30 In a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. She did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate weeping. I did not endeavour to check this effusion, believing that its influence would be salutary. I had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless graces of this girl. I had not forgotten the scruples which had formerly made me check a passion whose tendency was easily discovered. These new proofs of her affection were, at once, mournful and delightful. The untimely fate of her father and my friend pressed with new force upon my heart, and my tears, in spite of my fortitude, mingled with hers. The attention of both was presently attracted by a faint scream which proceeded from above. Immediately tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and the figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard and wild. She cast a piercing glance at me, uttered a feeble exclamation and sunk upon the floor without signs of life. It was not difficult to comprehend this scene. I now conjectured what subsequent inquiry confirmed that the old man had mistaken me for Wallace, and had carried to the elder sister the news of his return. This fatal disappointment of hopes that had nearly been extinct and which were now so powerfully revived could not be endured by a frame verging to dissolution. This object recalled all the energies of Eliza and engrossed all my solicitude. I lifted the fallen girl in my arms and, guided by her sister, carried her to her chamber. I now had leisure to contemplate the changes which a few months had made in this lovely frame. I turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascination and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the last stage of decay. Eliza knelt on one side and, leaning her face upon the bed, endeavored in vain to smother her sobs. I sat on the other motionless and holding the passive and withered hand of the sufferer. I watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. It returned at length, but merely to betray symptoms that it would speedily depart forever. For a time my faculties were palsied and I was made an impotent spectator of the ruin that environed me. This pusillanimity quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections better suited to the exigencies of the time. The first impulse was to summon a physician, but it was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow degrees to this state and that the last struggle had begun. Nothing remained but to watch her while expiring and perform for her, when dead, the rites of interment. The survivor was capable of consolation and of sucker. I went to her and drew her gently into another apartment. The old man, tremulous and wonderstruck, seemed anxious to perform some service. I directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza's chamber. Meanwhile I persuaded my gentle friend to remain in this chamber and resign to me the performance of every office which her sister's condition required. I sat beside the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was passed. I perceived that the house had no inhabitant besides the two females and the old man. I went in search of the latter and found him crouched as before at the kitchen fire smoking his pipe. I placed myself on the same bench and entered into conversation with him. I gathered from him that he had, for many years, been Mr. Hedwin's servant, that lately he had cultivated a small farm in this neighborhood for his own advantage. Stopping one day in October at the tavern, he heard that his old master had lately been in the city, had caught the fever, and after his return had died with it. The moment he became sick his servants fled from the house and the neighbors refused to approach it. The task of attending his sick bed was allotted to his daughters, and it was by their hands that his grave was dug and his body covered with earth. The same terror of infection existed after his death as before, and these hapless females were deserted by all mankind. Old Caleb was no sooner informed of these particulars than he hurried into the house and had since continued in their service. His heart was kind, but it was easily seen that his skill extended only to execute the directions of another. Grief for the death of Wallace and her father preyed upon the health of the eldest daughter. The younger became her nurse, and Caleb was always at hand to execute any orders the performance of which was on a level with his understanding. Their neighbors had not withheld their good offices, but they were still terrified and estranged by the phantoms of pestilence. During the last week Susan had been too weak to rise from her bed, yet such was the energy communicated by the tidings that Wallace was alive and had returned, that she leaped upon her feet and rushed downstairs. How little did that man deserve so strenuous and immortal in affection. I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings of these women. I endeavored to think only of the best expedience for putting an end to these calamities. After a moment's deliberation I determined to go to a house at some miles distance, the dwelling of one who, though not exempt from the reigning panic, had shown more generosity toward these unhappy girls than others. During my former abode in this district I had ascertained his character and found him to be compassionate and liberal. Overpowered by fatigue and watching, Eliza was no sooner relieved by my presence of some portion of her cares than she sunk into profound slumber. I directed Caleb to watch the house till my return which should be before midnight and then set out for the dwelling of Mr. Ellis. The weather was temperate and moist and rendered the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. The ground that had lately been frozen and covered with snow was now changed into gullies and pools, and this was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. A brook, swelled by the recent thaw, was likewise to be passed. The rail which I had formerly placed over it by way of bridge had disappeared and I was obliged to wade through it. At length I approached the house to which I was going. At so late an hour farmers and farmers' servants are usually a bed and their threshold is entrusted to their watchdogs. Two belonged to Mr. Ellis, whose ferocity and vigilance were truly formidable to a stranger, but I hoped that in me they would recognize an old acquaintance and suffer me to approach. In this I was not mistaken. Though my person could not be distinctly seen by starlight, they seemed to sent me from afar and met me with a thousand caresses. Approaching the house I perceived that its tenants were retired to their repose. This I expected, and hastened to awaken Mr. Ellis by knocking briskly at the door. Presently he looked out of a window above and, in answer to his inquiries in which impatience at being so unseasonably disturbed was mingled with anxiety, I told him my name and entreated him to come down and allow me a few minutes' conversation. He speedily dressed himself and, opening the kitchen door, we seated ourselves before the fire. My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his wonder. He had heard of my elopement from the house of Mr. Hadwin. He was a stranger to the motives that prompted my departure and to the events that had befallen me, and no interview was more distant from his expectations than the present. His curiosity was written in his features, but this was no time to gratify his curiosity. The end that I now had in view was to procure accommodation for Eliza Hadwin in this man's house. For this purpose it was my duty to describe, with simplicity and truth, the inconveniences which at present surrounded her and to relate all that had happened since my arrival. I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and I continued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness of this girl. The death of her father and sister left her the property of this farm. Her sex and age disqualified her for superintending the harvest field and the threshing floor, and no expedient was left but to lease the land to another, and taking up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist as she might easily do upon the rent. Meanwhile, her continuance in this house was equally useless and dangerous, and I insinuated to my companion the propriety of immediately removing her to his own. Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which I immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. I endeavored by appealing to his reason as well as to his pity to conquer this dread. I pointed out the true cause of the death of the elder daughter, and assured him the youngest knew no indisposition but that which arose from distress. I offered to save him from any hazard that might attend his approaching the house by accompanying her hither myself. All that her safety required was that his doors should not be shut against her when she presented herself before them. Still he was fearful and reluctant, and at length mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen miles further, 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 heart 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 preceding 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 neighbors 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. Thus 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, labor 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 outershed 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 verger, and profound quiet. On one side was a potato field and on the other a melon patch and before me arose 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 unapprised of my motions. The grave was covered, the spade deposited 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 had 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. I bore in my arms the being whom I had known and loved through the whistling gale and intense darkness of a winter's night. I heaped earth upon her limbs, covered them from human observation without fluctuations or tremors, though not without feelings that were awful and sublime. Perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to my late experience, and some minds may be more easily enured to perilous emergencies than others. If reason acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility, perhaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished. 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.  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. Which 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 impetuousity 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. Everything 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 nobody. 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. Finding her in this respect invincible I sought for some other expedient. Might she not easily be accommodated as a border 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 shows 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. This 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 in 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 sucker? There are beings in the world who would make a selfish use of thy confidence, who would be guile thee at once of innocence and property. Such am not I. My 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 a fright. 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 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. Everybody 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 skillful rider, but her steed was refractory and unmanageable. She was able, however, to 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 through himself and his rider on the ground by encountering the rugged stalk of an oak. I dismounted and flew to her sucker. 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 mild 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 with inducement to encounter so chilling and vehement to 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 re-entered the road from the desire of describing as soon as possible the coming passenger. I looked this way and that and again listened. Nothing but the sweeping blast, rent and fallen 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 proceed on my way, holding my lifeless burden 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 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, me thought 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, readily 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 border 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 endeavour 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. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 The state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist of mixed but on-the-hole agreeable sensations. The death of Hadwin and his elder daughter could not be thought upon without keen regrets. Because it was useless to indulge and were outweighed by reflections on the personal security in which the survivor was now placed, it was hurtful to expend my unprofitable cares upon the dead while there existed one to whom they could be of essential benefit and in whose happiness they would find an ample compensation. This happiness, however, was still incomplete, it was still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done before adequate provision was made against the worst of evil's poverty. I now found that Eliza, being only fifteen years old, stood in need of a guardian and that the forms of law required that someone should make himself her father's administrator. Mr. Curling, being tolerably conversant with these subjects, pointed out the mode to be pursued and engaged to act on this occasion as Eliza's friend. There was another topic on which my happiness, as well as that of my friend, required us to form some decision. I formerly mentioned that during my abode at Malverton I had not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. An affection had stolen upon me for which it was easily discovered that I should not have been denied a suitable return. My reasons for stifling these emotions at that time have been mentioned. It may now be asked what effect subsequent events had produced on my feelings and how far partaking and relieving her distresses had revived a passion which may readily be supposed to have been at no time entirely extinguished. The impediments which then existed were removed. Our union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her excellent parent. She had no longer a sister to divide with her the property of the farm and make what was sufficient for both when living together too little for either separately. Her youth and simplicity required, beyond most others, a legal protector, and her happiness was involved in the success of those hopes which she took no pains to conceal. As to me it seemed at first view as if every incident conspired to determine my choice. Omitting all regard to the happiness of others, my own interest could not fail to recommend a scheme by which the precious benefits of competence and independence might be honestly obtained. The excursions of my fancy had sometimes carried me beyond the bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were nevertheless limited to that field to which I had once some prospect of acquiring a title. All I wanted for the basis of my godliest and most dazzling structures was a hundred acres of plowland and meadow. Here my spirit of improvement, my zeal to invent and apply new maxims of household luxury and convenience, new modes and instruments of tillage, new arts connected with orchard, garden, and cornfield, were supplied with abundant scope. Though the want of these would not benumb my activity or take away content, the possession would confer exquisite and permanent enjoyments.  