University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The safety of Eliza was the object that now occupaied
my cares. To have slept, after her example, had
been most proper, but my uncertainty with regard to
her fate, and my desire to conduct her to some other
home, kept my thoughts in perpetual motion. I waited
with impatience till she should awake and allow me
to consult with her on plans for futurity.

Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen.
Having recovered the remembrance of what had lately
happened, she enquired for her sister. She wanted to
view once more the face, and kiss the lips, of her beloved
Susan. Some relief to her anguish she expected
to derive from this privilege.

When informed of the truth, when convinced that
Susan had disappeared forever, she broke forth into
fresh passion. It seemed as if her loss was not hopeless
or compleat as long as she was suffered to behold
the face of her friend and to touch her lips. She accused
me of acting without warrant and without justice;
of defrauding her of her dearest and only consolation;
and of treating her sister's sacred remains with
barbarous indifference and rudeness.

I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my
conduct. I was not surprized or vexed, that she, at

first, treated them as futile, and as heightening my offence.
Such was the impulse of a grief, which was
properly excited by her loss. To be tranquil and stedfast,
in the midst of the usual causes of impetuosity
and agony, is either the prerogative of wisdom that
sublimes itself above all selfish considerations, or the
badge of giddy and unfeeling folly.

The torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding
was at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit
acquiescence in any scheme which my prudence
should suggest, succeeded. I mentioned her uncle as
one to whom it would be proper, in her present distress,
to apply.

She started and betrayed uneasiness at this name.
It was evident that she by no means concurred with me
in my notions of propriety; that she thought with
aversion of seeking her uncle's protection. I requested
her to state her objections to this scheme, or to mention
any other which she thought preferable.

She knew no body. She had not a friend in the
world but myself. She had never been out of her father's
house. She had no relation but her uncle Philip,
and he—she could not live with him. I must not insist
upon her going to his house. It was not the place for
her. She should never be happy there.

I was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some
capricious and groundless antipathy. I desired her to
explain what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious.
She refused to be more explicit, and persisted
in thinking that his house was no suitable abode for
her.

Finding her, in this respect, invincible, I sought
for some other expedient. Might she not easily be accommodated
as a boarder in the city, or some village,
or in a remote quarter of the country? Ellis, her
nearest and most opulent neighbor, had refused to receive
her; but there were others who had not his fears.
There were others, within the compass of a day's journney,
who were strangers to the cause of Hadwin's
death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage

of that ignorance? Their compliance ought not to be
the result of deception.

While thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey
recurred to my remembrance, and I asked, is not
the honest woman, who entertained Wallace, just
such a person as that of whom I am in search? Her
treatment of Wallace shews her to be exempt from
chimerical fears, proves that she has room in her house
for an occasional inmate.

Encouraged by these views, I told my weeping companion,
that I had recollected a family in which she would
be kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would
not lose a moment in repairing thither. Horses, belonging
to the farm, grazed in the meadows, and a
couple of these would carry us in a few hours to the
place which I had selected for her residence. On her
eagerly assenting to this proposal, I enquired in whose
care, and in what state, our present habitation should
be left.

The father's property now belonged to the daughter.
Eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her
total inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance
of folly. She was eager to fly from this house, and to
resign herself and her property, without limitation or
condition, to my controul. Our intercourse had been
short, but she relied on my protection and counsel as
absolutely as she had been accustomed to do upon her
father's.

She knew not what answer to make to my enquiry.
Whatever I pleased to do was the best. What did I
think ought to be done?

Ah! thought I, sweet, artless, and simple girl! how
wouldst thou have fared, if Heaven had not sent me
to thy succour? There are beings in the world who
would make a selfish use of thy confidence; who would
beguile thee at once of innocence and property. Such
am not I. Thy welfare is a precious deposit, and no
father or brother could watch over it with more solicitude
than I will do.

I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might have fixed the
destination of his property, and the guardianship of his
daughters, by will. On suggesting this to my friend,
it instantly reminded her of an incident that took place
after his last return from the city. He had drawn up
his will, and gave it into Susan's possession, who placed
it in a drawer, whence it was now taken by my friend.

