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 endeavour 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 inquiry 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, endeavoured 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
wonder-struck, 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 besides the two females and
the old man. I went in search of the latter, and found him crouched, as
before, at the kitchen-fire, smoking 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 Mr. Hadwin's
servant. That lately he had cultivated a small farm in this
neighbourhood 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 neighbours
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 eldest 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
neighbours 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 strenuous and immortal an affection!
I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of these women. I
endeavoured to think only of the best expedients for putting an end to
these calamities. After a moment's deliberation I determined to go to a
house at some miles' distance; the dwelling of one who, though not
exempt from the reigning panic, had shown 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, Eliza 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 farmers' servants are usually abed, and
their threshold is intrusted 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 recognise an old acquaintance, and
suffer me to approach. In this I was not mistaken. Though my person
could not be distinctly seen by starlight, 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 inquiries, 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 endeavoured, by appealing to
his reason as well as to his pity, to conquer this dread. I pointed out
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 endeavouring 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 neighbours could be summoned to the obsequies; till a
carriage were provided to remove the body to a burying-ground, belonging
to a meeting-house, and five miles distant; till those whose trade it
was to dig graves had prepared one, within the sacred enclosure, 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 strong 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 a one.
The season was bleak and inclement. Much time, labour, and expense 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
needlessly diminished by the expenses 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 indispensable. 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 group 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 potato-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 unapprized
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 steadfastness 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.