Chapter IV
Six years of uninterrupted happiness had rolled away, since my brother'smarriage. The sound of war had been heard, but it was at such a distanceas to enhance our enjoyment by affording objects of comparison. TheIndians were repulsed on the one side, and Canada was conquered on theother. Revolutions and battles, however calamitous to those who occupiedthe scene, contributed in some sort to our happiness, by agitating ourminds with curiosity, and furnishing causes of patriotic exultation.Four children, three of whom were of an age to compensate, by theirpersonal and mental progress, the cares of which they had been, at amore helpless age, the objects, exercised my brother's tenderness. Thefourth was a charming babe that promised to display the image of hermother, and enjoyed perfect health. To these were added a sweet girlfourteen years old, who was loved by all of us, with an affection morethan parental.
Her mother's story was a mournful one. She had come hither from Englandwhen this child was an infant, alone, without friends, and withoutmoney. She appeared to have embarked in a hasty and clandestinemanner. She passed three years of solitude and anguish under my aunt'sprotection, and died a martyr to woe; the source of which she could, byno importunities, be prevailed upon to unfold. Her education and mannersbespoke her to be of no mean birth. Her last moments were renderedserene, by the assurances she received from my aunt, that her daughtershould experience the same protection that had been extended to herself.
On my brother's marriage, it was agreed that she should make a part ofhis family. I cannot do justice to the attractions of this girl. Perhapsthe tenderness she excited might partly originate in her personalresemblance to her mother, whose character and misfortunes werestill fresh in our remembrance. She was habitually pensive, and thiscircumstance tended to remind the spectator of her friendless condition;and yet that epithet was surely misapplied in this case. This being wascherished by those with whom she now resided, with unspeakable fondness.Every exertion was made to enlarge and improve her mind. Her safetywas the object of a solicitude that almost exceeded the bounds ofdiscretion. Our affection indeed could scarcely transcend her merits.She never met my eye, or occurred to my reflections, without excitinga kind of enthusiasm. Her softness, her intelligence, her equanimity,never shall I see surpassed. I have often shed tears of pleasure at herapproach, and pressed her to my bosom in an agony of fondness.
While every day was adding to the charms of her person, and the storesof her mind, there occurred an event which threatened to deprive usof her. An officer of some rank, who had been disabled by a woundat Quebec, had employed himself, since the ratification of peace, intravelling through the colonies. He remained a considerable period atPhiladelphia, but was at last preparing for his departure. No one hadbeen more frequently honoured with his visits than Mrs. Baynton, aworthy lady with whom our family were intimate. He went to her housewith a view to perform a farewell visit, and was on the point of takinghis leave, when I and my young friend entered the apartment. It isimpossible to describe the emotions of the stranger, when he fixed hiseyes upon my companion. He was motionless with surprise. He was unableto conceal his feelings, but sat silently gazing at the spectacle beforehim. At length he turned to Mrs. Baynton, and more by his looks andgestures than by words, besought her for an explanation of the scene.He seized the hand of the girl, who, in her turn, was surprised by hisbehaviour, and drawing her forward, said in an eager and faulteringtone, Who is she? whence does she come? what is her name?
The answers that were given only increased the confusion of histhoughts. He was successively told, that she was the daughter of onewhose name was Louisa Conway, who arrived among us at such a time, whosedulously concealed her parentage, and the motives of her flight, whoseincurable griefs had finally destroyed her, and who had left this childunder the protection of her friends. Having heard the tale, he meltedinto tears, eagerly clasped the young lady in his arms, and calledhimself her father. When the tumults excited in his breast by thisunlooked-for meeting were somewhat subsided, he gratified our curiosityby relating the following incidents.
"Miss Conway was the only daughter of a banker in London, who dischargedtowards her every duty of an affectionate father. He had chanced to fallinto her company, had been subdued by her attractions, had tendered herhis hand, and been joyfully accepted both by parent and child. His wifehad given him every proof of the fondest attachment. Her father, whopossessed immense wealth, treated him with distinguished respect,liberally supplied his wants, and had made one condition of his consentto their union, a resolution to take up their abode with him.
