University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES.

The angry feelings which the conduct of the outlaw
had produced in the bosom of Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse,
had driven, for the time, another affair from his recollection
about which he was particularly desirous to
speak with Miss Middleton or her grandmother. A
ramble in the woods that same morning enabled him
to recover his temper and, with it, his recollection; and
when the dinner things were removed that day, he
fairly conducted the old lady to the sofa, placed himself
beside her, and with looks big with the sagacious
thought, and busy speculation, he propounded himself
as follows in a language new to him of sententious
inquiry.

“Mrs. Middleton—madam—pray oblige me by letting
me know what sort of a looking person was your grandfather?”

“My grandfather, sir—my grandfather!”

“Yes, madam, your grandfather—how did he look—
how did he dress—was he tall or short—stout or slender.
Did he wear breeches of blue homespun, a tattered
hunting shirt of the same colour and stuff; and was his
couteau de chasse as long as my arm?”

“My grandfather, sir! Why, what do you mean?”

“No harm, no offence, believe me, Mrs. Middleton—
on the contrary, my question leads to grave doubts,
and difficulties, and, possibly, dangers! No idle or impertinent

curiosity occasions it. Philosophy is seriously
interested in your reply.”

“My grandfather, sir—why he has been dead these
hundred years! I do not think I ever saw him.”

“Dead a hundred years! Impossible! Eh! How
can that be?” demanded the surgeon in astonishment
scarcely less than that which the old lady herself had
manifested at the beginning;—“dead a hundred years?
Really, Mrs. Middleton—there must be some mistake.”

“Indeed, sir—then it is yours, not mine. My grandfather
has been dead more than a hundred years. He
died in France somewhere in 1680—or '81—”

“Oh he died in France, did he? You are right,
madam, there is a mistake, and it is mine. To be sure
it was not your grandfather about whom I wished to
know;—it was Miss Middleton's grandfather.”

“My husband, sir!” said the old lady bridling with
dignity, while her keen gray eyes flashed with all the
vivacity of girlhood, as she conjectured the utterance
of something impertinent from her companion. The
surgeon felt his dilemma.

“Your husband, Mrs. Middleton,” he stammered—
“Can it be? Miss Middleton's grandfather your husband?”

“And why not, sir, when I have the honour to be her
grandmother?”

“True, true, most true, madam, but—”

“It does not alter the case very materially, sir, so
far as you are interested. Your right is just as great
to inquire into the private history of her grandfather as
of mine. Pray, proceed in your questions, sir, if as you
think, so much depends upon it. We are retired country
people, it is true, Mr. Millhouse—”

“Hillhouse, madam—Augustus Hillhouse, of his majesty's—”

“Pardon me, sir—Mr. Hillhouse—I was simply about
to encourage you to ask your question by assuring you
that, though retired and rustic, we are still not utterly
insensible, on the banks of the Congaree, to the claims
of philosophy. I trust to see her schools established

here before I die,[1] and may, possibly, have the pleasure
of hearing you, yourself, expounding from one or other
of her sacred chairs.”

The surgeon bowed low at the unexpected compliment
without perceiving the smile of irony by which it
was accompanied.

“Ah, madam, you do me too much honour. I am
but poorly fitted for the high station which you speak
of. It is true, I am not indifferently read;—I have seen
the world—a fair proportion of it at least;—and am
considered very generally as a man fond of serious and
severe investigations in the kindred temples of science
and of nature, but—”

“Oh, sir, I have no sort of doubt that you will do
well in any of the departments, and if ever we should
be so fortunate as to obtain our liberties again, I have
no doubt you will be thought of for some such situation.”

“Ahem!—ahem!”

The termination of the sentence, which intimated a
hope of British expulsion, was scarcely palatable to the
surgeon.

“But, sir, on the subject of Miss Middleton's grandfather—my
husband—the late General Middleton—
what would you please to know?”