My fancy was always active on this theme and its reveries sufficiently ecstatic and glowing, but since my intercourse with this girl, my scattered visions were collected and concentrated. I had now a form and features before me, a sweet and melodious voice vibrated in my ear, my soul was filled, as it were, with her lineaments and gestures, actions and looks. All ideas possessing any relation to beauty or sex appeared to assume this shape. They kept an immovable place in my mind. They diffused around them an ineffable complacency. Love is merely a value as a prelude to a more tender, intimate, and sacred union. Was I not in love? And did I not pant after the irrevocable bounds, the boundless privileges of wedlock? The question which others might ask, I have asked myself. Was I not in love? I am really at a loss for an answer. There seemed to be irresistible weight in the reasons why I should refuse to marry and even forbear to foster love in my friend. I considered my youth, my defective education, and my limited views. I had passed from my cottage into the world. I had acquired even in my transient sojourn among the busy haunts of men more knowledge than the lucubrations and employments of all my previous years had conferred. Hence I might infer the childlike immaturity of my understanding and the rapid progress I was still capable of making. Was this an age to form an irrevocable contract, to choose the companion of my future life, the associate of my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity? I had reason to contend my own acquisitions, but were not those of Eliza still more slender? Could I rely upon the permanence of her equanimity and her docility to my instructions? What qualities might not time unfold, and how little was I qualified to estimate the character of one whom no vicissitude or hardship had approached before the death of her father, whose ignorance was indeed great when it could justly be said even to exceed my own? Should I mix with the world, enroll myself in different classes of society, be a witness to new scenes? Might not my modes of judging undergo essential variations? Might I not gain the knowledge of beings whose virtue was the gift of experience and the growth of knowledge? Who joined to the modesty and charms of women, the benefits of education, the maturity and steadfastness of age, and with whose character and sentiments my own would be much more congenial than they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic simplicity, and mental imperfections of Eliza Hadwin? To say truth, I was now conscious of a revolution in my mind. I can scarcely assign its true cause. No tokens of it appeared during my late retreat to Malverton. Subsequent incidents, perhaps joined with the influence of meditation, had generated new views. On my first visit to the city I had met with nothing but scenes of folly, depravity, and cunning. No wonder that the images connected with the city were disastrous and gloomy. But my second visit produced somewhat different impressions. Maravegli, Estwick, Medleycoat, and you were beings who inspired veneration and love. Your residents appeared to beautify and consecrate this spot, and gave birth to an opinion that, if cities are the chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise the soil of all the laudable and strenuous productions of mind. My curiosity and thirst of knowledge had likewise received a new direction. Books and inanimate nature were cold and lifeless instructors. Human and the works of men were the objects of rational study, and our own eyes only could communicate just conceptions of human performances. The influence of manners, professions, and social institutions could be thoroughly known only by direct inspection. Competence, fixed property at a settled abode, rural occupations, and conjugal pleasures were justly to be prized, but their value could be known and their benefits fully enjoyed only by those who have tried all scenes, who have mixed with all classes and ranks, who have partaken of all conditions, and who have visited different hemispheres and climates and nations. The next five or eight years of my life should be devoted to activity and change. It should be a period of hardship, danger, and privation. It should be my apprenticeship to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed to fit me for the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions of the remainder of my life. In consequence of these reflections I determined to suppress that tenderness which the company of Miss Hadwin produced, to remove any mistakes into which she had fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim for her more than the dues of friendship. All ambiguities in a case like this, and all delays were hurtful. She was not exempt from passion, but this passion I thought was young and easily extinguished. In a short time her health was restored, and her grief melted down to a tender melancholy. I chose a suitable moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to reveal my thoughts. My disclosure was ingenuous and perfect. I laid before her the whole train of my thoughts, nearly in the order, though indifferent in more copious terms than those in which I have just explained them to you. I concealed nothing. The impression which her artless loveliness had made upon me at Malverton, my motives for estranging myself from her society, the nature of my present feelings with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart, the reasonings into which I had entered, the advantages of wedlock and its inconveniences, and finally the resolution I had formed of seeking the city, and perhaps of crossing the ocean, were minutely detailed. She interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, flutterings and sighs showed her to be deeply and variously affected by my discourse. I paused for some observation or comment. She seemed conscious of my expectation, but had no power to speak. Overpowered at length by her emotions, she burst into tears. I was at a loss in what manner to construe these symptoms. I waited till her vehemence was somewhat subsided and then said, What think you of my schemes? Your approbation is of some moment. Do you approve of them or not? This question excited some little resentment, and she answered, You have left me nothing to say. Go and be happy, no matter what becomes of me. I hope I shall be able to take care of myself. The tone in which this was said had something in it of upbraiding. Your happiness, said I, is too dear to me to leave it in danger. In this house you will not need my protection, but I shall never be so far from you as to be disabled from hearing how you fare by letter and of being active for your good. You have some money which you must husband well. Any rent from your farm cannot be soon expected, but what you have got, if you remain with Mr. Curling, will pay your board and all other expenses for two years, but you must be a good economist. I shall expect, continued I, with a serious smile, a punctual account of all your sayings and doings. I must know how every minute is employed and every penny is expended, and if I find you airing I must tell you so in good round terms. These words did not dissipate the sullenness which her looks had betrayed. She still forbore to look at me and said, I do not know how I should tell you everything. You care so little about me that I should only be troublesome. I am old enough to think and act for myself, and I shall advise with nobody but myself. That is true, said I. I shall rejoice to see you independent and free. Watch your own understanding and act according to its dictates. Nothing more is wanting to make you useful and happy. I am anxious to return to the city, but if you will allow me, we'll go first to Malverton, see that things are in due order, and at old Caleb as well. From thence, if you please, I will call at your uncles and tell him what has happened. He may otherwise entertain pretensions and form views erroneous in themselves and injurious to you. He may think himself entitled to manage your estate. He may either suppose a will to have been made, or may actually have hurt from your father or from others, of that which you burnt, and in which he was named executor. His boisterous and sordid temper may prompt him to seize your house and goods, unless seasonably apprised of the truth, and when he knows the truth he may start into a rage, which I shall be more fitted to encounter than you. I am told that anger transforms him into a ferocious madman. Shall I call upon him? She shuddered at the picture which I had drawn of her uncle's character, but this emotion quickly gave place to self-upbrating for the manner in which she had repelled my proffers of service. She melted once more into tears and exclaimed, I am not worthy of the pains you take for me. I am unfeeling