By this will his property was now found to be bequeathed
to his two daughters; and his brother, Philip
Hadwin, was named executor, and guardian to his daughters
till they should be twenty years old. This name
was no sooner heard by my friend, than she exclaimed,
in a tone of affright, executor! My uncle! What
is that? What power does that give him?

I know not exactly the power of executors. He
will, doubtless, have possession of your property till
you are twenty years of age. Your person will likewise
be under his care till that time.

Must he decide where I am to live?

He is vested with all the power of a father.

This assurance excited the deepest consternation.
She fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a
time, in the deepest reverie. Recovering, at length,
she said, with a sigh, what if my father had made no
will?

In that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with,
but the right of naming him would belong to yourself.

And my uncle would have nothing to do with my
affairs?

I am no lawyer, said I; but I presume all authority
over your person and property would devolve upon the
guardian of your own choice.

Then I am free. Saying this, with a sudden motion,
she tore in several pieces the will, which, during
this dialogue, she had held in her hand, and threw the
fragments into the fire.

No action was more unexpected to me than this.
My astonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue
the paper from the flames. It was consumed in a
moment. I was at a loss in what manner to regard

this sacrifice. It denoted a force of mind little in unison
with that simplicity and helplessness which this
girl had hitherto displayed. It argued the deepest apprehensions
of mistreatment from her uncle. Whether
his conduct had justified this violent antipathy, I
had no means of judging. Mr. Hadwin's choice of
him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his integrity.

My abstraction was noticed by Eliza, with visible
anxiety. It was plain, that she dreaded the impression
which this act of seeming temerity had made upon
me. Do not be angry with me, said she; perhaps I
have been wrong, but I could not help it. I will have
but one guardian and one protector.

The deed was irrevocable. In my present ignorance
of the domestic history of the Hadwins, I was unqualified
to judge how far circumstances might extenuate
or justify the act. On both accounts, therefore, it
was improper to expatiate upon it.

It was concluded to leave the care of the house to
honest Caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carrying
away the money which was found in one of them,
and which amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair
to the house formerly mentioned. The air was
cold; an heavy snow began to fall in the night; the
wind blew tempestuously; and we were compelled to
confront it.

In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her
whole life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her
sorrow. It made her feeble and helpless. When
placed upon the horse, she was scarcely able to maintain
her seat. Already chilled by the cold, blinded by
the drifting snow, and cut by the blast, all my remonstrances
were needed to inspire her with resolution.

I am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer
them to retard or divert me from any design that I
have formed. I had overlooked the weak and delicate
frame of my companion, and made no account of her
being less able to support cold and fatigue than myself.
It was not till we had made some progress in our way,

that I began to view, in their true light, the obstacles
that were to be encountered. I conceived it, however,
too late to retreat, and endeavored to push on
with speed.

My companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was
refractory and unmanageable. She was able, however,
to curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve
miles from Malverton. The wind and the cold became
too violent to be longer endured, and I resolved to stop
at the first house which should present itself to my view,
for the sake of refreshment and warmth.

We now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination
of which I remembered that a dwelling stood.
To pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all
that remained before we could reach an hospitable asylum.
I endeavored to sustain, by this information,
the sinking spirits of my companion. While busy in
conversing with her, a blast of irresistible force twisted
off the highest branch of a tree before us. It fell
in the midst of the road, at the distance of a few feet
from her horse's head. Terrified by this accident, the
horse started from the path, and, rushing into the wood,
in a moment threw himself and his rider on the ground,
by encountering the rugged stock of an oak.

I dismounted and flew to her succour. The snow
was already dyed with the blood which flowed from
some wound in her head, and she lay without sense or
motion. My terrors did not hinder me from anxiously
searching for the hurt which was received, and ascertaining
the extent of the injury. Her forehead was
considerably bruised; but; to my unspeakable joy, the
blood flowed from the nostrils, and was, therefore, to
be regarded as no mortal symptom.

I lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for
some means of relief. The house at which I proposed
to stop was upwards of a mile distant. I remembered
none that was nearer. To place the wounded girl on
my own horse, and proceed gently to the house in question,
was the sole expedient; but, at present, she was
senseless, and might, on recovering, be too feeble to
sustain her own weight.

To recall her to life was my first duty; but I was
powerless, or unacquainted with the means. I gazed
upon her features, and endeavored, by pressing her in
my arms, to inspire her with some warmth. I looked
towards the road, and listened for the wished-for sound
of some carriage that might be prevailed on to stop and
receive her. Nothing was more improbable than that
either pleasure or business would induce men to encounter
so chilling and vehement a blast. To be lighted
on by some traveller was, therefore, an hopeless
event.

Meanwhile, Eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm
increased. What effect her half-frozen blood would
have in prolonging this condition, or preventing her
return to life, awakened the deepest apprehensions. I
left the wood, still bearing her in my arms, and re-entered
the road, from the desire of descrying, as soon as
possible, the coming passenger. I looked this way
and that, and again listened. Nothing but the sweeping
blast, rent and falling branches, and snow that filled
and obscured the air, were perceivable. Each moment
retarded the course of my own blood and stiffened
my sinews, and made the state of my companion more
desperate. How was I to act? To perish myself or see
her perish, was an ignoble fate: courage and activity
were still able to avert it. My horse stood near, docile
and obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way,
holding my lifeless burthen in my arms, was all that remained.

At this moment my attention was called by several
voices, issuing from the wood. It was the note of gaiety
and glee: presently a sleigh, with several persons of
both sexes, appeared, in a road which led through the
forest into that in which I stood. They moved at a
quick pace, but their voices were hushed and they checked
the speed of their horses on discovering us. No occurrence
was more auspicious than this; for I relied
with perfect confidence on the benevolence of these
persons, and as soon as they came near, claimed their
assistance.

My story was listened to with sympathy, and one of
the young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in
placing Eliza in the place which he had left. A female,
of sweet aspect and engaging manners, insisted upon
turning back and hastening to the house, where it
seems her father resided, and which the party had just
left. I rode after the sleigh, which in a few minutes
arrived at the house.

The dwelling was spacious and neat, and a venerable
man and woman, alarmed by the quick return of the
young people, came forth to know the cause. They
received their guest with the utmost tenderness, and
provided her with all the accommodations which her
condition required. Their daughter relinquished the
scheme of pleasure in which she had been engaged,
and, compelling her companions to depart without her,
remained to nurse and console the sick.

A little time shewed that no lasting injury had been
suffered. Contusions, more troublesome than dangerous,
and easily curable by such applications as rural
and traditional wisdom has discovered, were the only
consequences of the fall. My mind, being relieved
from apprehensions on this score, had leisure to reflect
upon the use which might be made of the present state
of things.

When I marked the structure of this house, and
the features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought
I discerned a powerful resemblance between
this family and Hadwin's. It seemed as if some benignant
power had led us hither as to the most suitable
asylum that could be obtained; and in order to supply,
to the forlorn Eliza, the place of those parents and
that sister she had lost, I conceived, that, if their
concurrence could be gained, no abode was more suitable
than this. No time was to be lost in gaining this
concurrence. The curiosity of our host and hostess,
whose name was Curling, speedily afforded me an opportunity
to disclose the history and real situation of
my friend. There were no motives to reserve or prevarication.
There was nothing which I did not faithfully

and circumstantially relate. I concluded with
stating my wishes that they would admit my friend as a
boarder into their house.

The old man was warm in his concurrence. His
wife betrayed some scruples; which, however, her husband's
arguments and mine removed. I did not even
suppress the tenor and destruction of the will, and the
antipathy which Eliza had conceived for her uncle, and
which I declared myself unable to explain. It presently
appeared that Mr. Curling had some knowledge of Philip
Hadwin, and that the latter had acquired the repute
of being obdurate and profligate. He employed all
means to accomplish his selfish ends, and would probably
endeavor to usurp the property which his brother
had left. To provide against his power and his malice
would be particularly incumbent on us, and my new
friend readily promised his assistance in the measures
which we should take to that end.