IV

My brother had received a new book from Germany. It was a tragedy,

and the first attempt of a Saxon poet of whom my brother had been

taught to entertain the highest expectations. The exploits of

Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven into a dramatic series and

connection. According to German custom, it was minute and diffuse,

and dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. It was a chain

of audacious acts and unheard-of disasters. The moated fortress

and the thicket, the ambush and the battle, and the conflict of

headlong passions, were portrayed in wild numbers and with terrific

energy. An afternoon was set apart to rehearse this performance.

The language was familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose company,

therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.

The morning previous to this intended rehearsal I spent at home.

My mind was occupied with reflections relative to my own situation.

The sentiment which lived with chief energy in my heart was

connected with the image of Pleyel. In the midst of my anguish, I

had not been destitute of consolation. His late deportment had

given spring to my hopes. Was not the hour at hand which should

render me the happiest of human creatures? He suspected that I

looked with favorable eyes upon Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes

which he struggled in vain to conceal. He loved me, but was

hopeless that his love would be compensated. Is it not time, said

I, to rectify this error? But by what means is this to be

effected? It can only be done by a change of deportment in me; but

how must I demean myself for this purpose?

I must not speak. Neither eyes nor lips must impart the

information. He must not be assured that my heart is his, previous

to the tender of his own; but he must be convinced that it has not

been given to another; he must be supplied with space whereon to

build a doubt as to the true state of my affections; he must be

prompted to avow himself. The line of delicate propriety,—how

hard it is not to fall short, and not to overleap it!

This afternoon we shall meet.... We shall not separate till

late. It will be his province to accompany me home. The airy

expanse is without a speck. This breeze is usually steadfast, and

its promise of a bland and cloudless evening may be trusted. The

moon will rise at eleven, and at that hour we shall wind along this

bank. Possibly that hour may decide my fate. If suitable

encouragement be given, Pleyel will reveal his soul to me; and I,

ere I reach this threshold, will be made the happiest of beings.

And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy speed, sweet

evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at the

moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world

that the burning blushes and the mounting raptures of that moment

should be visible.

But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of

insurmountable limits. Yet, when minds are imbued with a genuine

sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? Are not motion and

touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed

me at moments when the pressure of his hand has thrown me into

tumults, and was it impossible that he mistook the impetuosities of

love for the eloquence of indignation?

But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come! And

yet I shudder at its near approach. An interview that must thus

terminate is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not

without its terrors. Would to heaven it were come and gone!

I feel no reluctance, my friends, to be thus explicit. Time was,

when these emotions would be hidden with immeasurable solicitude

from every human eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting impulses of

shame are gone. My scruples were preposterous and criminal. They

are bred in all hearts by a perverse and vicious education, and

they would still have maintained their place in my heart, had not

my portion been set in misery. My errors have taught me thus much

wisdom:—that those sentiments which we ought not to disclose it is

criminal to harbor.

It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four o’clock. I counted

the minutes as they passed; their flight was at once too rapid and

too slow: my sensations were of an excruciating kind; I could taste

no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a moment’s repose; when

the hour arrived I hastened to my brother’s.

Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come. On ordinary occasions

he was eminent for punctuality. He had testified great eagerness

to share in the pleasures of this rehearsal. He was to divide the

task with my brother, and in tasks like these he always engaged

with peculiar zeal. His elocution was less sweet than sonorous,

and, therefore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his friend

to the outrageous vehemence of this drama.

What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered through forgetfulness.

Yet this was incredible. Never had his memory been known to fail

upon even more trivial occasions. Not less impossible was it that

the scheme had lost its attractions, and that he stayed because his

coming would afford him no gratification. But why should we expect

him to adhere to the minute?