and ungrateful. Why should I think ill of you for despising me when I despise myself? You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see your most secret thoughts and these instead of exciting anger or contempt only awaken compassion and tenderness. You love and must therefore conceive my conduct to be perverse and cruel. I counted on your harboring such thoughts. Time only and reflection will enable you to see my motives in their true light. Hereafter you will recollect my words and find them sufficient to justify my conduct. You will acknowledge the propriety of my engaging in the cares of the world before I sit down in retirement and ease. How much you mistake me. I admire and approve of your schemes. What angers and distresses me is that you think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labors, that you regard my company as an obstacle and encumbrance, that assistance and counsel must all proceed from you and that no scene is fit for me but what you regard as slothful and inglorious. Have I not the same claims to be wise and active and courageous as you? If I am ignorant and weak, do I not owe it to the same cause that has made you so, and will not the same means which promote your improvement be likewise useful to me? You desire to obtain knowledge by travelling and conversing with many persons and studying many sciences, but you desire it for yourself alone. Me you think poor, weak, and contemptible fit for nothing but to spin and churn. Did I exist, am screened from the weather, have enough to eat and drink, you are satisfied? As to strengthening my mind and enlarging my knowledge these things are valuable to you, but on me they're thrown away. I deserve not the gift. This strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unexpected. I was surprised and disconcerted. In my previous reasonings I had certainly considered her sex as utterly unfitting her for those scenes and pursuits to which I had destined myself. Not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion had insinuated itself, but now my belief was shaken, though it was not subverted. I could not deny that human ignorance was curable by the same means in one sex as in the other, that fortitude and skill were of no less value to one than to the other. Questionless my friend was rendered by her age and inexperience, if not by sex, more helpless and dependent than I, but had I not been prone to overrate the difficulties which I should encounter? Had I not deemed unjustly of her constancy and force of mind? Marriage would render her property joint and would not compel me to take up my abode in the woods, to abide forever in one spot, to shackle my curiosity or limit my excursions. But marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. Was this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me to blend my fate without the power of dissolution? Would not time unfold qualities in her which I did not at present suspect, and which would evince an incurable difference in our minds? Would not time lead me to the feet of one who more nearly approached that standard of ideal excellence which poets and romancers had exhibited to my view? These considerations were powerful and delicate. I knew not in what terms to state them to my companion so as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or indecorum. It became me, however, to be explicit and to excite her resentment rather than mislead her judgment. She collected my meaning from a few words and, interrupting me, said, How very low is the poor Eliza in your opinion! We are indeed both too young to be married. May I not see you and talk with you without being your wife? May I not share your knowledge, relieve your cares, and enjoy your confidence as a sister might do? May I not accompany you in your journeys and studies as one friend accompanies another? My property may be yours, you may employ it for your benefit and mine, not because you are my husband but my friend. You are going to the city. Let me go along with you. Let me live where you live. The house that is large enough to hold you will hold me. The fair that is good enough for you will be luxury to me. Oh, let it be so, will you? You cannot think how studious, how thoughtful, how inquisitive I will be, how tenderly I will nurse you when sick. It is possible you may be sick, you know, and no one in the world will be half so watchful and affectionate as I shall be. Will you let me? In saying this her earnestness gave new pathos to her voice. Insensibly she put her face close to mine and transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve by the charms of that picture which her fancy contemplated she put her lips to my cheek and repeated in a melting accent. Will you let me? You, my friends, who have not seen Eliza Hadwin, cannot conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to produce in me. She has surely the sweetest voice, the most speaking features, the most delicate symmetry that ever woman possessed. Her guileless simplicity and tenderness made her more enchanting. To be the object of devotion to a heart so fervent and pure was, surely, no common privilege. Thus did she tender me herself, and was not the gift to be received with eagerness and gratitude? No. I was not so much a stranger to mankind as to acquiesce in this scheme. As my sister or my wife the world would suffer us to reside under the same roof to apply to common use the same property and daily to enjoy the company of each other, but she was not my sister and marriage would be an act of the grossest indiscretion. I explained to her, in few words, the objections to which her project was liable. Well, then, she said, let me live in the next house in the neighborhood or, at least in the same city, let me be where I may see you once a day, or once a week, or once a month.  After a pause I replied, I love you too well not to comply with this request. Perhaps the city will be as suitable a residence as any other for you, as it will for some time be most convenient to me. I shall be better able to watch over your welfare and supply you with the means of improvement when you are within a small distance. At present you must consent to remain here while I visit your uncle and afterwards go to the city. I shall look out for you a suitable lodging and inform you when it is found. If you then continue in the same mind I will come and, having gained the approbation of Mr. Curling, I will conduct you to town. Here ended our dialogue. CHAPTER 33 Though I had consented to this scheme, I was conscious that some hazards attended it. I was afraid of Calumny, which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of my friend. I was afraid of my own weakness, which might be seduced into an indiscreet marriage by the charms or sufferings of this bewitching creature. I felt that there was no price too dear to save her from slander. A fair fame is of the highest importance to a young female and the loss of it but poorly supplied by the testimony of her own conscience. I had reason for tenfold solicitude on this account since I was her only protector and friend. Hence I cherished some hopes that time might change her views and suggest less dangerous schemes. Meanwhile, I was to lose no time in visiting Malverton and Philip Hadwin. Not ten days had elapsed since we had deserted Malverton. These were days of successive storms and travelling had been rendered inconvenient. The weather was now calm and clear, and early in the morning that ensued the dialogue which I have just related I set out on horseback. Honest Caleb was found eating his breakfast nearly in the spot where he had been first discovered. He answered my inquiries by saying that two days after our departure several men had come to the house, one of whom was Philip Hadwin. They had interrogated him as to the condition of the farm and the purpose of his remaining on it. William had when they knew to have been some time dead, but where were the girls, his daughters? Caleb answered that Susie the eldest was likewise dead. These tidings excited astonishment. When died she, and how, and where was she buried? It happened two days before, and she was buried, he believed, but could not tell where. Not tell where? By whom then was she buried? Really he could not tell. Some strange man came there just as she was dying. He went to the room, and when she was dead took her away, but what he did with the body was more than he could say, but he had a notion that he buried it. The man stayed till the morning, and then went off with Lizzie, leaving him to keep house by himself. He had not seen either of them, nor indeed a single soul since. This was all the information that Caleb could afford the visitants.  