"They had passed three years of conjugal felicity, which had beenaugmented by the birth of this child; when his professional duty calledhim into Germany. It was not without an arduous struggle, that she waspersuaded to relinquish the design of accompanying him through all thetoils and perils of war. No parting was ever more distressful. Theystrove to alleviate, by frequent letters, the evils of their lot. Thoseof his wife, breathed nothing but anxiety for his safety, and impatienceof his absence. At length, a new arrangement was made, and he wasobliged to repair from Westphalia to Canada. One advantage attended thischange. It afforded him an opportunity of meeting his family. Hiswife anticipated this interview, with no less rapture than himself. Hehurried to London, and the moment he alighted from the stage-coach, ranwith all speed to Mr. Conway's house.
"It was an house of mourning. His father was overwhelmed with grief, andincapable of answering his inquiries. The servants, sorrowful and mute,were equally refractory. He explored the house, and called on the namesof his wife and daughter, but his summons was fruitless. At length,this new disaster was explained. Two days before his arrival, his wife'schamber was found empty. No search, however diligent and anxious, couldtrace her steps. No cause could be assigned for her disappearance. Themother and child had fled away together.
"New exertions were made, her chamber and cabinets were ransacked, butno vestige was found serving to inform them as to the motives of herflight, whether it had been voluntary or otherwise, and in what cornerof the kingdom or of the world she was concealed. Who shall describe thesorrow and amazement of the husband? His restlessness, his vicissitudesof hope and fear, and his ultimate despair? His duty called him toAmerica. He had been in this city, and had frequently passed the door ofthe house in which his wife, at that moment, resided. Her father had notremitted his exertions to elucidate this painful mystery, but they hadfailed. This disappointment hastened his death; in consequence of which,Louisa's father became possessor of his immense property."
This tale was a copious theme of speculation. A thousand questions werestarted and discussed in our domestic circle, respecting the motivesthat influenced Mrs. Stuart to abandon her country. It did not appearthat her proceeding was involuntary. We recalled and reviewed everyparticular that had fallen under our own observation. By none of thesewere we furnished with a clue. Her conduct, after the most rigorousscrutiny, still remained an impenetrable secret. On a nearer view, MajorStuart proved himself a man of most amiable character. His attachmentto Louisa appeared hourly to increase. She was no stranger to thesentiments suitable to her new character. She could not but readilyembrace the scheme which was proposed to her, to return with her fatherto England. This scheme his regard for her induced him, however, topostpone. Some time was necessary to prepare her for so great a changeand enable her to think without agony of her separation from us.
I was not without hopes of prevailing on her father entirely torelinquish this unwelcome design. Meanwhile, he pursued his travelsthrough the southern colonies, and his daughter continued with us.Louisa and my brother frequently received letters from him, whichindicated a mind of no common order. They were filled with amusingdetails, and profound reflections. While here, he often partook ofour evening conversations at the temple; and since his departure, hiscorrespondence had frequently supplied us with topics of discourse.
One afternoon in May, the blandness of the air, and brightness of theverdure, induced us to assem
ble, earlier than usual, in the temple.We females were busy at the needle, while my brother and Pleyel werebandying quotations and syllogisms. The point discussed was the merit ofthe oration for Cluentius, as descriptive, first, of the genius of thespeaker; and, secondly, of the manners of the times. Pleyel laboured toextenuate both these species of merit, and tasked his ingenuity, to shewthat the orator had embraced a bad cause; or, at least, a doubtful one.He urged, that to rely on the exaggerations of an advocate, or tomake the picture of a single family a model from which to sketch thecondition of a nation, was absurd. The controversy was suddenly divertedinto a new channel, by a misquotation. Pleyel accused his companion ofsaying "polliciatur" when he should have said "polliceretur." Nothingwould decide the contest, but an appeal to the volume. My brother wasreturning to the house for this purpose, when a servant met him witha letter from Major Stuart. He immediately returned to read it in ourcompany.
