University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

In a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses.
She did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm,
but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate
weeping. I did not endeavor to check this effusion,
believing that its influence would be salutary.

I had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless
graces of this girl. I had not forgotten the
scruples which had formerly made me check a passion
whose tendency was easily discovered. These new
proofs of her affection were, at once, mournful and
delightful. The untimely fate of her father and my
friend pressed with new force upon my heart, and my
tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers.

The attention of both was presently attracted by a
faint scream, which proceeded from above. Immediately
tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and
a figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard,
and wild. She cast a piercing glance at me, uttered
a feeble exclamation, and sunk upon the floor
without signs of life.

It was not difficult to comprehend this scene. I
now conjectured, what subsequent enquiry confirmed,
that the old man had mistaken me for Wallace, and
had carried to the elder sister the news of his return.

This fatal disappointment of hopes that had nearly
been extinct, and which were now so powerfully revived,
could not be endured by a frame verging to dissolution.

This object recalled all the energies of Eliza, and
engrossed all my solicitude. I lifted the fallen girl in
my arms; and, guided by her sister, carried her to her
chamber. I had now leisure to contemplate the changes
which a few months had made in this lovely frame. I
turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my
wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascination,
and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the
last stage of decay. Eliza knelt on one side, and,
leaning her face upon the bed, endeavored in vain to
smother her sobs. I sat on the other motionless, and
holding the passive and withered hand of the sufferer.

I watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life.
It returned, at length, but merely to betray symptoms
that it would speedily depart forever. For a time my
faculties were palsied, and I was made an impotent
spectator of the ruin that environed me. This pusillanimity
quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections
better suited to the exigencies of the time.

The first impulse was to summon a physician, but it
was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow
degrees to this state, and that the last struggle had
begun. Nothing remained but to watch her while expiring,
and perform for her, when dead, the rites of
interment. The survivor was capable of consolation
and of succour. I went to her and drew her gently
into another apartment. The old man, tremulous and
wonderstruck, seemed anxious to perform some service.
I directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza's chamber.
Meanwhile I persuaded my gentle friend to remain in
this chamber, and resign to me the performance of
every office which her sister's condition required. I sat
beside the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle
was past.

I perceived that the house had no inhabitant beside
the two females and the old man. I went in search of

the latter, and found him crouched as before, at the
kitchen fire, smoaking his pipe. I placed myself on the
same bench, and entered into conversation with him.

I gathered from him that he had, for many years,
been Mrs. Hadwin's servant. That lately he had cultivated
a small farm in this neighborhood for his own
advantage. Stopping one day in October, at the tavern,
he heard that his old master had lately been in
the city, had caught the fever, and after his return
had died with it. The moment he became sick, his
servants fled from the house, and the neighbors refused
to approach it. The task of attending his sick bed,
was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands
that his grave was dug, and his body covered with
earth. The same terror of infection existed after his
death as before, and these hapless females were deserted
by all mankind.

Old Caleb was no sooner informed of these particulars,
than he hurried to the house, and had since continued
in their service. His heart was kind, but it was
easily seen that his skill extended only to execute the
directions of another. Grief for the death of Wallace,
and her father, preyed upon the health of the elder
daughter. The younger became her nurse, and Caleb
was always at hand to execute any orders, the performance
of which was on a level with his understanding.
Their neighbors had not withheld their good offices,
but they were still terrified and estranged by the phantoms
of pestilence.

During the last week Susan had been too weak to
rise from her bed, yet such was the energy communicated
by the tidings that Wallace was alive, and had returned,
that she leaped upon her feet and rushed down
stairs. How little did that man deserve so strennous
and immortal an affection.

I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings
of these women. I endeavored to think only of the
best expedients for putting an end to these calamities.
After a moment's deliberation, I determined to go to
an house at some miles distance; the dwelling of one,

who, though not exempt from the reigning panic, had
shewn more generosity towards these unhappy girls than
others. During my former abode in this district, I had
ascertained his character, and found him to be compassionate
and liberal.

Overpowered by fatigue and watching, Susan was
no sooner relieved by my presence, of some portion of
her cares, than she sunk into profound slumber. I
directed Caleb to watch the house till my return, which
should be before midnight, and then set out for the
dwelling of Mr. Ellis.