A half-hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a distance. Perhaps

he had misunderstood the hour which had been proposed. Perhaps he

had conceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been selected for

this purpose; but no. A review of preceding circumstances

demonstrated that such misapprehension was impossible; for he had

himself proposed this day, and this hour. This day his attention

would not otherwise be occupied; but to-morrow an indispensable

engagement was foreseen, by which all his time would be engrossed;

his detention, therefore, must be owing to some unforeseen and

extraordinary event. Our conjectures were vague, tumultuous, and

sometimes fearful. His sickness and his death might possibly have

detained him.

Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each other, and at the

path which led from the road. Every horseman that passed was, for

a moment, imagined to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and the sun,

gradually declining, at length disappeared. Every signal of his

coming proved fallacious, and our hopes were at length dismissed.

His absence affected my friends in no insupportable degree. They

should be obliged, they said, to defer this undertaking till the

morrow; and perhaps their impatient curiosity would compel them to

dispense entirely with his presence. No doubt some harmless

occurrence had diverted him from his purpose; and they trusted that

they should receive a satisfactory account of him in the morning.

It may be supposed that this disappointment affected me in a very

different manner. I turned aside my head to conceal my tears. I

fled into solitude, to give vent to my reproaches without

interruption or restraint. My heart was ready to burst with

indignation and grief. Pleyel was not the only object of my keen

but unjust upbraiding. Deeply did I execrate my own folly. Thus

fallen into ruins was the gay fabric which I had reared! Thus had

my golden vision melted into air!

How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover! If he were, would

he have suffered any obstacle to hinder his coming? “Blind and

infatuated man!” I exclaimed. “Thou sportest with happiness. The

good that is offered thee thou hast the insolence and folly to

refuse. Well, I will henceforth intrust my felicity to no one’s

keeping but my own.”

The first agonies of this disappointment would not allow me to be

reasonable or just. Every ground on which I had built the

persuasion that Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor appeared to

vanish. It seemed as if I had been misled into this opinion by the

most palpable illusions.

I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much earlier than I

expected, to my own house. I retired early to my chamber, without

designing to sleep. I placed myself at a window, and gave the

reins to reflection.

The hateful and degrading impulses which had lately controlled me

were, in some degree, removed. New dejection succeeded, but was

now produced by contemplating my late behavior. Surely that

passion is worthy to be abhorred which obscures our understanding

and urges us to the commission of injustice. What right had I to

expect his attendance? Had I not demeaned myself like one

indifferent to his happiness, and as having bestowed my regards

upon another? His absence might be prompted by the love which I

considered his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came not

because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion,

contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy or

silence, his misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him

explicitly, and assure him of the truth?

You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I

rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly

make this confession in a letter. A second thought showed me the

rashness of this scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I

could be betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. I saw with

the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the most

remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and

utterly unworthy of that passion which controlled me.

I resumed my seat and my musing. To account for the absence of

Pleyel became once more the scope of my conjectures. How many

incidents might occur to raise an insuperable impediment in his

way! When I was a child, a scheme of pleasure, in which he and his

sister were parties, had been in like manner frustrated by his

absence; but his absence, in that instance, had been occasioned by

his falling from a boat into the river, in consequence of which he

had run the most imminent hazard of being drowned. Here was a

second disappointment endured by the same persons, and produced by

his failure. Might it not originate in the same cause? Had he not

designed to cross the river that morning to make some necessary

purchases in New Jersey? He had preconcerted to return to his own

house to dinner but perhaps some disaster had befallen him.

Experience had taught me the insecurity of a canoe, and that was

the only kind of boat which Pleyel used; I was, likewise, actuated

by an hereditary dread of water. These circumstances combined to

bestow considerable plausibility on this conjecture; but the

consternation with which I began to be seized was allayed by

reflecting that, if this disaster had happened, my brother would

have received the speediest information of it. The consolation

which this idea imparted was ravished from me by a new thought.

This disaster might have happened, and his family not be apprised

of it. The first intelligence of his fate may be communicated by

the livid corpse which the tide may cast, many days hence, upon the

shore.

Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures; thus was I tormented

by phantoms of my own creation. It was not always thus. I can

ascertain the date when my mind became the victim of this

imbecility; perhaps it was coeval with the inroad of a fatal

passion,—a passion that will never rank me in the number of its

eulogists; it was alone sufficient to the extermination of my

peace; it was itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed not

the concurrence of other evils to take away the attractions of

existence and dig for me an untimely grave.

The state of my mind naturally introduced a train of reflections

upon the dangers and cares which inevitably beset a human being.

By no violent transition was I led to ponder on the turbulent life

and mysterious end of my father. I cherished with the utmost

veneration the memory of this man, and every relic connected with

his fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care. Among these

was to be numbered a manuscript containing memoirs of his own life.

The narrative was by no means recommended by its eloquence; but

neither did all its value flow from my relationship to the author.

Its style had an unaffected and picturesque simplicity. The great

variety and circumstantial display of the incidents, together with

their intrinsic importance as descriptive of human manners and

passions, made it the most useful book in my collection. It was

late: but, being sensible of no inclination to sleep, I resolved to

betake myself to the perusal of it.

To do this, it was requisite to procure a light. The girl had long

since retired to her chamber: it was therefore proper to wait upon

myself. A lamp, and the means of lighting it, were only to be

found in the kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to repair; but

the light was of use merely to enable me to read the book. I knew

the shelf and the spot where it stood. Whether I took down the

book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, appeared to be a

matter of no moment. The latter was preferred, and, leaving my

seat, I approached the closet in which, as I mentioned formerly, my

books and papers were deposited.

Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately passed in this closet

occurred. Whether midnight was approaching, or had passed, I knew

not. I was, as then, alone and defenseless. The wind was in that

direction in which, aided by the deathlike repose of nature, it

brought to me the murmur of the waterfall. This was mingled with

that solemn and enchanting sound which a breeze produces among the

leaves of pines. The words of that mysterious dialogue, their

fearful import, and the wild excess to which I was transported by

my terrors, filled my imagination anew. My steps faltered, and I

stood a moment to recover myself.

I prevailed on myself at length to move toward the closet. I

touched the lock, but my fingers were powerless; I was visited

afresh by unconquerable apprehensions. A sort of belief darted

into my mind that some being was concealed within whose purposes

were evil. I began to contend with those fears, when it occurred

to me that I might, without impropriety, go for a lamp previously

to opening the closet. I receded a few steps; but before I reached

the chamber door my thoughts took a new direction. Motion seemed

to produce a mechanical influence upon me. I was ashamed of my

weakness. Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a lamp?

My fears had pictured to themselves no precise object. It would be

difficult to depict in words the ingredients and hues of that

phantom which haunted me. A hand invisible and of preternatural

strength, lifted by human passions, and selecting my life for its

aim, were parts of this terrific image. All places were alike

accessible to this foe; or, if his empire were restricted by local

bounds, those bounds were utterly inscrutable by me. But had I not

been told, by some one in league with this enemy, that every place

but the recess in the bank was exempt from danger?

I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock.

Oh, may my ears lose their sensibility ere they be again assailed

by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my understanding was subdued

by the sound; it acted on my nerves like an edge of steel. It

appeared to cut asunder the fibers of my brain and rack every joint

with agony.

The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No

articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied

it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to

persuade me that the lips which uttered it touched my very

shoulder.

“Hold! hold!” were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in

whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy

converted into eagerness and terror.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and, by the same

involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the

mysterious monitor. The moonlight streamed into each window, and

every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!

The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, between the

utterance of these words and my scrutiny directed to the quarter

whence they came. Yet, if a human being had been there, could he

fail to have been visible? Which of my senses was the prey of a

fatal illusion? The shock which the sound produced was still felt

in every part of my frame. The sound, therefore, could not but be

a genuine commotion. But that I had heard it was not more true

than that the being who uttered it was stationed at my right ear;

yet my attendant was invisible.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that moment.

