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.