“Ahem—why, madam, the case presents itself in an
aspect of increased difficulty. I had somehow confused
it at first, and fancied when I spoke that I was addressing
you on the subject of a very ancient relation. The
connection being so close—”

“Makes no sort of difference, sir, if your question
conveys nothing disrespectful.”

The reply of the old lady bewildered the surgeon yet
farther. He was not sure that something disrespectful
might not be conveyed to a very sensitive and jealous

mind, in any form of the question, which was to solve
his difficulties. In this state of bewilderment, with
something of desperation in his air, he proposed another
inquiry, seemingly so foreign to the previous
topic that Mrs. Middleton began to think him insane as
well as silly.

“Mrs. Middleton, do you believe in ghosts?”

“Ghosts, sir!—a very singular question.”

“Exactly so, madam, but it is a part of the subject.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes, ma'am, and I should be really very grateful if
you would say whether you do or do not believe in
that supernatural presence—that spectral visitation—
that independent embodiment in shape of limbs, sinews
and substance of the immortal spirit—which is vulgarly
entitled an apparition, or ghost? Professionally, madam,
as a surgeon, I'm not prepared to look farther
than the physical organization for the governing powers
of the human form. A soul is a something that has
eluded hitherto all the aims of the anatomist, and the
only authority which exists for such an agent, seems
to me to be derived from testimonials, more or less
authenticated, of the presence and reappearance of those
whom we have considered dead, and no longer capable
of the uses and purposes, the feelings and the desires,
of life. Now, madam, something of my first inquiry
depends upon my last. Pray oblige me then, by saying
whether you do or do not believe in this marvellous anomaly.
Do you believe in ghosts or not?”

“Well, sir, to oblige you, though I am at a loss to
see the connection between the one question and the
other—”

“It's there—there is a connection, believe me.”

“Well, sir, under your assurance, or without it, I can
have no objection to say that I am very doubtful what
to believe on such a subject. So much has been said
on both sides—and I have heard so many wonderful
stories about such things, from persons of such excellent
credit, that—”

“Enough, enough, madam, I see you are not altogether

incredulous. Now tell me, madam, did you ever
yourself see a ghost?”

“Never, sir.”

“Never!—nor any thing, shape, substance, or person,
that ever looked like one, or looked like nothing
else but one, or that you had reason to suppose was
one, or that resembled any departed friend, relative, tie,
connection, dependance—in short, did you never see
any thing that a suspicious mind might not have readily
taken for a ghost?”

“Never, sir, to my recollection.”

“Well, madam,” continued the surgeon, taking courage
from his own motion, “on your answer will depend the
very important doubt whether I, Augustus Hillhouse,
second surgeon in his majesty's 87th regiment of foot,
have not been favoured by the visitation of the late
General Middleton—”

“Sir!” exclaimed the old lady rising with a most
queenly air of dignity and pride.

“Yes, madam, that's it!” replied the surgeon, rising
also, and rubbing his hands together earnestly. “Here,
while I lay on this very sofa, this very morning, after
the breakfast was over, and Miss Middleton had gone
—here, alone, I was favoured by the sudden presence
of one who might have risen from the floor, and, as far
as I could see, sunk into it; who might have been—
nay, as I have heard, must have been;—but on this
head I would have your testimony, and for this reason
did I desire to learn from you in what costume it was
usually the custom for General Middleton to appear?
Oblige me, my dear madam, by a clear and particular
description of his dress, his weapons, his height, breadth,
general appearance, the length of his nose, and of his
hunting-knife—”

“Sir, this freedom—this scandalous freedom!” exclaimed
the venerable matron.

“Do not be offended, Mrs. Middleton. I am governed,
my dear madam, by no motives but those of the philosopher.
I would thank you, then—”

“Sir, I must leave you. You trespass, sir, beyond

your privilege. The subject is a sacred one with the
widow. Let me hear no more of it.”

“But, my dear madam—one question only:—was he
a tall person, slender, rather scant of frame—such a
person as is vulgarly called raw-boned—”

“No more, Mr. Hillhouse, if you please.”

“But his dress, madam—and his nose.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“His knife—was it long, very long—long as my
arm?”

