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_.