Surprise had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the vital

current was congealed. I was conscious only of the vehemence of my

sensations. This condition could not be lasting. Like a tide,

which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming height and then gradually

subsides, my confusion slowly gave place to order, and my tumults

to a calm. I was able to deliberate and move. I resumed my feet,

and advanced into the midst of the room. Upward, and behind, and

on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not satisfied

with one examination. He that hitherto refused to be seen might

change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly

distinguishable.

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is less

fertile of images than the feeble luster of the moon. I was alone,

and the walls were checkered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed

behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with

life, and to move. The apartment was open to the breeze, and the

curtain was occasionally blown from its ordinary position. This

motion was not unaccompanied with sound. I failed not to snatch a

look and to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. My

belief that my monitor was posted near was strong, and instantly

converted these appearances to tokens of his presence; and yet I

could discern nothing.

When my thoughts were at length permitted to revert to the past,

the first idea that occurred was the resemblance between the words

of the voice which I had just heard and those which had terminated

my dream in the summer-house. There are means by which we are able

to distinguish a substance from a shadow, a reality from the

phantom of a dream. The pit, my brother beckoning me forward, the

seizure of my arm, and the voice behind, were surely imaginary.

That these incidents were fashioned in my sleep is supported by the

same indubitable evidence that compels me to believe myself awake

at present; yet the words and the voice were the same. Then, by

some inexplicable contrivance, I was aware of the danger, while my

actions and sensations were those of one wholly unacquainted with

it. Now, was it not equally true that my actions and persuasions

were at war? Had not the belief that evil lurked in the closet

gained admittance, and had not my actions betokened an

unwarrantable security? To obviate the effects of my infatuation,

the same means had been used.

In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruction was my brother.

Death was ambushed in my path. From what evil was I now rescued?

What minister or implement of ill was shut up in this recess? Who

was it whose suffocating grasp I was to feel should I dare to enter

it? What monstrous conception is this? My brother?

No; protection, and not injury, is his province. Strange and

terrible chimera! Yet it would not be suddenly dismissed. It was

surely no vulgar agency that gave this form to my fears. He to

whom all parts of time are equally present, whom no contingency

approaches, was the author of that spell which now seized upon me.

Life was dear to me. No consideration was present that enjoined me

to relinquish it. Sacred duty combined with every spontaneous

sentiment to endear to me my being. Should I not shudder when my

being was endangered? But what emotion should possess me when the

arm lifted against me was Wieland’s?

Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted for by no

established laws. Why did I dream that my brother was my foe? Why

but because an omen of my fate was ordained to be communicated?

Yet what salutary end did it serve? Did it arm me with caution to

elude or fortitude to bear the evils to which I was reserved? My

present thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue to the

similitude existing between these incidents and those of my dream.

Surely it was frenzy that dictated my deed. That a ruffian was

hidden in the closet was an idea the genuine tendency of which was

to urge me to flight. Such had been the effect formerly produced.

Had my mind been simply occupied with this thought at present, no

doubt the same impulse would have been experienced; but now it was

my brother whom I was irresistibly persuaded to regard as the

contriver of that ill of which I had been forewarned. This

persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my danger. Why then did I

again approach the closet and withdraw the bolt? My resolution was

instantly conceived, and executed without faltering.

The door was formed of light materials. The lock, of simple

structure, easily forewent its hold. It opened into the room, and

commonly moved upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any

effort of mine. This effort, however, was bestowed upon the

present occasion. It was my purpose to open it with quickness; but

the exertion which I made was ineffectual. It refused to open.

At another time, this circumstance would not have looked with a

face of mystery. I should have supposed some casual obstruction

and repeated my efforts to surmount it. But now my mind was

accessible to no conjecture but one. The door was hindered from

opening by human force. Surely, here was a new cause for affright.

This was confirmation proper to decide my conduct. Now was all

ground of hesitation taken away. What could be supposed but that I

deserted the chamber and the house? that I at least endeavored no

longer to withdraw the door?