The weather was temperate and moist, and rendered
the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. The
ground that had lately been frozen and covered with
snow, was now changed into gullies and pools, and this
was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. A
brook, swelled by the recent thaw, was likewise to be
passed. The rail which I had formerly placed over it by
way of bridge, had disappeared, and I was obliged to
wade through it. At length I approached the house to
which I was going.

At so late an hour, farmers and farmer's servants
are usually abed, and their threshold is entrusted to
their watch-dogs. Two belonged to Mr. Ellis, whose
ferocity and vigilance were truly formidable to a stranger,
but I hoped that in me they would recognize an old
acquaintance, and sufferme to approach. In this I was
not mistaken. Though my person could not be distinctly
seen by star-light, they seemed to scent me from
afar, and met me with a thousand caresses.

Approaching the house, I perceived that its tenants
were retired to their repose. This I expected, and
hastened to awaken Mr. Ellis, by knocking briskly at
the door. Presently he looked out of a window above,
and in answer to his enquiries, in which impatience at
being so unseasonably disturbed, was mingled with
anxiety, I told him my name, and entreated him to
come down and allow me a few minutes conversation.
He speedily dressed himself, and opening the kitchen
door, we seated ourselves before the fire.

My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his
wonder; he had heard of my elopement from the house
of Mr. Hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that
prompted my departure, and to the events that had befallen
me, and no interview was more distant from his expectations
than the present. His curiosity was written
in his features, but this was no time to gratify his curiosity.
The end that I now had in view, was to procure
accommodation for Eliza Hadwin in this man's house.
For this purpose it was my duty to describe with simplicity
and truth, the inconveniences which at present
surrounded her, and to relate all that had happened
since my arrival.

I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and
I continued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness
of this girl. The death of her father and sister
left her the property of this farm. Her sex and age
disqualified her for superintending the harvest-field and
the threshing-floor; and no expedient was left, but to
lease the land to another, and, taking up her abode in
the family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist, as she
might easily do, upon the rent. Meanwhile her continuance
in this house was equally useless and dangerous,
and I insinuated to my companion the propriety of immediately
removing her to his own.

Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him,
which I immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection.
I endeavored, by appealing to his reason, as
well as to his pity, to conquer this dread. I pointed
cut the true cause of the death of the elder daughter,
and assured him the youngest knew no indisposition
but that which arose from distress. I offered
to save him from any hazard that might attend his approaching
the house, by accompanying her hither myself.
All that her safety required was that his doors
should not be shut against her when she presented herself
before them.

Still he was fearful and reluctant; and, at length,
mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen
miles farther; that he was her natural protector, and

he dared to say would find no difficulty in admitting
her into his house. For his part, there might be reason
in what I said, but he could not bring himself to think
but that there was still some danger of the fever. It
was right to assist people in distress, to be sure; but
to risk his own life he did not think to be his duty. He
was no relation of the family, and it was the duty of
relations to help each other. Her uncle was the proper
person to assist her, and no doubt he would be as
willing as able.

The marks of dubiousness and indecision which accompanied
these words, encouraged me in endeavoring
to subdue his scruples. The increase of his aversion
to my scheme kept pace with my remonstrances, and
he finally declared that he would, on no account, consent
to it.

Ellis was by no means hard of heart. His determination
did not prove the coldness of his charity, but
merely the strength of his fears. He was himself an
object more of compassion than of anger; and he acted
like the man, whose fear of death prompts him to push
his companion from the plank which saved him from
drowning, but which is unable to sustain both. Finding
him invincible to my entreaties, I thought upon
the expedient which he suggested of seeking the protection
of her uncle. It was true, that the loss of parents
had rendered her uncle her legal protector. His
knowledge of the world; his house, and property, and
influence would, perhaps, fit him for this office in a
more eminent degree than I was fitted. To seek a different
asylum might, indeed, be unjust to both, and,
after some reflection, I not only dismissed the regret
which Ellis's refusal had given me, but even thanked
him for the intelligence and counsel which he had afforded
me. I took leave of him, and hastened back to
Hadwin's.

