This rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend the whole soul. A
certain sublimity is connected with enormous dangers that imparts to our
consternation or our pity a tincture of the pleasing. This, at least,
may be experienced by those who are beyond the verge of peril. My own
person was exposed to no hazard. I had leisure to conjure up terrific
images, and to personate the witnesses and sufferers of this calamity.
This employment was not enjoined upon me by necessity, but was ardently
pursued, and must therefore have been recommended by some nameless
charm.
Others were very differently affected. As often as the tale was
embellished with new incidents or enforced by new testimony, the hearer
grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled,
and his stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. A temporary
indisposition was produced in many. Some were haunted by a melancholy
bordering upon madness, and some, in consequence of sleepless panics,
for which no cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates could be
found, were attacked by lingering or mortal diseases.
Mr. Hadwin was superior to groundless apprehensions. His daughters,
however, partook in all the consternation which surrounded them. The
eldest had, indeed, abundant reason for her terror. The youth to whom
she was betrothed resided in the city. A year previous to this, he had
left the house of Mr. Hadwin, who was his uncle, and had removed to
Philadelphia in pursuit of fortune.
He made himself clerk to a merchant, and, by some mercantile adventures
in which he had successfully engaged, began to flatter himself with
being able, in no long time, to support a family. Meanwhile, a tender
and constant correspondence was maintained between him and his beloved
Susan. This girl was a soft enthusiast, in whose bosom devotion and love
glowed with an ardour that has seldom been exceeded.
The first tidings of the _yellow fever_ was heard by her with
unspeakable perturbation. Wallace was interrogated, by letter,
respecting its truth. For a time, he treated it as a vague report. At
length, a confession was extorted from him that there existed a
pestilential disease in the city; but he added that it was hitherto
confined to one quarter, distant from the place of his abode.
The most pathetic entreaties were urged by her that he would withdraw
into the country. He declared his resolution to comply when the street
in which he lived should become infected and his stay should be attended
with real danger. He stated how much his interests depended upon the
favour of his present employer, who had used the most powerful arguments
to detain him, but declared that, when his situation should become, in
the least degree, perilous, he would slight every consideration of
gratitude and interest, and fly to _Malverton_. Meanwhile, he promised
to communicate tidings of his safety by every opportunity.
Belding, Mr. Hadwin's next neighbour, though not uninfected by the
general panic, persisted to visit the city daily with his _market-cart_.
He set out by sunrise, and usually returned by noon. By him a letter was
punctually received by Susan. As the hour of Belding's return
approached, her impatience and anxiety increased. The daily epistle was
received and read, in a transport of eagerness. For a while her emotion
subsided, but returned with augmented vehemence at noon on the ensuing
day.
These agitations were too vehement for a feeble constitution like hers.
She renewed her supplications to Wallace to quit the city. He repeated
his assertions of being, hitherto, secure, and his promise of coming
when the danger should be imminent. When Belding returned, and, instead
of being accompanied by Wallace, merely brought a letter from him, the
unhappy Susan would sink into fits of lamentation and weeping, and repel
every effort to console her with an obstinacy that partook of madness.
It was, at length, manifest that Wallace's delays would be fatally
injurious to the health of his mistress.
Mr. Hadwin had hitherto been passive. He conceived that the entreaties
and remonstrances of his daughter were more likely to influence the
conduct of Wallace than any representations which he could make. Now,
however, he wrote the contumacious Wallace a letter, in which he laid
his commands upon him to return in company with Belding, and declared
that by a longer delay the youth would forfeit his favour.
The malady had, at this time, made considerable progress. Belding's
interest at length yielded to his fears, and this was the last journey
which he proposed to make. Hence our impatience for the return of
Wallace was augmented; since, if this opportunity were lost, no suitable
conveyance might again be offered him.
Belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. The customary interval
between his departure and return was spent by Susan in a tumult of hopes
and fears. As noon approached, her suspense arose to a pitch of wildness
and agony. She could scarcely be restrained from running along the road,
many miles, towards the city; that she might, by meeting Belding
half-way, the sooner ascertain the fate of her lover. She stationed
herself at a window which overlooked the road along which Belding was to
pass.
Her sister and her father, though less impatient, marked, with painful
eagerness, the first sound of the approaching vehicle. They snatched a
look at it as soon as it appeared in sight. Belding was without a
companion.