Besides affectionate compliments to us, and paternal benedictionson Louisa, his letter contained a description of a waterfall on theMonongahela. A sudden gust of rain falling, we were compelled to removeto the house. The storm passed away, and a radiant moon-light succeeded.There was no motion to resume our seats in the temple. We thereforeremained where we were, and engaged in sprightly conversation. Theletter lately received naturally suggested the topic. A parallel wasdrawn between the cataract there described, and one which Pleyel haddiscovered among the Alps of Glarus. In the state of the former, someparticular was mentioned, the truth of which was questionable. To settlethe dispute which thence arose, it was proposed to have recourse to theletter. My brother searched for it in his pocket. It was no where to befound. At length, he remembered to have left it in the temple, and hedetermined to go in search of it. His wife, Pleyel, Louisa, and myself,remained where we were.
In a few minutes he returned. I was somewhat interested in the dispute,and was therefore impatient for his return; yet, as I heard himascending the stairs, I could not but remark, that he had executed hisintention with remarkable dispatch. My eyes were fixed upon him on hisentrance. Methought he brought with him looks considerably differentfrom those with which he departed. Wonder, and a slight portion ofanxiety were mingled in them. His eyes seemed to be in search of someobject. They passed quickly from one person to another, till they restedon his wife. She was seated in a careless attitude on the sofa, in thesame spot as before. She had the same muslin in her hand, by which herattention was chiefly engrossed.
The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He quietlyseated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to beabsorbed in meditation. These singularities suspended the inquiry whichI was preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time, thecompany relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed theirattention to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause inthe discourse, to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted byhim. At length Pleyel said, "Well, I suppose you have found the letter."
"No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and lookingstedfastly at his wife, "I did not mount the hill."--"Whynot?"--"Catharine, have you not moved from that spot since I left theroom?"--She was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and layingdown her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "No; Why do you ask thatquestion?"--His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did notimmediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us, "Is ittrue that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That she did not justnow enter the room?"--We assured him, with one voice, that she had notbeen absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions.
"Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet I mustdeny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of mysenses, which informed me, when I was half way up the hill, thatCatharine was at the bottom."
We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with greatlevity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend with calmness, butwithout any relaxation of features.
"One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard mywife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your voice atpresent."
"Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reducedyourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that yourwife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence.You have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general, her voice,like her temper, is all softness. To be heard across the room, she isobliged to exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she didnot utter a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves. Still itmay be that she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; buttell us the particulars."
"The conference," said he, "was short; and far from being carried on ina whisper. You know with what intention I left the house. Half way tothe rock, the moon was for a moment hidden from us by a cloud. I neverknew the air to be more bland and more calm. In this interval I glancedat the temple, and thought I saw a glimmering between the columns. Itwas so faint, that it would not perhaps have been visible, if the moonhad not been shrowded. I looked again, but saw nothing. I never visitthis building alone, or at night, without being reminded of the fateof my father. There was nothing wonderful in this appearance; yet itsuggested something more than mere solitude and darkness in the sameplace would have done.
"I kept on my way. The images that haunted me were solemn; and Ientertained an imperfect curiosity, but no fear, as to the nature ofthis object. I had ascended the hill little more than half way, when avoice called me from behind. The accents were clear, distinct, powerful,and were uttered, as I fully believed, by my wife. Her voice isnot commonly so loud. She has seldom occasion to exert it, but,nevertheless, I have sometimes heard her call with force and eagerness.If my ear was not deceived, it was her voice which I heard.
"Stop, go no further. There is danger in your path." The suddennessand unexpectedness of this warning, the tone of alarm with which it wasgiven, and, above all, the persuasion that it was my wife who spoke,were enough to disconcert and make me pause. I turned and listened toassure myself that I was not mistaken. The deepest silence succeeded. Atlength, I spoke in my turn. Who calls? is it you, Catharine? I stoppedand presently received an answer. "Yes, it is I; go not up; returninstantly; you are wanted at the house." Still the voice wasCatharine's, and still it proceeded from the foot of the stairs.
"What could I do? The warning was mysterious. To be uttered by Catharineat a place, and on an occasion like these, enhanced the mystery. I coulddo nothing but obey. Accordingly, I trod back my steps, expecting thatshe waited for me at the bottom of the hill. When I reached thebottom, no one was visible. The moon-light was once more universal andbrilliant, and yet, as far as I could see no human or moving figurewas discernible. If she had returned to the house, she must have usedwondrous expedition to have passed already beyond the reach of my eye.I exerted my voice, but in vain. To my repeated exclamations, no answerwas returned.
