Читать книгу The History of A Merchant's Widow and her Young Family - Барбара Хофланд - Страница 5

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The concealed grief of Mr. Daventree had been the remote cause of an apoplectic complaint, which had for some time been threatening him; the morning of this eventful day had precipitated its effects, from his learning on 'Change the failure of a great house in Hamburgh, and another at Heligoland, both of whom had been trusted by him to an amount which he was certain would involve him beyond his means of bearing. He felt now the utter impossibility of farther disguise with his wife; her distress—her altered situation—the blasted hopes of his little ones, all rose to his mind, and overwhelmed him with distress: unhappily, he heard this bad news from strangers; for it is probable, that had one of the many who knew and loved him been near, he might have been led to speak of his misfortune, and to have shed tears, which would have afforded a natural vent to the sorrow that overwhelmed him; he looked round for a coach, but there happened to be none there, and he had not power to call one: a sense of sickness and oppression succeeded the pang of distress which had first wounded him, and he felt himself so ill, as to be doubly anxious, on that account, to reach home. With trembling and hurried steps he pressed forward, and entered the square nearly at the accustomed time; the first glance he had of his house brought on all his agonies anew; and, unable to proceed, he crossed the road with difficulty, and laid his hand upon the iron railing; he then cast one more look towards his dear home, and beheld his wife and little ones at the window—a thick mist fell upon his eyes—he faintly called on God to bless them, and, with one deep sigh, dropped down to rise no more!

In this situation he was found, and conveyed to his own house, as we have already seen; and, though every means were had recourse to, as is usual in such cases, all help was found vain; that form, so fondly loved, was sunk to its original dust—that generous and manly spirit was recalled to the God who gave it!

When Mrs. Daventree awoke from the long, deep swoon into which she had fallen, she felt as if awakened to some new poignant evil, which, though unknown, was yet unbearable; she perceived, in the tear-swollen faces of her attendants, the confirmation of her fears; and, as recollection returned with returning life, she closed her eyes, as if to shut them out together.

But, alas! oblivion of woe is not the widow's portion; she was forced to revive, forced to believe the dreadful truth which benumbed her faculties, and harrowed up her soul. The medical gentleman who had been called in to examine the body of her husband attended her, and administered such assistance as her case demanded; and, fearful that entire stupefaction of the faculties should follow a shock so totally unexpected, ordered her children to be brought around her, conceiving the poignancy of anguish preferable to the stupor of despair. This means happily succeeded in restoring her bewildered mind; she heard the cries of her children, and once more raised her head; she felt their hands stretched out to her, to give or to receive support; their innocent tears bedewed her face; she raised her arms as if to embrace them all, and, by an effort that bespoke at once her energy and agony, rose from her couch, and dropped on her knees in the midst. The poor babes clung round her with mingled terror and affection; her pale, distracted looks made them believe she too was dying: she groaned aloud—sighs like the last convulsions of nature burst from her overcharged heart—she believed herself dying—she cast a look at her children, and the words "poor innocents!" trembled on her lips; the emotions of maternal pity supplied what the severity of grief had denied—a flood of tears came to her relief—life and reason were restored.

Yet sorrow seemed to increase with time; for the more the unhappy widow reflected on the loss she had sustained, and the manner in which her beloved husband was taken, the more bitterly she lamented her own irreparable loss, and the long-concealed sorrows of him who had in a great measure become the victim of his tenderness to her. To say how she wept over him, how she mourned over his last moments, and lamented that they were not consoled by her presence, would be as painful as impossible; the heart only can conceive them, for all attempt to describe the feelings of a widow like this is utterly vain.

When at length the afflicted mother was enabled to lift up her heart to Him who seeth in secret, and who turned not a deaf ear even to those "sighings of the sorrowful soul which cannot be uttered," she began to recover those faculties of the mind which might be said to be suspended; she was aware that her affairs were in a disordered state, and that it was her duty to inquire how far she was justified in continuing her present establishment, though a reduced one? Rousing herself, she sent for the principal clerk engaged in her late husband's service, and inquired of him, "if any letters had been lately received from her uncle, and whether they contained remittances of any consequence?"