This confirmation of her fears overwhelmed the unhappy Susan. She sunk
into a fit, from which, for a long time, her recovery was hopeless. This
was succeeded by paroxysms of a furious insanity, in which she
attempted to snatch any pointed implement which lay within her reach,
with a view to destroy herself. These being carefully removed, or
forcibly wrested from her, she resigned herself to sobs and
exclamations.
Having interrogated Belding, he informed us that he occupied his usual
post in the market-place; that heretofore Wallace had duly sought him
out, and exchanged letters; but that, on this morning, the young man had
not made his appearance, though Belding had been induced, by his wish to
see him, to prolong his stay in the city much beyond the usual period.
That some other cause than sickness had occasioned this omission was
barely possible. There was scarcely room for the most sanguine temper to
indulge a hope. Wallace was without kindred, and probably without
friends, in the city. The merchant in whose service he had placed
himself was connected with him by no considerations but that of
interest. What then must be his situation when seized with a malady
which all believed to be contagious, and the fear of which was able to
dissolve the strongest ties that bind human beings together?
I was personally a stranger to this youth. I had seen his letters, and
they bespoke, not indeed any great refinement or elevation of
intelligence, but a frank and generous spirit, to which I could not
refuse my esteem; but his chief claim to my affection consisted in his
consanguinity to Mr. Hadwin, and his place in the affections of Susan.
His welfare was essential to the happiness of those whose happiness had
become essential to mine. I witnessed the outrages of despair in the
daughter, and the symptoms of a deep but less violent grief in the
sister and parent. Was it not possible for me to alleviate their pangs?
Could not the fate of Wallace be ascertained?
This disease assailed men with different degrees of malignity. In its
worst form perhaps it was incurable; but, in some of its modes, it was
doubtless conquerable by the skill of physicians and the fidelity of
nurses. In its least formidable symptoms, negligence and solitude would
render it fatal.
Wallace might, perhaps, experience this pest in its most lenient
degree; but the desertion of all mankind, the want not only of medicines
but of food, would irrevocably seal his doom. My imagination was
incessantly pursued by the image of this youth, perishing alone, and in
obscurity; calling on the name of distant friends, or invoking,
ineffectually, the succour of those who were near.
Hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, and through the
medium of a fancy delighting to be startled by the wonderful, or
transported by sublimity. Now the calamity had entered my own doors,
imaginary evils were supplanted by real, and my heart was the seat of
commiseration and horror.
I found myself unfit for recreation or employment. I shrouded myself in
the gloom of the neighbouring forest, or lost myself in the maze of
rocks and dells. I endeavoured, in vain, to shut out the phantoms of the
dying Wallace, and to forget the spectacle of domestic woes. At length
it occurred to me to ask, May not this evil be obviated, and the
felicity of the Hadwins re-established? Wallace is friendless and
succourless; but cannot I supply to him the place of protector and
nurse? Why not hasten to the city, search out his abode, and ascertain
whether he be living or dead? If he still retain life, may I not, by
consolation and attendance, contribute to the restoration of his health,
and conduct him once more to the bosom of his family?
With what transports will his arrival be hailed! How amply will their
impatience and their sorrow be compensated by his return! In the
spectacle of their joys, how rapturous and pure will be my delight! Do
the benefits which I have received from the Hadwins demand a less
retribution than this?
It is true that my own life will be endangered; but my danger will be
proportioned to the duration of my stay in this seat of infection. The
death or the flight of Wallace may absolve me from the necessity of
spending one night in the city. The rustics who daily frequent the
market are, as experience proves, exempt from this disease; in
consequence, perhaps, of limiting their continuance in the city to a few
hours. May I not, in this respect, conform to their example, and enjoy
a similar exemption?
My stay, however, may be longer than the day. I may be condemned to
share in the common destiny. What then? Life is dependent on a thousand
contingencies, not to be computed or foreseen. The seeds of an early and
lingering death are sown in my constitution. It is in vain to hope to
escape the malady by which my mother and my brothers have died. We are a
race whose existence some inherent property has limited to the short
space of twenty years. We are exposed, in common with the rest of
mankind, to innumerable casualties; but, if these be shunned, we are
unalterably fated to perish by _consumption_. Why then should I scruple
to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and humanity? It is better to
die in the consciousness of having offered an heroic sacrifice, to die
by a speedy stroke, than by the perverseness of nature, in ignominious
inactivity and lingering agonies.