"Ruminating on these incidents, I returned hither. There was no roomto doubt that I had heard my wife's voice; attending incidents were noteasily explained; but you now assure me that nothing extraordinary hashappened to urge my return, and that my wife has not moved from herseat."
Such was my brother's narrative. It was heard by us with differentemotions. Pleyel did not scruple to regard the whole as a deception ofthe senses. Perhaps a voice had been heard; but Wieland's imaginationhad misled him in supposing a resemblance to that of his wife, andgiving such a signification to the sounds. According to his customhe spoke what he thought. Sometimes, he made it the theme of gravediscussion, but more frequently treated it with ridicule. He did notbelieve that sober reasoning would convince his friend, and gaiety, hethought, was useful to take away the solemnities which, in a mind likeWieland's, an accident of this kind was calculated to produce.
Pleyel proposed to go in search of the letter. He went and speedilyreturned, bearing it in his hand. He had found it open on the pedestal;and neither voice nor visa
ge had risen to impede his design.
Catharine was endowed with an uncommon portion of good sense; but hermind was accessible, on this quarter, to wonder and panic. That hervoice should be thus inexplicably and unwarrantably assumed, was asource of no small disquietude. She admitted the plausibility of thearguments by which Pleyel endeavoured to prove, that this was no morethan an auricular deception; but this conviction was sure to be shaken,when she turned her eyes upon her husband, and perceived that Pleyel'slogic was far from having produced the same effect upon him.
As to myself, my attention was engaged by this occurrence. I could notfail to perceive a shadowy resemblance between it and my father's death.On the latter event, I had frequently reflected; my reflections neverconducted me to certainty, but the doubts that existed were not of atormenting kind. I could not deny that the event was miraculous, andyet I was invincibly averse to that method of solution. My wonder wasexcited by the inscrutableness of the cause, but my wonder was unmixedwith sorrow or fear. It begat in me a thrilling, and not unpleasingsolemnity. Similar to these were the sensations produced by the recentadventure.
But its effect upon my brother's imagination was of chief moment.All that was desirable was, that it should be regarded by him withindifference. The worst effect that could flow, was not indeed veryformidable. Yet I could not bear to think that his senses should be thevictims of such delusion. It argued a diseased condition of his frame,which might show itself hereafter in more dangerous symptoms. The willis the tool of the understanding, which must fashion its conclusionson the notices of sense. If the senses be depraved, it is impossible tocalculate the evils that may flow from the consequent deductions of theunderstanding.
I said, this man is of an ardent and melancholy character. Those ideaswhich, in others, are casual or obscure, which are entertained inmoments of abstraction and solitude, and easily escape when the scene ischanged, have obtained an immoveable hold upon his mind. The conclusionswhich long habit has rendered familiar, and, in some sort, palpable tohis intellect, are drawn from the deepest sources. All his actions andpractical sentiments are linked with long and abstruse deductionsfrom the system of divine government and the laws of our intellectualconstitution. He is, in some respects, an enthusiast, but is fortifiedin his belief by innumerable arguments and subtilties.
His father's death was always regarded by him as flowing from a directand supernatural decree. It visited his meditations oftener than it didmine. The traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. This newincident had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. He was lessdisposed than formerly to converse and reading. When we sifted histhoughts, they were generally found to have a relation, more or lessdirect, with this incident. It was difficult to ascertain the exactspecies of impression which it made upon him. He never introduced thesubject into conversation, and listened with a silent and half-serioussmile to the satirical effusions of Pleyel.
One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. I seized thatopportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. After a pause,which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, I spoke to him--"Howalmost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it.""Ay," said Wieland, with fervor, "not only the physical, but moral nightwould be dispelled." "But why," said I, "must the Divine Will addressits precepts to the eye?" He smiled significantly. "True," said he, "theunderstanding has other avenues." "You have never," said I, approachingnearer to the point--"you have never told me in what way you consideredthe late extraordinary incident." "There is no determinate way in whichthe subject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is utterlyinscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible, butthere are twenty other suppositions more probable. They must all be setaside before we reach that point." "What are these twenty suppositions?""It is needless to mention them. They are only less improbable thanPleyel's. Time may convert one of them into certainty. Till then it isuseless to expatiate on them."