At parting with you, my purpose was to reach the abode of the Hadwins as
speedily as possible. I travelled therefore with diligence. Setting out
so early, I expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey
before noon. The activity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. So far
from being inconsistent with intense musing, it is, in my own case,
propitious to that state of mind.
Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent meditation than I. My
second journey to the city was prompted by reasons, and attended by
incidents, that seemed to have a present existence. To think upon them
was to view, more deliberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that
still hovered in my sight. Instead of their attributes being already
seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of
numerous years and unintermitted contemplation were requisite to
comprehend them fully, and bring into existence their most momentous
effects.
If men be chiefly distinguished from each other by the modes in which
attention is employed, either on external and sensible objects, or
merely on abstract ideas and the creatures of reflection, I may justly
claim to be enrolled in the second class. My existence is a series of
thoughts rather than of motions. Ratiocination and deduction leave my
senses unemployed. The fulness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and
inactive. Sensations do not precede and suggest, but follow and are
secondary to, the acts of my mind.
There was one motive, however, which made me less inattentive to the
scene that was continually shifting before and without me than I am
wont to be. The loveliest form which I had hitherto seen was that of
Clemenza Lodi. I recalled her condition as I had witnessed it, as
Welbeck had described, and as you had painted it. The past was without
remedy; but the future was, in some degree, within our power to create
and to fashion. Her state was probably dangerous. She might already be
forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish; or danger might only be
approaching her, and the worst evils be impending ones.
I was ignorant of her state. Could I not remove this ignorance? Would
not some benefit redound to her from beneficent and seasonable
interposition?
You had mentioned that her abode had lately been with Mrs. Villars, and
that this lady still resided in the country. The residence had been
sufficiently described, and I perceived that I was now approaching it.
In a short time I spied its painted roof and five chimneys through an
avenue of _catalpas_.
When opposite the gate which led into this avenue, I paused. It seemed
as if this moment were to decide upon the liberty and innocence of this
being. In a moment I might place myself before her, ascertain her true
condition, and point out to her the path of honour and safety. This
opportunity might be the last. Longer delay might render interposition
fruitless.
But how was I to interpose? I was a stranger to her language, and she
was unacquainted with mine. To obtain access to her, it was necessary
only to demand it. But how should I explain my views and state my wishes
when an interview was gained? And what expedient was it in my power to
propose?
"Now," said I, "I perceive the value of that wealth which I have been
accustomed to despise. The power of eating and drinking, the nature and
limits of existence and physical enjoyment, are not changed or enlarged
by the increase of wealth. Our corporeal and intellectual wants are
supplied at little expense; but our own wants are the wants of others,
and that which remains, after our own necessities are obviated, it is
always easy and just to employ in relieving the necessities of others.
"There are no superfluities in my store. It is not in my power to supply
this unfortunate girl with decent raiment and honest bread. I have no
house to which to conduct her. I have no means of securing her from
famine and cold.
"Yet, though indigent and feeble, I am not destitute of friends and of
home. Cannot she be admitted to the same asylum to which I am now
going?" This thought was sudden and new. The more it was revolved, the
more plausible it seemed. This was not merely the sole expedient, but
the best that could have been suggested.
The Hadwins were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious. Their board, though
simple and uncouth, was wholesome and plenteous. Their residence was
sequestered and obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and
malignant animadversion. Their frank and ingenuous temper would make
them easy of persuasion, and their sympathies were prompt and
overflowing.
"I am nearly certain," continued I, "that they will instantly afford
protection to this desolate girl. Why shall I not anticipate their
consent, and present myself to their embraces and their welcomes in her
company?"
Slight reflection showed me that this precipitation was improper.
Whether Wallace had ever arrived at Malverton, whether Mr. Hadwin had
escaped infection, whether his house were the abode of security and
quiet, or a scene of desolation, were questions yet to be determined.
The obvious and best proceeding was to hasten forward, to afford the
Hadwins, if in distress, the feeble consolations of my friendship; or,
if their state were happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme
respecting Clemenza.