Just then Mr. Ellis entered the house, and being acquainted with the subject of discourse, told all that he himself knew. He related the midnight visit which I had paid him, explained my former situation in the family, and my disappearance in September. He had stated the advice he had given me to carry Eliza to her uncles, and my promise to comply with his counsel. The uncle declared he had seen nothing of his niece, and Caleb added that when she set out she took the road that led to town. These hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and suspicion. Ellis now mentioned some intelligence that he had gathered respecting me in a late journey to blank. It seems I was the son of an honest farmer in that quarter who married a tidy girl of a milkmaid that lived with him. My father had detected me in making some atrocious advances to my mother-in-law and had turned me out of doors. I did not go off, however, without rifling his drawer of some hundreds of dollars which he had laid up against a rainy day. I was noted for such pranks, and was hated by all the neighbors for my pride and laziness. It was easy by comparison of circumstances for Ellis to ascertain that Hadwin's servant, Mervyn, was the same against whom such heavy charges were laid. Previously to this journey he had heard of me from Hadwin, who was loud in praise of my diligence, sobriety, and modesty. For his part he had always been cautious of giving countenance to vagrants that came from nobody knew where and work their way with a plausible tongue. He was not surprised to hear it whispered that Betsy Hadwin had fallen in love with the youth, and now, no doubt, he had persuaded her to run away with him. The heiress of a fine farm was a prize not to be met with every day. Philip broke into rage at this news, swore that if it turned out so his niece should starve upon the town and that he would take good care to balk the lad. His brother he well knew had left a will to which he was executor, and that this will would in good time be forthcoming. After much talk and ransacking the house and swearing at his truant niece, he and his company departed, charging Caleb to keep the house and its contents for his use. This was all that Caleb's memory had retained of that day's proceedings. Curling had lately commented on the character of Philip Hadwin. This man was totally unlike his brother, was a noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, a plague to his neighbors, and kept the rendezvous for drunkards and idlers at the sign of the bull's head at blank. He was not destitute of parts and was no less dreaded for cunning than malignity. He was covetous and never missed an opportunity of overreaching his neighbor. There was no doubt that his niece's property would be embezzled should it ever come into his hands, and any power which he might obtain over her person would be exercised to her destruction. His children were tainted with the disiluteness of their father, and marriage had not repaired the reputation of his daughters or cured them of depravity. This was the man whom I now proposed to visit. I scarcely need to say that the calumny of Betty Lawrence gave me no uneasiness. My father had no doubt been deceived as well as my father's neighbors by the artifices of this woman. I passed among them for a thief and a profligate, but their error had hitherto been harmless to me. The time might come which should confute the tale without my efforts. Betty, sooner or later, would drop her mask and afford the antidote to her own poisons, unless some new incident should occur to make me hasten the catastrophe. I arrived at Hadwin's house. I was received with some attention as a guest. I looked among the pimpled visages that filled the piazza for that of the landlord, but found him in an inner apartment with two or three more seated round a table. When intimating my wish to speak with him alone, the others withdrew. Hadwin's visage had some traces of resemblance to his brother, but the meek, placid air, pale cheeks, and slender form of the latter were powerfully contrasted with the bloated arrogance, imperious brow, and robust limbs of the former. This man's rage was awakened by a straw. It impelled him in an instant to oaths and buffettings, and made his life an eternal brawl. The sooner my interview with such a personage should be at an end, the better. I therefore explained the purpose of my coming as fully and in as few words as possible. Your name, sir, is Philip Hadwin, your brother William of Malverton, died lately and left two daughters. The youngest only is now alive, and I come, commissioned from her, to inform you that, as no will of her father's is extant, she is preparing to administer to his estate. As her father's brother, she thought you entitled to this information. The change which took place in the countenance of this man during this address was remarkable, but not easily described. His cheeks contracted a deeper crimson, his eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expression in which curiosity was mingled with rage. He bent forward and said, in a hoarse and contemptuous tone, Pray, is your name Mervin? I answered without hesitation, and as if the question were wholly unimportant. Yes, my name is Mervin.  Then you are the damned rascal! But permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths with which it was plentifully interlarded.   But I thank you for it. I was going to look for you. You've saved me trouble. I'll settle all accounts with you here. Fair and softly, my good lad, if I don't bring you to the gallows, if I let you escape without such a dressing, damned impudence. Fellow, I've been at Malverton. I've heard of your tricks. So finding the will not quite to your mind, knowing that the executor would bulk at your schemes, you threw the will into the fire, you robbed the house of all the cash and made off with the girl. The old fellow saw it all, and will swear to the truth. These words created some surprise. I meant not to conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will, nor even the measures which his niece had taken or intended to take. But I supposed to be unknown to him, appeared to have been communicated by the talkative Caleb, whose mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than first appearances had led me to imagine. Instead of moping by the kitchen fire when Eliza and I were conversing in an upper room, it now appeared that he had reconnoitred our proceedings through some keyhole or crevice and had related what he had seen to Hadwin. Hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and menaces. He frequently clenched his fist and thrust it in my face, drew it back as if to render his blow more deadly, ran over the same series of exclamations on my impudence and villainy, and talked of the gallows and the whipping-post, and forced each word by the epithets damnable and hellish, closed each sentence with and be cursed to you. There was but one mode for me to pursue. All forcible opposition to a man of his strengths was absurd. It was my province to make his anger confine itself to words and patiently to wait till the paroxysm should end or subside of itself. To affect this purpose I kept my seat and carefully excluded from my countenance every indication of timidity and panic on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance on the other. My look and attitude were those of a man who expected harsh words, but who entertained no suspicion that blows would be inflicted. I was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence to this medium. To have strayed for a moment to either side would have brought upon me his blows. That he did not instantly resort to violence inspired me with courage since it depended on myself whether food should be supplied to his