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.