Actuated by these considerations, I resumed my journey. Looking forward,
I perceived a chaise and horse standing by the left-hand fence, at the
distance of some hundred yards. This object was not uncommon or strange,
and, therefore, it was scarcely noticed. When I came near, however,
methought I recognised in this carriage the same in which my
importunities had procured a seat for the languishing Wallace, in the
manner which I have formerly related.
It was a crazy vehicle and old-fashioned. When once seen it could
scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. The horse was held by his bridle to a
post, but the seat was empty. My solicitude with regard to Wallace's
destiny, of which he to whom the carriage belonged might possibly afford
me some knowledge, made me stop and reflect on what measures it was
proper to pursue.
The rider could not be at a great distance from this spot. His absence
would probably be short. By lingering a few minutes an interview might
be gained, and the uncertainty and suspense of some hours be thereby
precluded. I therefore waited, and the same person whom I had formerly
encountered made his appearance, in a short time, from under a copse
that skirted the road.
He recognised me with more difficulty than attended my recognition of
him. The circumstances, however, of our first meeting were easily
recalled to his remembrance. I eagerly inquired when and where he had
parted with the youth who had been, on that occasion, intrusted to his
care.
He answered that, on leaving the city and inhaling the purer air of the
fields and woods, Wallace had been, in a wonderful degree, invigorated
and refreshed. An instantaneous and total change appeared to have been
wrought in him. He no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but became
full of gayety and talk.
The suddenness of this transition; the levity with which he related and
commented on his recent dangers and evils, excited the astonishment of
his companion, to whom he not only communicated the history of his
disease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. Some of these
my companion repeated. I heard them with regret and dissatisfaction.
They betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and
depraved of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profligate
women.
My companion proceeded to mention that Wallace's exhilaration lasted but
for a short time, and disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. He
was seized with deadly sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage,
whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an insupportable degree.
His companion was not void of apprehensions on his own account, but was
unwilling to desert him, and endeavoured to encourage him. His efforts
were vain. Though the nearest house was at the distance of some hundred
yards, and though it was probable that the inhabitants of this house
would refuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet Wallace could not
be prevailed on to proceed; and, in spite of persuasion and
remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the grassy bank
beside the road.
This person was not unmindful of the hazard which he incurred by contact
with a sick man. He conceived himself to have performed all that was
consistent with duty to himself and to his family; and Wallace,
persisting in affirming that, by attempting to ride farther, he should
merely hasten his death, was at length left to his own guidance.
These were unexpected and mournful tidings. I had fondly imagined that
his safety was put beyond the reach of untoward accidents. Now, however,
there was reason to suppose him to have perished by a lingering and
painful disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the
want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement airs. Some
uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. It was my duty to remove it,
and to carry to the Hadwins no mangled and defective tale. Where, I
asked, had Wallace and his companion parted?
It was about three miles farther onward. The spot, and the house within
view from the spot, were accurately described. In this house it was
possible that Wallace had sought an asylum, and some intelligence
respecting him might be gained from its inhabitants. My informant was
journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to separate.
In consequence of this man's description of Wallace's deportment, and
the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless temper which he had given, I
began to regard his death as an event less deplorable. Such a one was
unworthy of a being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and
tenderness, as Susan Hadwin. If he loved, it was probable that, in
defiance of his vows, he would seek a different companion. If he adhered
to his first engagements, his motives would be sordid, and the
disclosure of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery to
his wife than his premature death or treacherous desertion.
The preservation of this man was my sole motive for entering the
infected city, and subjecting my own life to the hazards from which my
escape may almost be esteemed miraculous. Was not the end
disproportioned to the means? Was there arrogance in believing my life a
price too great to be given for his?
I was not, indeed, sorry for the past. My purpose was just, and the
means which I selected were the best my limited knowledge supplied. My
happiness should be drawn from reflecting on the equity of my
intentions. That these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance of
others, or my own, was the consequence of human frailty. Honest
purposes, though they may not bestow happiness on others, will, at
least, secure it to him who fosters them.