passion. Rage must either progress or decline, and since it was in total want of provocation it could not fail of gradually subsiding. My demeanor was calculated to damp the flame, not only by its direct influence, but by diverting his attention from the wrongs which he had received to the novelty of my behavior. The disparity in size and strength between us was too evident to make him believe that I confided in my sinews for my defense, and since I betrayed neither contempt nor fear he could not but conclude that I trusted to my own integrity or to his moderation. I seized the first pause in his rhetoric to enforce this sentiment. You are angry, Mr. Hadwin, and are loud in your threats, but they do not frighten me. They excite no apprehension or alarm, because I know myself able to convince you that I have not injured you. This is an inn, and I am your guest. I am sure I shall find better entertainment than blows. Come, continued I, smiling. It is possible that I am not so mischievous a wretch as your fancy paints me. I have no claims upon your niece but that of friendship, and she is now in the house of an honest man, Mr. Curling, where she proposes to continue as long as is convenient. It is true that your brother left a will, which his daughter burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the authority which that will gave you, not only over her property but person. It is true that on leaving the house she took away the money which was now her own and which was necessary to subsistence. It is true that I bore her company, and have left her in an honest man's keeping. I am answerable for nothing more. As to you, I meant not to injure you. I advised not the burning of the will. I was a stranger till after that event to your character. I knew neither good nor ill of you. I came to tell you all this because, as Eliza's uncle, you had a right to the information.  I, I warrant you. But take this along with you. That property is mine, land, house, stock, everything. All is safe and snug under cover of a mortgage, to which Billy was kind enough to add a bond. One was sued and the other entered up a week ago. So that all is safe under my thumb, and the girl may whistle or starve for me. I shall give myself no concern about the trumpet.  Phil hadn'ts not so easily choused, I promise you. I intended to give you this news and a drubbing into the bargain, but you may go and make haste. She burnt the will, did she, because I was named in it and sent you to tell me so? Good souls! It was kind of you, and I'm bound to be thankful. Take her back news of the mortgage and, as for you, leave my house. You may go scot-free this time, but I pledge my word for a sound beating when you next enter these doors. I'll pay it to you with interest. Leave my house, I say. A mortgage, said I, in a low voice, and affecting not to hear his commands. That will be sad news for my friend. Why, sir, you are a fortunate man. Malverton is an excellent spot, well-watered and maneuvered, newly and completely fenced, not a larger barn in the county, oxen and horses, and cows in the best order, I never set eyes on a finer orchard. By my faith, sir, you are a fortunate man. But pray, what have you for dinner? I am as hungry as a wolf. Order me a beef steak and some potation or other. The bottle there, is it cider? I take it, pray, push it to this side. Saying this, I stretched out my hand towards the bottle which stood before him. I confided in the power of a fearless and sedate manner. Me thought that, as anger was the food of anger, it must unavoidably subside in a contest with equability. This opinion was intuitive, rather than the product of experience, and perhaps I gave no proof of my sagacity and hazarding my safety on its truth. Hadwin's character made him dreaded and obeyed by all. He had been accustomed to ready and tremulous submission from men far more brawny and robust than I was, and to find his most vehement menaces and gestures totally ineffectual on a being so slender and diminutive at once wound up his rage and excited his astonishment. One motion counteracted and suspended the other. He lifted his hand, but delayed to strike.  Though seemingly careless, I was watchful of his motions and prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking or stooping. While I stretched my hand far enough to seize the bottle and pouring its contents into a tumbler, put it to my lips. Come, sir, I drink your health and wish you speedy possession of Malverton. I have some interest with Eliza and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition and complaint. Why should she complain? While I live she shall not be a beggar. No doubt your claim is legal and therefore ought to be admitted. What the law gave, the law has taken away. Blessed be the dispensers of the law. Excellent cider, open another bottle, will you, and I beseech hasten dinner if you would not see me devour the table. It was just perhaps to conjure up the demon avarice to fight with the demon anger. Reason alone would, in such a contest, be powerless, but in truth I spoke without artifice or disguise. If his claim were legal, opposition would be absurd and pernicious. I meant not to rely upon his own assertions, and would not acknowledge the validity of his claim till I had inspected the deed. Having instituted suits, this was now in a public office, and there the inspection should be made. Meanwhile, no reason could be urged why I should part from him in anger, while his kindred to Eliza and his title to her property made it useful to secure his favour. It was possible to obtain a remission of his claims even when the law enforced them. It would be imprudent, at least, to diminish the chances of remission by fostering his wrath and provoking his enmity. What, he exclaimed in a transport of fury, ain't I the master of my own house? Out, I say! These were harsh terms, but they were not accompanied by gestures and tones so menacing as those which had been before used. It was plain that the tide, which so lately threatened my destruction, had begun to recede. This encouraged me to persist. Be not alarmed, my good friend, said I, placidly and smiling. A man of your bone need not fear a pygmy like me. I shall scarcely be able to dethrone you in your own castle, with an army of hustlers, tapsters, and cooks at your beck. You shall still be master here, provided you use your influence to procure me a dinner. His acquiescence, in a pacific system, was extremely reluctant and gradual. He laid aside one sullen tone and wrathful look after the other, and at length consented not only to supply me with a dinner, but to partake of it with me. Nothing was more a topic of surprise to himself than his forbearance. He knew not how it was. He had never been treated so before. He was not proof against entreaty and submission, but I had neither supplicated nor submitted. The stuff that I was made of was at once damnably tough and devilishly pliant. When he thought of my impudence in staying in his house after he bade me leave it, he was tempted to resume his passion. When he reflected on my courage in making light of his anger not withstanding his own impetuosity and my personal inferiority, he could not withhold his esteem. But my patience under his rebukes, my unalterable equanimity and my ready consent to the validity of his claims soothed and propitiated him. An exemption from blows and abuse was all that I could gain from this man. I told him the truth, with regard to my own history, so far as it was connected with the Hadwins. I exhibited, in effecting colors, the helpless condition of Eliza, but could extort from him nothing but his consent that, if she chose, she might come and live with him. He would give her victuals and clothes for so much housework as she was able to do. If she chose to live elsewhere, he promised not to molest her or intermetal in her concerns. The house and land were his by law, and he would have them. It was not my province to revile or expostulate with him. I stated what measures would be adopted by a man who regarded the interest of others more than his own, who was anxious for the welfare of an innocent girl, connected with him so closely by the ties of Kindred, and who was destitute of what is called natural friends. If