The matron bowed, as she was retiring, with a stern
glance of her gray eye, which would have confounded
any person but one so thoroughly absorbed in his philosophical
follies as to be utterly incapable of observation.
He pursued her to the foot of the stairs with a
degree of impetuous eagerness, which almost made the
old lady fancy that he purposely sought to offend and
annoy her—a conjecture which by no means served to
lessen the hauteur of her retiring movements.

“But, my dear madam, one word only”—implored
the surgeon in an agony of entreaty;—“touching his
costume—only say whether it was of blue homespun,
rather lightish in hue;—were his smallclothes rather
scantish, and of the same colour;—and his hunting
frock;—was it not a little tattered and torn about the
skirts, and on the shoulder?—and—

was the sad quotation from Shakspeare, with which
he concluded, and which fitly described the inflexible
silence in which the matron effected her departure.

“Devilish strange animal is woman! Here now is a
question materially affecting the greatest mystery in
our spiritual nature; which a word of that old lady
might enable me to slove, and she will not speak that
word. And why? Clearly, she was quite as anxious
for the truth at the beginning as I was myself. But the
secret is, that her pride stood in the way. Pride is half
the time in the way of philosophy. Had her husband,
instead of appearing in the ordinary guise of one of the

natives—which must be confessed to be a very wretched
taste—but put on scarlet breeches on his ghost—the
old woman would have been willing to acknowledge
him. But she was ashamed of a ghost—even though it
were her own husband—who should reappear in dingy
blue homespun. And she was right. What ghost
could hope to find faith, or respect, who paid so little
attention to his personal appearance? It seems to me,
if I should ever have any desire to `revisit the glimpses
of the moon,' and the favour were afforded me, I should
be at quite as much trouble in making up my toilet as
I am now. Nay, more, for the task would be accompanied
by increased difficulty. The complexion of a
ghost would require a very nice selection of shades in
costume. Whether my violet would not be the most
suitable? Really, the question increases in interest.
I shall certainly study it carefully. The delicacy of the
violet is an argument in its favour, but some deference
must be shown to the universal judgment of ages which
represents ghosts as commonly appearing in white. To
this, the case of Hamlet's father and General Middleton
furnish the only exceptions. I must consult with myself,
my pocket mirror, and the lovely Flora Middleton!”

This dialogue and these grave reflections resulted in
the temporary exhaustion of the surgeon. He yawned
listlessly, and once more threw himself upon the sofa
where he had been favoured with his ghostly visitation;
but, on this occasion, he took special care that
his face should front the entrance. Here he surrendered
himself for a while to those dreaming fancies with which
the self-complacent are fortunately enabled to recompense
themselves for the absence of better company;
and passing, with the rapidity of insect nature, from
flower to flower, his mind soon lost, in the hues which
it borrowed as it went, every trace of that subject to
which it had been seemingly devoted with so much
earnestness.

Meanwhile Mrs. Middleton joined her granddaughter
in the chamber of poor Mary Clarkson. It needed not
the voice of the surgeon to declare that she must die;—

and all his professional jargon could not have persuaded
the spectator, who gazed upon her pale and wretched
features, to believe that she could by any possibility
survive. The eternal fiat had gone forth. The messenger
of mercy—for such, happily, was the angel of
death, to her—was on his way. She might sink in a
few hours, she might live as many days, but she was
evidently dying. But there was a strange life and
brightness in her eyes. The vitality of her glance was
heightened by delirium into intense spirituality. She
keenly surveyed the persons in attendance with a jealous
and suspicious glance, the cause of which they
could only ascribe to the mind's wandering. Her eyes
turned ever from them to the entrance of the apartment;
and once, when Flora Middleton went to place
an additional pillow beneath her head, she grasped her
hand convulsively, and murmured with the most piteous
accents—

“Take him not from me—not yet—not till I am dead,
and in the cold, cold grave. Why will you take him
from me? I never did you harm!”

Very much shocked, Flora shuddered, but replied:

“Of whom speak you, my poor girl?—what would
you have me do?”