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by frenzy? My reason

had forborne, for a time, to suggest or to sway my resolves. I

reiterated my endeavors. I exerted all my force to overcome the

obstacle, but in vain. The strength that was exerted to keep it

shut was superior to mine.

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the audaciousness of this

conduct. Whence, but from a habitual defiance of danger, could my

perseverance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly as I am

able, the cause of it. The frantic conception that my brother was

within, that the resistance made to my design was exerted by him,

had rooted itself in my mind. You will comprehend the height of

this infatuation, when I tell you that, finding all my exertions

vain, I betook myself to exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft

of understanding.

Now I had arrived at the crisis of my fate. “Oh, hinder not the

door to open,” I exclaimed, in a tone that had less of fear than of

grief in it. “I know you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I

beseech you, come forth.”

I had taken my hand from the lock and removed to a small distance

from the door. I had scarcely uttered these words, when the door

swung upon its hinges and displayed to my view the interior of the

closet. Whoever was within was shrouded in darkness. A few

seconds passed without interruption of the silence. I knew not

what to expect or to fear. My eyes would not stray from the

recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard. The quarter from which

it came heightened the eagerness of my gaze. Some one approached

from the farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines of a human

figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow. I recoiled as it

advanced.

By coming at length within the verge of the room, his form was

clearly distinguishable. I had prefigured to myself a very

different personage. The face that presented itself was the last

that I should desire to meet at an hour and in a place like this.

My wonder was stifled by my fears. Assassins had lurked in this

recess. Some divine voice warned me of danger that at this moment

awaited me. I had spurned the intimation, and challenged my

adversary.

I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of

Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps

hither? I was alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place, and

the warmth of the season. All succor was remote. He had placed

himself between me and the door. My frame shook with the vehemence

of my apprehensions.

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself; I vigilantly marked his

demeanor. His looks were grave, but not without perturbation.

What species of inquietude it betrayed the light was not strong

enough to enable me to discover. He stood still; but his eyes

wandered from one object to another. When these powerful organs

were fixed upon me, I shrunk into myself. At length he broke

silence. Earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his tone. He

advanced close to me while he spoke:—

“What voice was that which lately addressed you?”

He paused for an answer; but, observing my trepidation, he resumed,

with undiminished solemnity, “Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he

has done you an important service. I need not ask you if it were

the voice of a companion. That sound was beyond the compass of

human organs. The knowledge that enabled him to tell you who was

in the closet was obtained by incomprehensible means.

“You knew that Carwin was there. Were you not apprised of his

intents? The same power could impart the one as well as the other.

Yet, knowing these, you persisted. Audacious girl! But perhaps

you confided in his guardianship. Your confidence was just. With

succor like this at hand you may safely defy me.

“He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best-concerted schemes.

Twice have you been saved by his accursed interposition. But for

him I should long ere now have borne away the spoils of your

honor.”

He looked at me with greater steadfastness than before. I became

every moment more anxious for my safety. It was with difficulty I

stammered out an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer

me to do so. He paid no regard to my request, but proceeded in a

more impassioned manner:—

“What is it you fear? Have I not told you you are safe? Has not

one in whom you more reasonably place trust assured you of it?

Even if I execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your prejudices

will call it by that name, but it merits it not.

“I was impelled by a sentiment that does you honor; a sentiment

that would sanctify my deed; but, whatever it be, you are safe. Be

this chimera still worshiped; I will do nothing to pollute it.”

There he stopped.

The accents and gestures of this man left me drained of all

courage. Surely, on no other occasion should I have been thus

pusillanimous. My state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was

wholly at the mercy of this being. Whichever way I turned my eyes,

I saw no avenue by which I might escape. The resources of my

personal strength, my ingenuity, and my eloquence, I estimated at

nothing. The dignity of virtue and the force of truth I had been

accustomed to celebrate, and had frequently vaunted of the

conquests which I should make with their assistance.