he did not cancel for her sake his bond and mortgage, he would at least afford her a frugal maintenance. He would extend to her, in all emergencies, his counsel and protection. After that he said was sheer nonsense. He could not sufficiently wonder at my folly in proposing to him to make a free gift of a hundred rich acres to a girl, too, who scarcely knew her right hand from her left, whom from the first cunning young rogue like myself would chouse out of the hole and take herself into the bargain. But my folly was even surpassed by my impudence since, as the friend of this girl, I was merely petitioning on my own account. I had come to him whom I never saw before, on whom I had no claim, and who, as well as I knew, had reason to thank me a sharper and modestly said, Here's a girl who has no fortune. I am greatly in want of one. Pray give her such an estate that you have in your possession. If you do I'll marry her and take it into my own hands. I might be thankful that he did not answer such a petition with a horse-whipping, but if he did not give her his estate he might extend to her forsooth his counsel and protection. That I've offered to do so, continued he, she may come and live in my house if she will. She may come to do some of the family work. I'll discharge the chambermaid to make room for her. Lizzie, if I remember right, has a pretty face. She can't have a better market for it than as a chambermaid to an inn. If she minds her peas and cues, she may make up a handsome sum at the year's end. I thought it time to break off the conference, and my dinner being finished took my leave, leaving behind me the character of a queer sort of chap. I speeded to the Prothinitary's office, which was kept in the village, and quickly ascertained the truth of Hadwin's pretensions. There existed a mortgage with bond and warrant of attorney, two so great an amount as would swallow up everything at Malverton. Furnished with these tidings, I prepared, with a drooping heart, to return to Mr. Curling's. End of Chapter 33


OK, so this is a mess. Even for this one, I have once again. Oh, more dead trees. Excellent. More nose, yeah. Great. Well, I did two pages on one to minimize the dead tree-ishness. Let's get into it. Yeah, this is going to be an interesting one, because. I'll tell you what. I'll call it. Like, don't tell me it's interesting, so I'll be the judge. Everyone on YouTube will be the judge. Like, don't come at me with your, this is an interesting episode, unlike the ones you did. Thanks, mate. I thought this is an interesting one, as in I'm not sure I got it right. I'm pretty confident. But I thought, oh, this is going to be a nice snappy shot, three minutes. You know, in the spirit of micro trips, almost. And now I'm at the point where it's messy, and I hope I got it all right. And I'm pretty sure some Node implementers core team member will go, well, actually, there is more detail to this. And we welcome that, like, good old bit of fact-checking.  All right, so obviously, we're talking about tasks.  This isn't your content. If you just printed off my talk, what's going on? Well, in my defense, I created a Google link for you that went, go straight to your talk. Because actually, your talk is kind of the basis for this, because I'm not going to explain the event loop, because you did much better than I care to do. But it turns out there is more things that I found out that you didn't either intentionally didn't include, or maybe just didn't even know about yourself. Who knows? Let's say intentional. Let's just go for intentional. Yes, you all know this already. I'm just filling in the gaps. No, probably not. But the talk is, I mean, it's pretty popular, I think. But in case any one of our viewers hasn't seen it, here's a link very much worth watching.  That's my favorite bit about that talk, even on stage, as I was like, da-da-da-da-da-da. All right, let's get into this. I am making up some functions. These functions don't exist, but we will implement them in the course of this video. I'm actually kind of sad they don't exist, some of them, because it turns out the different ways to schedule tasks in JavaScript are called anything but something sensible. So I want to start with three different ways of scheduling a callback function. There's a way to synchronously call a callback. There's a way to call a callback as a task, and there is a way to call a callback as a microtask. Now, what I found weird when I went through this is the realization that actually we have tasks and we have microtasks, which kind of conveys a sense of size, a microtask sounding smaller than a task, but really what it just means, the microtask has a higher priority than a task. It doesn't really say anything about the amount of work that you can do it. Maybe a bit about what you should do, but in the end, the event loop is just something that spins around and takes tasks out of different queues, and these different queues have different priorities. So let's start at what that means. So if we were to run this, the synchronous stuff would run immediately because synchronous stuff doesn't give the event loop a chance to spin at all, then it would go on to the microtasks because microtasks have a higher priority, and then we'll go on to the tasks, which are the only queue that is left at this point. Anything you want to complain about at this point, Jake? I did try and think of a situation where there is very particular situations where microtasks can come before tasks, but only when they're queued by the browser, not by JavaScript. So do you know what, other than that, I'm very happy so far. In terms of having these as actual functions, there is a proposal for a microtask, a queue microtask. Hold that top, we're gonna get to that. Oh, okay. Looking forward to it. So what does it mean to schedule a callback synchronously? Well, you call it, and that's because that way you don't yield to the event loop to let it spin around and look at which queue to run next. You say, no, no, call this function, and it will go ahead to the engine and call the function. So that one, I hope, is pretty straightforward. But microtasks are interesting because I actually Googled a bit to see what people recommend and I saw some very interesting and wrong recommendations. One of my favorites was this one, which is not correct because the constructor of the promise, the function inside the promise constructor, this is called the revealing constructor pattern, I think, I'm pretty sure. That one is invoked synchronously. So this, the function that you pass to the constructor is called immediately, the event loop doesn't get to spin at all. So this is not. But what people were thinking about, I think, when they were saying this, is that it has to do with promises because the dot then of a promise is scheduled in a new microtask. So this would be the classic way to schedule a callback in the next or in a microtask. But as you already said, there is queue microtask and queue microtask actually has landed pretty much everywhere. So the nodes, we have it in Safari and Chrome and Edge and Firefox. That happened without me noticing. I didn't know it either. And I'm so happy because this is a really nicely named function and it turns out for all of the other task types that we're gonna discover, these kind of don't exist. So this is how you would schedule a microtask. Let's talk about tasks. Now, tasks are probably the oldest and most fundamental task type because that's what the event loop and JavaScript was built around. And yet it is surprisingly hard to just schedule a task. What most people recommend or give you when you go for it is set timeout with a timeout of zero. And that is both correct and incorrect. Most of the time that will be okay. However, set timeout has some very specific rules that when you start scheduling tasks from within tasks using this, once you reach a certain depth, timeout clamping will occur. So it won't schedule a task immediately but it will start scaling it after four milliseconds. And both in browsers and in node, interestingly enough. So that's something to be mindful of. Yes. The spec for this says like is, you know, wait whatever time you put in there is a zero in this case but then the browser is