“Of whom?—of him? Surely you know?—of Conway.
Take him not from me—not—not till I am in
the grave. Then!—oh!—then—it will not need then!
No! no!”

The interval of sense was brief, but how painful to
the listening maiden!

“Fear nothing!” said Flora somewhat proudly.
“God forbid that I should rob you of any of your
rights.”

“Oh! but you cannot help it—you cannot help it!”
cried the sufferer. “I know, I know what it is to love;
—and to suffer for it! But, will you not let me see
him;—let me go to him—or bid them bring him here
to me. I cannot die till I have seen him.”

“That cannot be, my poor girl, he is not here—he

is gone. I trust that God will enable you to live to see
him.”

“He is gone! You mean that he is dead! Ha!—
can it be that? I did not come in time! I saw them
fight! I heard them swear and strike—hard—heavy
blows, with sharp steel. Oh God, that brothers should
fight, and seek to destroy each other! I called to them
to stop, but I saw their heavy blows, and when I ran
to part them—I fell, and such a pain. My poor, poor
head! He killed us both—the cruel brother—he killed
us both with his heavy blows.”

“My poor girl,” said Flora, “do not make yourself
miserable with this mistake. Believe what I tell you.
Mr. Clarence Conway is in no danger—he escaped.
The only sufferer is Mr. Edward Conway, who is hurt.
He lies in the opposite chamber.”

The words of the speaker were drowned in the
shrieks of the sufferer, now, once more, a maniac.
Successive screams of a mixed emotion—a something
of delight and agony in the utterance—followed the
communication of Flora Middleton, and were followed
by a desperate effort of the poor girl to rise from the
bed and rush from the apartment. It required all the
strength of an able-bodied female slave, who watched
with her young mistress in the apartment, to keep her
in the bed; and the restraint to which she was subjected
only served to increase her madness, and render her
screams more piercing and intolerable than ever. Her
wild, anguished words filled the intervals between each
successive scream. But these were no longer coherent.
When she became quieted at length, it was only through
the exhaustion of all the strength which sustained her
during the paroxysm. Strong aromatics and strengthening
liquors were employed to restore her to consciousness;
and the exquisite from below, startled from
his dreaming mood by the summons of the servant,
was sufficiently impressed by the painful character of
the spectacle he witnessed, to apply himself to the task
of restoring her, without offending the good taste of the
ladies by the exercise of his customary garrulity. She

was brought back to life, and the keen scrutiny of
Flora Middleton discovered, as she fancied, that her
senses were also restored. There was an air of cunning
in the occasionally upturned glance of her half-shut
eye, which forced this conviction upon the spectator.
When Flora changed her position, the eye of the sufferer
followed her movements with an expression of curiosity,
which is one of the most natural forms of intelligence.
She had also become, on a sudden, excessively watchful.
Every sound that was heard from without aroused her
regards, and when she saw that she was noticed by
those around her, her own glance was suddenly averted
from the observer, with an air of natural confusion.
These were signs that warned Flora of the necessity of
giving her the most patient and scrupulous attention.
It was obvious to all that she could not survive that
night. The surgeon, rubbing his hands at nightfall,
gave his ultimatum to this effect; and yielded up his
charge as hopeless; and the gloomy feelings of Flora
Middleton were somewhat modified when she reflected
that death could not possibly be a misfortune to one to
whom life seemed to have borne only the aspects of
unmixed evil. What should she live for? More neglect
—more shame—more sorrow! The blow that forces
the victim to the dust, and mocks at his writhings
there. Mary Clarkson had surely endured enough of
this already. It could not be the prayer of friendship
which would desire her to live only for its sad continuance;
and to live at all, must be, in the case of that
hapless creature, to incur this agonizing penalty. But
Flora Middleton could still pray for the victim. For
giveness might be won for her errors, and, surely,
where the penalties of folly and of sin are already so
great in life, the mercy of Heaven will not be too rigorously
withheld. This was her hope, and it may well
be ours.