him, and though he has forgiven me, I can never forgive myself; and, perhaps, God will not forgive me. Happy Charles, who now, because he has always been dutiful, can look for his father’s death with a sedate sorrow, while I fly from his sick bed, continually tormented by fear and remorse.
WILLIAM.
Indeed he appears to have much fortitude.
He has a Father in heaven that is good to him, who gives him power to support his grief.
WILLIAM.
Pray you also to that Father, and you too will obtain his favour; the unhappy who sincerely turn to him, will always find him compassionate and ready to forgive those who really lament their faults, not merely the consequences produced by them.
EDWARD.
Well then, I will do so; but oh! William, my heart is very heavy.
Dear mother, I pity poor Edward, but I admire Charles; and I do not know which to praise most, his filial love, or his sedateness and patience; in the bitterness of his grief he scarcely ever leaves his sick parent, he gives him his medicines, stifles his sighs, and hides his tears, and almost seems afraid to breathe when his father closes his eyes; but I have seen him fold his hands together, and, lifting up his eyes to heaven, pray with ardour. I will not send this letter off till to-morrow, when I will write again.
WILLIAM, in continuation.
How much I was affected yesterday afternoon. I went, after I had done writing, to Sir Charles’s chamber, I opened the door softly, but instead of Charles, saw Lady Grandison and Emilia, both kneeling at the bed-side; I stole away unperceived to seek for Charles, I could not find him in any of the chambers, no one knew where he was. Oh! said I to myself, where is my dear Charles? I ran into the garden, and there I found him in the summer-house; he was kneeling down, his hands and eyes were lifted up to heaven, and big tears rolled down his cheeks; I heard him pray with earnestness, but could only distinguish a few words.
Preserve, oh! my God, my dear, my affectionate father—grant him longer life, Thou knowest best, Thou art infinitely merciful, oh! pardon me, I wish to die to save him, to save my mother from the anguish she must endure if deprived of him.
He seemed in an agony, and at length arose with more apparent firmness; I could no longer be silent, I caught his hand, God will preserve your father, I exclaimed; I hope so, answered he, but let us walk round the garden, that my mother may not see that I have been crying, it would add to her sorrows. We walked backwards and forwards, when Charles resumed the discourse; You heard me pray then?
WILLIAM.
No, I only heard a few incoherent words, and that you wished to die, to save your father.
Of how much more consequence is his life than mine? I scarcely know how I should live without him. My wish was a selfish one, for perfect happiness is not to be found on earth; I have heard him often say, the happiest have their troubles, and the best their failings, which disturb their earthly peace.
WILLIAM.
What a comfort would these sensible reflections afford, should you lose your father?
CHARLES.
I hope they would; though it now appears to me, that nothing could afford me comfort, should I be deprived of the best of fathers. Come, let us go in; I would not lose the few moments that still afford me an opportunity of shewing my affection and alleviating his sufferings.
We went immediately into the house. Sir Charles had slept near an hour, and was something better; he called Charles with a faint, yet a distinct voice, as soon as he heard him enter the room; he approached the bed and threw himself upon his knees, he took hold of his father’s hand and kissed it several times with a kind of eager respect; what sensibility, what sincerity and grief, did I not see in his countenance! The tears were rolling fast down his cheeks, it would be impossible to delineate the scene.—What does my father want? asked he; what would he say to his son? I wish, answered Sir Charles, to tell you, that your duty and affection will soften the pangs of death, your mother will still have a friend, your sister a protector, and your past behaviour makes me rely on your future. You weep, grieve not my son, sometime or other we must have been separated, but if you obey your heavenly father we shall meet again, where death has no dominion.
CHARLES.
But, my dear father, if you recover now, I might die before you.
SIR CHARLES.
Would you then, Charles, rather have me suffer, than endure grief yourself? Do you love me?
CHARLES.
Do I love you!—I love you more than I love myself.
SIR CHARLES.
No, my dear, you are mistaken; you love yourself better, or you would not wish me to live in a world where there are so many cares and sorrows.
CHARLES.
It is true, but I pray forgive me, I cannot help wishing to keep you here. I cannot forbear thinking how unhappy I shall be, when I lose my father; I have such need of your wise counsel, you are the guide of my youth,—my first friend.
SIR CHARLES.
You will still have a good mother, and you have a Father in heaven, who will never leave you nor forsake you; reconcile your mind to the event: if I die, recollect that I am only gone a little while before you; be virtuous, remember your Creator, fulfil all your duties to your fellow-creatures, and you will without fear wait for the last solemn hour, and the moment when we shall meet again.—But I have said sufficient, submit yourself to the Ruler of the universe, who loves you even better than I do.
My friend Charles rose up, and retired from the bed, without being able to speak, his heart was full, he threw himself into a chair. My father, said he, has commanded me to submit to the will of heaven; this affecting command is, perhaps, the last I shall ever receive from his dear mouth.—Well then, I must, I will be resigned. I will suppress my grief as well as I can, and wait the event with fortitude; my father has taught me how to live, and I shall now learn of him how to die; by imitating his virtues, I may be thought worthy to dwell with him in heaven, to meet him never to part again.
The physician came in with Dr. Bartlett, he found his patient much better, and gave us some hopes; the good Doctor took Charles by the hand, and advised him to take some rest, for he had not been in bed these three nights: but Charles begged to be excused; I cannot sleep, Sir, said he, while my father suffers so much. No, I slumber by his bed when he rests, that is sufficient. Indeed, who can so well take care of a father as his own son? Who can love him as well as I do? My eye must see if he lies down soft and easy, I must cover him, I must warm his dear hands in mine when I find them cold.—I must do more—I must receive his last breath.—He could not go on, and when they still continued to press him, he said, he esteemed too much the few precious hours he could now spend with his father to lose one, while there was a shadow of danger.
What a son, dear mother! but even the recital has affected me so much, I can only assure you that I am your dutiful son,
WILLIAM.