This person replied, by lamenting the absence of Mr. Gardiner, and hinting his fears that he was become a prisoner in France.

This was a new affliction; for on his kindness she had relied for all the offices of parental friendship herself and children must hereafter need: the younger brother of Mr. Gardiner had been many years settled in Spanish America, where he was married, but her husband's partner had ever been a father to her; and the only consolation her bereaved state admitted was, the knowledge of his kindness, and the hope of his protection.

When the widow had a little recovered from this stroke, she again adverted to the state of her affairs.

"I shall be glad to lay the books before you, madam, when you find yourself equal to inspecting them; Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Belton will be happy to wait upon you."

"I have no personal acquaintance with either of those gentlemen, and would rather not see any strangers. Who are they?"

"They are principal creditors, madam, and are appointed assignees of the estate."

"Creditors! assignees! I do not understand you, Mr. Sadler."

"Surely, madam, I am not the first to tell you that Mr. Daventree, my honoured master, my best friend, died insolvent?"

"Insolvent!"

"Yes, madam; the failure of two great houses at the same time completed his ruin, and doubtless produced our loss of his invaluable life, since he died within two hours after he received this heart-breaking intelligence."

"Pray leave me," said the widow, faintly.

Mr. Sadler, deeply penetrated with the sincerest sympathy, withdrew, and the afflicted mother for some time indulged in the tears such reiterated sorrow called for; sinking on her knees, she inarticulately sought comfort from that Almighty Power who afflicteth but to heal, and arose refreshed in her soul, though sensible of much anguish: she rang, and finding Mr. Sadler was still in the house, desired to see him again: on his entrance she thus addressed him—

"Surely, Mr. Sadler, there will be no loss to any one, when our affairs are settled?"

"Very little, madam, if we consider the magnitude of the concern."

"I cannot bear that there should be any; I entreat you to inform me of the worst, my friend—do not fear for me; that merciful hand which has sustained me through this great trial, will not forsake me in the less: all other sorrows must be light, in comparison to that loss which I endure in my husband's death."

Mr. Sadler wiped his eyes, as if to look with astonishment on a woman whom he had been used to see nursed with the tenderness of an exotic plant, on whom the softest breeze of spring is not permitted to blow, thus daring to meet the blasts of adversity unshrinkingly; and with somewhat more courage, he answered—"The creditors, well aware of Mr. Daventree's perfect probity and regularity, and justly imputing his misfortunes to those political changes no prudence could foresee or prevent, are perfectly willing to divide, amicably, that which remains, and are by no means desirous of disturbing you in your establishment, until your mind has fully recovered the terrible shock you have received. They rejoice that you have a settlement, which will enable you to provide for your family, though very inadequate to their expectations, and inadequate likewise to your fortune, since many of them recollect that your grandfather only suffered half of that fortune to be settled on yourself. It is concluded that you will remove from this house; but until you are willing to do so, they do not wish to disturb your quiet possession of it: such are the sentiments of the major part of them, I assure you."

"They shall all, all be satisfied—present them my truest thanks for their forbearance, and assure them I will not trespass upon it longer than is necessary to provide an asylum for my little ones: my settlement is eight hundred a-year; come to me to-morrow, my good Sadler, and bring with you a simple statement of our losses; you must assist me in so arranging the plan of my future life, that not even the shadow of blame shall ever stain the memory of my husband: it is not enough that justice shall acquit him of wrong—I cannot bear that any person should suffer by one who was ever ready to relieve the sufferings of all—his name shall be remembered only to be blessed. You who have so many years witnessed his integrity, his benevolence, his severity of justice to himself, his unbounded liberality to others, you well know how acceptable this sacrifice would be to him; therefore I beseech you to assist me in contriving some means of making it; I must pay his debts to the utmost farthing, even if I condemn my children to beggary!"

Such was the woman whom mistaken tenderness forbade to share the most sacred privilege of a wife—the power of partaking and soothing the sorrows of a beloved husband.