Eliza, by Caleb's report, was still asleep. There
was no urgent necessity for awakening her; but something
was forthwith to be done with regard to the unhappy
girl that was dead. The proceeding incumbent

on us was obvious. All that remained was to dig a
grave, and to deposit the remains with as much solemnity
and decency as the time would permit. There
were two methods of doing this. I might wait till the
next day; till a coffin could be made and conveyed hither;
till the woman, whose trade it was to make and
put on the habiliments assigned by custom to the dead,
could be sought out and hired to attend; till kindred,
friends, and neighbors could be summoned to
the obsequies; till a carriage were provided to remove
the body to a burying-ground, belonging to a meetinghouse,
and five miles distant; till those, whose trade
it was to dig graves, had prepared one, within the sacred
inclosure, for her reception; or, neglecting this
toilsome, tedious, and expensive ceremonial, I might
seek the grave of Hadwin, and lay the daughter by the
side of her parent.

Perhaps I was wrong in my preference of the latter
mode. The customs of burial may, in most cases, be
in themselves proper. If the customs be absurd, yet
it may be generally proper to adhere to them: but,
doubtless, there are cases in which it is our duty to omit
them. I conceived the present case to be such an
one.

The season was bleak and inclement. Much time,
labor, and expence would be required to go through
the customary rites. There was none but myself to
perform these, and I had not the suitable means. The
misery of Eliza would only be prolonged by adhering
to these forms; and her fortune be needlesly diminished;
by the expences unavoidably to be incurred.

After musing upon these ideas for some time, I rose
from my seat, and desired Caleb to follow me. We
proceeded to an outer shed where farmers' tools used to
be kept. I supplied him and myself with a spade, and
requested him to lead me to the spot where Mr. Hadwin
was laid.

He betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appeared
struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose
had been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of

the dead. I removed his doubts by explaining my intentions,
but he was scarcely less shocked, on discovering
the truth, than he had been alarmed by his first suspicions. He stammered out his objections to my
scheme. There was but one mode of burial he thought
that was decent and proper, and he could not be free
to assist me in pursuing any other mode.

Perhaps Caleb's aversion to the scheme might have
been easily overcome, but I reflected that a mind like
his was at once flexible and obstinate. He might yield
to arguments and entreaties, and act by their immediate
impulse; but the impulse passed away in a moment;
old and habitual convictions were resumed, and his deviation
from the beaten track would be merely productive
of compunction. His aid, on the present occasion,
though of some use, was by no means indispensible.
I forbore to solicit his concurrence, or even to
vanquish the scruples he entertained against directing
me to the grave of Hadwin. It was a groundless superstition
that made one spot more suitable for this purpose
than another. I desired Caleb, in a mild tone, to
return to the kitchen, and leave me to act as I thought
proper. I then proceeded to the orchard.

One corner of this field was somewhat above the level
of the rest. The tallest tree of the groupe grew
there, and there I had formerly placed a bench, and
made it my retreat at periods of leisure. It had been
recommended by its sequestered situation, its luxuriant
verdure, and profound quiet. On one side was a potatoe
field, on the other a melon-patch; and before me,
in rows, some hundreds of apple trees. Here I was
accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation, and
study the manuscripts of Lodi. A few months had
passed since I had last visited this spot. What revolutions
had since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted
was my present purpose with what had formerly led me
hither!

In this spot I had hastily determined to dig the grave
of Susan. The grave was dug. All that I desired
was a cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her.

This being made, I returned to the house, lifted the
corpse in my arms, and bore it without delay to the
spot. Caleb seated in the kitchen, and Eliza asleep in
her chamber, were wholly unapprised of my motions.
The grave was covered, the spade reposited under the
shed, and my seat by the kitchen fire resumed in a time
apparently too short for so solemn and momentous a
transaction.

I look back upon this incident with emotions not
easily described. It seems as if I acted with too much
precipitation; as if insensibility, and not reason, had
occasioned that clearness of conceptions, and bestowed
that firmness of muscles, which I then experienced. I
neither trembled nor wavered in my purpose. I bore
in my arms the being whom I had known and loved,
through the whistling gale and intense darkness of a
winter's night; I heaped earth upon her limbs, and covered
them from human observation, without fluctuations
or tremors, though not without feelings that were
awful and sublime.

Perhaps some part of my stedfastness was owing to
my late experience, and some minds may be more easily
inured to perilous emergencies than others. If reason
acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility,
perhaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished.