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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1827], The Novels... (S. G. Goodrich, Boston) [word count] [eaf033d].
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CHAPTER XXXI.

The safety of Eliza was the object that now occupied
my cares. To have slept, after her example, had been
most proper, but my uncertainty with regard to her fate, and
my desire to conduct her to some other home, kept my
thoughts in perpetual motion. I waited with impatience till
she should awake and allow me to consult with her on plans
for futurity.

Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen.
Having recovered the remembrance of what had lately happened,
she inquired for her sister. She wanted to view

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once more the face, and kiss the lips, of her beloved Susan.
Some relief to her anguish she expected to derive from this
privilege.

When informed of the truth, when convinced that Susan
had disappeared forever, she broke forth into fresh passion.
It seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or complete as
long as she was suffered to behold the face of her friend
and to touch her lips. She accused me of acting without
warrant and without justice; of defrauding her of her
dearest and only consolation; and of treating her sister's
sacred remains with barbarous indifference and rudeness.

I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my conduct.
I was not surprised or vexed, that she, at first, treated
them as futile, and as heightening my offence. Such was
the impulse of a grief, which was properly excited by her
loss. To be tranquil and steadfast, in the midst of the usual
causes of impetuosity and agony, is either the prerogative
of wisdom that sublimes itself above all selfish considerations,
or the badge of giddy and unfeeling folly.

The torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding was
at an end; and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit acquiescence
in any scheme which my prudence should suggest,
succeeded. I mentioned her uncle as one to whom it
would be proper, in her present distress, to apply.

She started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. It
was evident that she by no means concurred with me in my
notions of propriety; that she thought with aversion of seeking
her uncle's protection. I requested her to state her objections
to this scheme, or to mention any other which she
thought preferable.

She knew no body. She had not a friend in the world
but myself. She had never been out of her father's house.
She had no relation but her uncle Philip, and he—she could
not live with him. I must not insist upon her going to his
house. It was not the place for her. She should never be
happy there.

I was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some capricious
and groundless antipathy. I desired her to explain
what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious. She
refused to be more explicit, and persisted in thinking that
his house was no suitable abode for her.

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Finding her, in this respect, invincible, I sought for some
other expedient. Might she not easily be accommodated
as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote
quarter of the country? Ellis, her nearest and most opulent
neighbor, had refused to receive her; but there were others
who had not his fears. There were others, within the compass
of a day's journey, who were strangers to the cause of
Hadwin's death; but would it not be culpable to take advantage
of that ignorance? Their compliance ought not to
be the result of deception.

While thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey recurred
to my remembrance, and I asked, is not the honest
woman, who entertained Wallace, just such a person as that
of whom I am in search? Her treatment of Wallace shews
her to be exempt from chimerical fears, proves that she has
room in her house for an occasional inmate.

Encouraged by these views, I told my weeping companion,
that I had recollected a family in which she would be
kindly treated; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a
moment in repairing thither. Horses, belonging to the farm,
grazed in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry
us in a few hours to the place which I had selected for her
residence. On her eagerly assenting to this proposal, I inquired
in whose care, and in what state, our present habitation
should be left.

The father's property now belonged to the daughter.
Eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious; but her total
inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly.
She was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself
and her property, without limitation or condition, to my control.
Our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my
protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accustomed
to do upon her father's.

She knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. Whatever
I pleased to do was the best. What did I think ought
to be done?

Ah! thought I, sweet, artless, and simple girl! how wouldst
thou have fared, if Heaven had not sent me to thy succor?
There are beings in the world who would make a selfish
use of thy confidence; who would beguile thee at once of

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innocence and property. Such am not I. Thy welfare is
a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch
over it with more solicitude than I will do.

I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might have fixed the destination
of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters,
by will. On suggesting this to my friend, it instantly reminded
her of an incident that took place after his last return
from the city. He had drawn up his will, and gave it into
Susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it was
now taken by my friend.

By this will his property was now found to be bequeathed
to his two daughters; and his brother, Philip Hadwin, was
named executor, and guardian to his daughters till they
should be twenty years old. This name was no sooner
heard by my friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright,
executor! My uncle! What is that? What power does
that give him?

I know not exactly the power of executors. He will, doubtless,
have possession of your property till you are twenty
years of age. Your person will likewise be under his care
till that time.

Must he decide where I am to live?

He is vested with all the power of a father.

This assurance excited the deepest consternation. She
fixed her eyes on the ground, and was lost, for a time, in
the deepest reverie. Recovering, at length, she said, with a
sigh, what if my father had made no will?

In that case, a guardian could not be dispensed with, but
the right of naming him would belong to yourself.

And my uncle would have nothing to do with my affairs?

I am no lawyer, said I; but I presume all authority over
your person and property would devolve upon the guardian
of your own choice.

Then I am free. Saying this, with a sudden motion, she
tore in several pieces the will, which, during this dialogue, she
had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the fire.

No action was more unexpected to me than this. My
astonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue the paper
from the flames. It was consumed in a moment. I
was at a loss in what manner to regard this sacrifice. It
denoted a force of mind little in unison with that simplicity

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and helplessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. It
argued the deepest apprehensions of mistreatment from her
uncle. Whether his conduct had justified this violent antipathy,
I had no means of judging. Mr. Hadwin's choice
of him, as his executor, was certainly one proof of his integrity.

My abstraction was noticed by Eliza, with visible anxiety.
It was plain, that she dreaded the impression which this act
of seeming temerity had made upon me. Do not be angry
with me, said she; perhaps I have been wrong, but I could
not help it. I will have but one guardian and one protector.

The deed was irrevocable. In my present ignorance of
the domestic history of the Hadwins, I was unqualified to
judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify the
act. On both accounts, therefore, it was improper to expatiate
upon it.

It was concluded to leave the care of the house to honest
Caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carrying away
the money which was found in one of them, and which
amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair to the house
formerly mentioned. The air was cold; a heavy snow
began to fall in the night; the wind blew tempestuously;
and we were compelled to confront it.

In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole
life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. It
made her feeble and helpless. When placed upon the
horse, she was scarcely able to maintain her seat. Already
chilled by the cold, blinded by the drifting snow, and cut by
the blast, all my remonstrances were needed to inspire her
with resolution.

I am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer
them to retard or divert me from any design that I have
formed. I had overlooked the weak and delicate frame of
my companion, and made no account of her being less able
to support cold and fatigue than myself. It was not till we
had made some progress in our way, that I began to view,
in their true light, the obstacles that were to be encountered.
I conceived it, however, too late to retreat, and endeavored
to push on with speed.

My companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was refractory
and unmanageable. She was able, however, to

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curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles
from Malverton. The wind and the cold became too violent
to be longer endured, and I resolved to stop at the first
house which should present itself to my view, for the sake
of refreshment and warmth.

We now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination
of which I remembered that a dwelling stood. To
pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained
before we could reach a hospitable asylum. I
endeavored to sustain, by this information, the sinking spirits
of my companion. While busy in conversing with her, a
blast of irresistible force twisted off the highest branch of a
tree before us. It fell in the midst of the road, at the distance
of a few feet from her horse's head. Terrified by
this accident, the horse started from the path, and, rushing
into the wood, in a moment threw himself and his rider on
the ground, by encountering the rugged stock of an oak.

I dismounted and flew to her succor. The snow was
already dyed with the blood which flowed from some wound
in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. My terrors
did not hinder me from anxiously searching for the hurt
which was received, and ascertaining the extent of the injury.
Her forehead was considerably bruised; but, to my
unspeakable joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and
was, therefore, to be regarded as no mortal symptom.

I lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for some
means of relief. The house at which I proposed to stop
was upwards of a mile distant. I remembered none that
was nearer. To place the wounded girl on my own
horse, and proceed gently to the house in question, was
the sole expedient; but, at present, she was senseless, and
might, on recovering, be too feeble to sustain her own
weight.

To recall her to life was my first duty; but I was powerless,
or unacquainted with the means. I gazed upon her
features, and endeavored, by pressing her in my arms, to
inspire her with some warmth. I looked towards the road,
and listened for the wished for sound of some carriage that
might be prevailed on to stop and receive her. Nothing
was more improbable than that either pleasure or business
would induce men to encounter so chilling and vehement a

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blast. To be lighted on by some traveller was, therefore,
a hopeless event.

Meanwhile, Eliza's swoon continued, and my alarm increased.
What effect her half-frozen blood would have in
prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to life,
awakened the deepest apprehensions. I left the wood, still
bearing her in my arms, and reentered the road, from the
desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger.
I looked this way and that, and again listened.
Nothing but the sweeping blast, rent and falling branches,
and snow that filled and obscured the air, were perceivable.
Each moment retarded the course of my own blood, and
stiffened my sinews, and made the state of my companion
more desperate. How was I to act? To perish myself
or see her perish, was an ignoble fate; courage and activity
were still able to avert it. My horse stood near, docile and
obsequious; to mount him and to proceed on my way,
holding my lifeless burthen in my arms, was all that remained.

At this moment my attention was called by several voices,
issuing from the wood. It was the note of gaiety and glee.
Presently a sleigh, with several persons of both sexes, appeared,
in a road which led through the forest into that in
which I stood. They moved at a quick pace, but their
voices were hushed, and they checked the speed of their
horses on discovering us. No occurrence was more auspicious
than this; for I relied with perfect confidence on the
benevolence of these persons, and as soon as they came
near, claimed their assistance.

My story was listened to with sympathy, and one of the
young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in placing
Eliza in the place which he had left. A female, of sweet aspect
and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and
hastening to the house, where it seems her father resided,
and which the party had just left. I rode after the sleigh,
which in a few minutes arrived at the house. The dwelling
was spacious and neat, and a venerable man and woman,
alarmed by the quick return of the young people, came
forth to know the cause. They received their guest with
the utmost tenderness, and provided her with all the accommodations
which her condition required. Their daughter

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relinquished the scheme of pleasure in which she had been
engaged, and, compelling her companions to depart without
her, remained to nurse and console the sick.

A little time showed that no lasting injury had been suffered.
Contusions, more troublesome than dangerous, and
easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional
wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the
fall. My mind, being relieved from apprehensions on this
score, had leisure to reflect upon the use which might be
made of the present state of things.

When I remarked the structure of this house, and the
features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought I discerned
a powerful resemblance between this family and
Hadwin's. It seemed as if some benignant power had led
us hither as to the most suitable asylum that could be obtained;
and, in order to supply to the forlorn Eliza, the
place of those parents and that sister she had lost, I conceived,
that, if their concurrence could be gained, no abode
was more suitable than this. No time was to be lost in
gaining this concurrence. The curiosity of our host and
hostess, whose name was Curling, speedily afforded me an
opportunity to disclose the history and real situation of my
friend. There were no motives to reserve or prevarication.
There was nothing which I did not faithfully and circumstantially
relate. I concluded with stating my wishes that
they would admit my friend as a boarder into their house.

The old man was warm in his concurrence. His wife
betrayed some scruples; which, however, her husband's
arguments and mine removed. I did not even suppress the
tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy which
Eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which I declared
myself unable to explain. It presently appeared that Mr.
Curling had some knowledge of Philip Hadwin, and that
the latter had acquired the repute of being obdurate and
profligate. He employed all means to accomplish his selfish
ends, and would probably endeavor to usurp the property
which his brother had left. To provide against his power
and his malice would be particularly incumbent on us, and
my new friend readily promised his assistance in the measures
which we should take to that end.

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Brown, Charles Brockden, 1771-1810 [1827], The Novels... (S. G. Goodrich, Boston) [word count] [eaf033d].
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