Unexpected Misfortunes

“MY life,” said Mr. Eldridge, “till within these few years, was marked by no particular circumstance deserving notice. I early embraced the life of a sailor, and have served my king with unremitted ardor for many years. At the age of twenty-five I married an amiable woman; one son and the girl who just now left us were the fruits of our union. My boy had genius and spirit. I straitened my little income to give him a liberal education; but the rapid progress he made in his studies amply compensated for the inconvenience. At the academy where he received his education, he commenced an acquaintance with a Mr. Lewis, a young man of affluent fortune: as they grew up their intimacy ripened into friendship, and they became almost inseparable companions.

“George chose the profession of a soldier. I had neither friends or money to procure him a commission, and had wished him to embrace a nautical life: but this was repugnant to his wishes, and I ceased to urge him on the subject.

“The friendship subsisting between Lewis and my son was of such a nature as gave him free access to our family, and so specious was his manner that we hesitated not to state to him all our little difficulties in regard to George’s future views. He listened to us with attention, and offered to advance any sum necessary for his first setting out.

“I embraced the offer, and gave him my note for the payment of it; but he would not suffer me to mention any stipulated time, as he said I might do it whenever most convenient to myself. About this time my dear Lucy returned from school, and I soon began to imagine Lewis looked at her with eyes of affection. I gave my child a caution to beware of him, and to look on her mother as her friend. She was unaffectedly artless; and when, as I suspected, Lewis made professions of love, she confided in her parents, and assured us her heart was perfectly unbiased in his favor, and she would cheerfully submit to our direction.

“I took an early opportunity of questioning him concerning his intentions toward my child; he gave an equivocal answer, and I forbade him the house.

“The next day he sent and demanded payment of his money. It was not in my power to comply with the demand. I requested three days to endeavor to raise it, determining in that time to mortgage my half-pay, and live on a small annuity which my wife possessed, rather than be under any obligation to so worthless a man: but this short time was not allowed me, for that evening, as I was sitting down to supper, unsuspicious of danger, an officer entered and tore me from the embraces of my family.

“My wife had been for some time in a declining state of health: ruin at once so unexpected and inevitable was a stroke she was not prepared to bear; and I saw her faint into the arms of our servant, as I left my own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison. My poor Lucy, distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor and endeavored to detain me by her feeble efforts; but in vain; they forced open her arms; she shrieked and fell prostrate. But pardon me. The horrors of that night unman me. I can not proceed.”

He rose from his seat, and walked several times across the room: at length, attaining more composure, he cried: “What a mere infant I am! Why, sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle.”

“No,” said Temple; “but the truly brave soul is tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity.”

“True,” replied the old man (something like satisfaction darting across his features), “and painful as these feelings are, I would not exchange them for that torpor which the stoic mistakes for philosophy. How many exquisite delights should I have passed by unnoticed, but for these keen sensations, this quick sense of happiness or misery? Then let us, my friend, take the cup of life as it is presented to us, tempered by the hand of a wise Providence; be thankful for the good, be patient unto the evil, and presume not to inquire why the latter predominates.”

“This is true philosophy,” said Temple.

“’Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,” replied he. “But I forget myself. I will not longer intrude on your patience, but proceed in my melancholy tale.

“The very evening that I was taken to prison, my son arrived from Ireland, where he had been some time with his regiment. From the distracted expressions of his mother and sister, he learnt by whom I had been arrested; and, late as it was, flew on the wings of wounded affection to the house of his false friend, and earnestly enquired the cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness of a cool deliberate villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy; declared her situation in life would not permit him to marry her; but offered to release me immediately, and make any settlement on her, if George would persuade her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honor.

“Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck the villain, and a challenge ensued. He then went to a coffee-house in the neighborhood, and wrote a long, affectionate letter to me, blaming himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or permitted him to confer an obligation which had brought inevitable ruin on us all. He begged me, whatever might be the event of the ensuing morning, not to suffer regret or unavailing sorrow for his fate to increase the anguish of my heart, which he greatly feared was already insupportable.

“This letter was delivered to me early in the morning. It would be vain to attempt describing my feelings on the perusal of it; suffice it to say, that a merciful Providence interposed, and I was for three weeks insensible to miseries almost beyond the strength of human nature to support.

“A fever and strong delirium seized me, and my life was despaired of. At length nature, overpowered with fatigue, gave way to the salutary power of rest, and a quiet slumber of some hours restored me to reason, tho the extreme weakness of my frame prevented my feeling my distress so acutely as I otherwise should.

“The first object that struck me on awaking was Lucy sitting by my bedside; her pale countenance and sable dress prevented my inquiries for poor George: for the letter I had received from him was the first thing that occurred to my memory. By degrees the rest returned: I recollected being arrested, but could no ways account for being in this apartment, whither they had conveyed me during my illness.

“I was so weak as to be almost unable to speak. I pressed Lucy’s hand, and looked earnestly round the apartment in search of another dear object.

“‘Where is your mother?’ said I, faintly.

“The poor girl could not answer: she shook her head in expressive silence; and throwing herself on the bed, folded her arms about me and burst into tears.

“‘What! both gone?’ said I.

“‘Both,’ she replied, endeavoring to restrain her emotions: ‘but they are happy, no doubt.’”

Here Mr. Eldridge paused: the recollection of the scene was too painful to permit him to proceed.

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