By these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and I prepared to
rejoice alike, whether Wallace should be found to have escaped or to
have perished. The house to which I had been directed was speedily
brought into view. I inquired for the master or mistress of the mansion,
and was conducted to a lady of a plain and housewifely appearance.
My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my description easily
identified, had made his appearance at her door on the evening of the
day on which he left the city. The dread of _the fever_ was descanted on
with copious and rude eloquence. I supposed her eloquence on this theme
to be designed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the sick
man. The peroration, however, was different. Wallace was admitted, and
suitable attention paid to his wants.
Happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but extreme weakness.
Repose, nourishing diet, and salubrious airs restored him in a short
time to health. He lingered under this roof for three weeks, and then,
without any professions of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary
remuneration, or information of the course which he determined to take,
he left them.
These facts, added to that which I had previously known, threw no
advantageous light upon the character of Wallace. It was obvious to
conclude that he had gone to Malverton, and thither there was nothing to
hinder me from following him.
Perhaps one of my grossest defects is a precipitate temper. I choose my
path suddenly, and pursue it with impetuous expedition. In the present
instance, my resolution was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and I
walked the faster that I might the sooner execute it. Miss Hadwin
deserved to be happy. Love was in her heart the all-absorbing sentiment.
A disappointment there was a supreme calamity. Depravity and folly must
assume the guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. This
disguise might be maintained for a time, but its detection must
inevitably come, and the sooner this detection takes place the more
beneficial it must prove.
I resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and unbounded confidence, to
Wallace and his mistress. I would choose for this end, not the moment
when they were separate, but that in which they were together. My
knowledge, and the sources of my knowledge, relative to Wallace, should
be unfolded to the lady with simplicity and truth. The lover should be
present, to confute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges.
During the rest of the day these images occupied the chief place in my
thoughts. The road was miry and dark, and my journey proved to be more
tedious and fatiguing than I expected. At length, just as the evening
closed, the well-known habitation appeared in view. Since my departure,
winter had visited the world, and the aspect of nature was desolate and
dreary. All around this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. The
contrast between these appearances and those which I had noticed on my
first approach to it, when the ground and the trees were decked with
the luxuriance and vivacity of summer, was mournful, and seemed to
foretoken ill. My spirits drooped as I noticed the general inactivity
and silence.
I entered, without warning, the door that led into the parlour. No face
was to be seen or voice heard. The chimney was ornamented, as in summer,
with evergreen shrubs. Though it was now the second month of frost and
snow, fire did not appear to have been lately kindled on this hearth.
This was a circumstance from which nothing good could be deduced. Had
there been those to share its comforts who had shared them on former
years, this was the place and hour at which they commonly assembled. A
door on one side led, through a narrow entry, into the kitchen. I opened
this door, and passed towards the kitchen.
No one was there but an old man, squatted in the chimney-corner. His
face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed health and an unbending spirit.
A homespun coat, leathern breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn
hose, were well suited to his lean and shrivelled form. On his right
knee was a wooden bowl, which he had just replenished from a pipkin of
hasty pudding still smoking on the coals; and in his left hand a spoon,
which he had, at that moment, plunged into a bottle of molasses that
stood beside him.
This action was suspended by my entrance. He looked up and exclaimed,
"Heyday! who's this that comes into other people's houses without so
much as saying 'by your leave'? What's thee business? Who's thee want?"
I had never seen this personage before. I supposed it to be some new
domestic, and inquired for Mr. Hadwin.
"Ah!" replied he, with a sigh, "William Hadwin. Is it him thee wants?
Poor man! He is gone to rest many days since."
My heart sunk within me at these tidings. "Dead!" said I; "do you mean
that he is dead?"--This exclamation was uttered in a tone of some
vehemence. It attracted the attention of some one who was standing
without, who immediately entered the kitchen. It was Eliza Hadwin. The
moment she beheld me she shrieked aloud, and, rushing into my arms,
fainted away.
The old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from his seat, stared
alternately at me and at the breathless girl. My emotion, made up of
joy, and sorrow, and surprise, rendered me for a moment powerless as
she. At length he said, "I understand this. I know who thee is, and will
tell her thee's come." So saying, he hastily left the room.