free to add any kind of padding that it wants. Yes. And as you say, as the chain cap gets to a certain amount, the spec says four milliseconds, I think, but the browser can do whatever it wants beyond that. So yeah, it's... I think we have a previous two or three episode on this. Do we, Jake? Yes, we do. Well, we should link to it. Oh, depending on the broadcast order of the episodes we're filming. So yeah, this will work at a service level but if you get into it, it can start behaving weirdly. So a more reliable but surprisingly complicated way that I often use relies on message channel. Because what we can do is we create a message channel which is basically just a pipe with post message, send an empty message in on the one side and wait for it to come out the other side because these kinds of events are scheduled as a task. So event dispatch to call all the event is a task that gets scheduled by the engine. And so we can basically just call the call back in the message handler. Don't forget to call start because the message channel will just buffer messages until you tell it, okay, I'm ready to receive the messages now. So this would be a more reliable way with no timeout clamping or anything to interfere to schedule a task. I have used this in production. At that point I would recommend moving the message channel to a global and sending IDs so you don't have to create message channels over and over, but I thought for the sake of this slide I'm gonna keep it a bit simpler so it's easier to read. Yeah, so the reason we don't have like a simple function for queuing tasks is because there are many task queues and whenever someone suggests, let's have a simple function for queuing a task, the next question is which queue and everyone goes, oh yeah, it's a problem. And then... Yeah, and we're gonna discover that in a bit as well. One thing I think that I wanna point out is the API that a certain function, like the way a function is exposed to you, like here the do work function clearly returns a promise. That doesn't mean that it will call that function in the next microtask because under the hood it could do anything. It could use the task function to actually only resolve the promise in the next task. So the API that is exposed to you only tells you the minimum priority or the minimum delay that can occur, not nothing about the maximum because I've seen some people say, I see that talk about like web Bluetooth API which uses promises and they were kind of assuming that it will be resolved within a task. That's not the case. So this is a lower bound, not an upper bound. Yes, a promise which has already resolved will schedule a microtask straight away for a reaction. But yes, other than that, I mean, Fetch for instance, is going to go away and do a network call. So that's gonna take a while. And yeah, that's the same with Bluetooth, right? It's gonna go away and do something with something outside of the immediate machine. So yes, that takes time. Exactly. So now we're getting into the more arcane territory because have you heard of nanotasks? In passing, but not really. So I only heard them. I didn't know what they were. Also it's like, if we have now micro nanotasks, where are the millitasks? I think there is a gap that we need to fill. Nanotasks, so the thing is, for example, I don't know if they're actually called nanotasks, but what I'm saying is there is a task type that has a higher priority than microtasks, which I thought was quite interesting. It only exists in Node. It does not exist on the web, although they were talked about maybe adding it to the web. I'm still not quite sure what the benefit would be, but let's look at it. So let's play this game again, where we schedule a couple of console logs in a task, a microtask, a nanotask, and synchronous. And if everything goes right, what we should see is the task with the highest priority prints first, which is synchronous, then nanotask, then microtask, and task. So the question is, how do you schedule a nanotask? Any takers, Jake? Oh, okay then. What do we have in Node? Okay, so there is a task API in Node, but I assumed that was microtasks. Or did they call it like schedule job or something? I haven't even encountered that one. Maybe there's more that I could have covered. Oh, I'm maybe making it up just to... And what I'm trying to do right now is avoid just saying, I don't know, because really that is the trick. I didn't know before I did the research, so don't be ashamed. It is next tick. Next tick, that is the one I was thinking of. But I thought that was microtasks. See, I would have thought it is a task, because I feel like a tick is kind of what people say for one spin of the event loop kind of thing. And to me, okay, it's gonna look at the next task. But actually something you schedule with next tick has a higher priority than a microtask. And as such has been, I guess, colloquially dubbed as a nanotask, which, you know, that's in it. And next tick, process of next tick, obviously doesn't exist in the browser. They were talking about it for custom element callbacks and maybe even mutation observer, but none of that has happened. Those all just are either synchronous or microtasks at the time of recording. So what's the point in set? I don't know. I literally don't know. But things are gonna get even weirder, Jake. So set immediate is an API that used to exist in the browser, specifically IE. I don't think any other browser ever shipped it. And it's been, since been retired, it does still exist in node. So let's play this game again.  What do you think? From what you said before, nanotask, microtask. And my understanding, in the web spec, set immediate was a task. And part of the problem with the APIs, again, the question came up, which task queue? So I'm going to guess that set immediate comes before task, but I imagine that it would all depend on which task queue in the web, but I actually don't know how many task queues there are in node. That is pretty close to the truth. That being said, pretty close to my truth, which might be wrong because I'm still, this is the one I'm least sure about that I got it right. So if you run it this way, if we use my task function using message channel and all the other ones as we talked about, this is the output. It has a lower priority than a normal task, reliably. Now, looking at the documentation, set immediate says it runs a callback. It doesn't even mention the word task, but it says it runs the callback when all IO has finished. And that made me think because technically- It's more like idle callback than request idle. That's pretty close, actually, because I was thinking, well, message channel, a post message, is that considered IO? Maybe it could be. And so I tried the same experiments, but with set timeout. And what happened? They switched. So what I have deduced from this is that set immediate schedules a normal task, but similar to request idle callback, it only gets processed when there is no IO queued up to happen. So it has- There's something about the word immediate that doesn't instantly scream out to me after loads of other stuff is done. So that's what I think. I think set immediate is the least immediate way you could schedule a callback in Node. Great, excellent. Brilliant. So yeah, in a way, it's the closest thing that Node has to request idle callback, but yet at the same time, it is miles away from being the same thing. So I'm gonna, let's ignore set immediate. I don't think it has a lot of use cases. And if you do, please write a wrapper function with a better name so people know why you're using it. But all in all, maybe this might be useful for the one or other person. Quick, nice shortcuts, how to implement scheduling functions. I commented out Nanotask because that one doesn't exist on the web, but it's there for our friends who use Node. So maybe this slide is helpful to someone and maybe some people working on Node can tell me if I got set immediate right. Drop that in a gist and pop it in the description. I shall do that. Well, see you next time. Uh, b-roll. Let's see if I can get them back in. What's going on? Sorry, talk to me. It's connected. Now I'm gonna sound like because it's doing the wrong microphone. I don't think you can hear us.