These considerations determined me to hasten to the city. To mention my
purpose to the Hadwins would be useless or pernicious. It would only
augment the sum of their present anxieties. I should meet with a
thousand obstacles in the tenderness and terror of Eliza, and in the
prudent affection of her father. Their arguments I should be condemned
to hear, but should not be able to confute; and should only load myself
with imputations of perverseness and temerity.
But how else should I explain my absence? I had hitherto preserved my
lips untainted by prevarication or falsehood. Perhaps there was no
occasion which would justify an untruth; but here, at least, it was
superfluous or hurtful. My disappearance, if effected without notice or
warning, will give birth to speculation and conjecture; but my true
motives will never be suspected, and therefore will excite no fears. My
conduct will not be charged with guilt. It will merely be thought upon
with some regret, which will be alleviated by the opinion of my safety,
and the daily expectation of my return.
But, since my purpose was to search out Wallace, I must be previously
furnished with directions to the place of his abode, and a description
of his person. Satisfaction on this head was easily obtained from Mr.
Hadwin; who was prevented from suspecting the motives of my curiosity,
by my questions being put in a manner apparently casual. He mentioned
the street, and the number of the house.
I listened with surprise. It was a house with which I was already
familiar. He resided, it seems, with a merchant. Was it possible for me
to be mistaken?
What, I asked, was the merchant's name?
_Thetford._
This was a confirmation of my first conjecture. I recollected the
extraordinary means by which I had gained access to the house and
bedchamber of this gentleman. I recalled the person and appearance of
the youth by whose artifices I had been entangled in the snare. These
artifices implied some domestic or confidential connection between
Thetford and my guide. Wallace was a member of the family. Could it be
he by whom I was betrayed?
Suitable questions easily obtained from Hadwin a description of the
person and carriage of his nephew. Every circumstance evinced the
identity of their persons. Wallace, then, was the engaging and sprightly
youth whom I had encountered at Lesher's; and who, for purposes not
hitherto discoverable, had led me into a situation so romantic and
perilous.
I was far from suspecting that these purposes were criminal. It was easy
to infer that his conduct proceeded from juvenile wantonness and a love
of sport. My resolution was unaltered by this disclosure; and, having
obtained all the information which I needed, I secretly began my
journey.
My reflections, on the way, were sufficiently employed in tracing the
consequences of my project; in computing the inconveniences and dangers
to which I was preparing to subject myself; in fortifying my courage
against the influence of rueful sights and abrupt transitions; and in
imagining the measures which it would be proper to pursue in every
emergency.
Connected as these views were with the family and character of
Thetford, I could not but sometimes advert to those incidents which
formerly happened. The mercantile alliance between him and Welbeck was
remembered; the allusions which were made to the condition of the latter
in the chamber-conversation of which I was an unsuspected auditor; and
the relation which these allusions might possess with subsequent
occurrences. Welbeck's property was forfeited. It had been confided to
the care of Thetford's brother. Had the cause of this forfeiture been
truly or thoroughly explained? Might not contraband articles have been
admitted through the management or under the connivance of the brothers?
and might not the younger Thetford be furnished with the means of
purchasing the captured vessel and her cargo,--which, as usual, would be
sold by auction at a fifth or tenth of its real value?
Welbeck was not alive to profit by the detection of this artifice,
admitting these conclusions to be just. My knowledge will be useless to
the world; for by what motives can I be influenced to publish the truth?
or by whom will my single testimony be believed, in opposition to that
plausible exterior, and, perhaps, to that general integrity, which
Thetford has maintained? To myself it will not be unprofitable. It is a
lesson on the principles of human nature; on the delusiveness of
appearances; on the perviousness of fraud; and on the power with which
nature has invested human beings over the thoughts and actions of each
other.
Thetford and his frauds were dismissed from my thoughts, to give place
to considerations relative to Clemenza Lodi, and the money which chance
had thrown into my possession. Time had only confirmed my purpose to
restore these bills to the rightful proprietor, and heightened my
impatience to discover her retreat. I reflected, that the means of doing
this were more likely to suggest themselves at the place to which I was
going than elsewhere. I might, indeed, perish before my views, in this
respect, could be accomplished. Against these evils I had at present no
power to provide. While I lived, I would bear perpetually about me the
volume and its precious contents. If I died, a superior power must
direct the course of this as of all other events.