I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in

possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with

energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power

to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at

less than our life. How was it that a sentiment like despair had

now invaded me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance, or

to the pity of my persecutor?

His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had

meditated. He talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. He

had relinquished his design. These sources supplied me with

slender consolation. There was no security but in his absence.

When I looked at myself, when I reflected on the hour and the

place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.

He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made

no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could I say?

I was confident that reason in this contest would be impotent. I

must owe my safety to his own suggestions. Whatever purpose

brought him hither, he had changed it. Why then did he remain?

His resolutions might fluctuate, and the pause of a few minutes

restore to him his first resolutions.

Yet was not this the man whom we had treated with unwearied

kindness? whose society was endeared to us by his intellectual

elevation and accomplishments? who had a thousand times expatiated

on the usefulness and beauty of virtue? Why should such a one be

dreaded? If I could have forgotten the circumstances in which our

interview had taken place, I might have treated his words as jests.

Presently, he resumed:—

“Fear me not: the space that severs us is small, and all visible

succor is distant. You believe yourself completely in my power;

that you stand upon the brink of ruin. Such are your groundless

fears. I cannot lift a finger to hurt you. Easier would it be to

stop the moon in her course than to injure you. The power that

protects you would crumble my sinews and reduce me to a heap of

ashes in a moment, if I were to harbor a thought hostile to your

safety.

“Thus are appearances at length solved. Little did I expect that

they originated hence. What a portion is assigned to you! Scanned

by the eyes of this intelligence, your path will be without pits to

swallow or snares to entangle you. Environed by the arms of this

protection, all artifices will be frustrated and all malice

repelled.”

Here succeeded a new pause. I was still observant of every gesture

and look. The tranquil solemnity that had lately possessed his

countenance gave way to a new expression. All now was trepidation

and anxiety.

“I must be gone,” said he, in a faltering accent. “Why do I linger

here? I will not ask your forgiveness. I see that your terrors

are invincible. Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not

dictated by compassion. I must fly from you forever. He that

could plot against your honor must expect from you and your friends

persecution and death. I must doom myself to endless exile.”

Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened while he

descended the stairs, and, unbolting the outer door, went forth. I

did not follow him with my eyes, as the moonlight would have

enabled me to do. Relieved by his absence, and exhausted by the

conflict of my fears, I threw myself on a chair, and resigned

myself to those bewildering ideas which incidents like these could

not fail to produce.

V

Order could not readily be introduced into my thoughts. The voice

still rung in my ears. Every accent that was uttered by Carwin was

fresh in my remembrance. His unwelcome approach, the recognition

of his person, his hasty departure, produced a complex impression

on my mind which no words can delineate. I strove to give a slower

motion to my thoughts, and to regulate a confusion which became

painful; but my efforts were nugatory. I covered my eyes with my

hand, and sat, I know not how long, without power to arrange or

utter my conceptions.

I had remained for hours, as I believed, in absolute solitude. No

thought of personal danger had molested my tranquillity. I had

made no preparation for defense. What was it that suggested the

design of perusing my father’s manuscript? If, instead of this, I

had retired to bed and to sleep, to what fate might I not have been

reserved. The ruffian, who must almost have suppressed his

breathings to screen himself from discovery, would have noticed

this signal, and I should have awakened only to perish with

affright, and to abhor myself. Could I have remained unconscious

of my danger? Could I have tranquilly slept in the midst of so

deadly a snare?

And who was he that threatened to destroy me? By what means could

he hide himself in this closet? Surely he is gifted with

supernatural power. Such is the enemy of whose attempts I was

forewarned. Daily I had seen him and conversed with him. Nothing

could be discerned through the impenetrable veil of his duplicity.

When busied in conjectures as to the author of the evil that was

threatened, my mind did not light for a moment upon his image. Yet

has he not avowed himself my enemy? Why should he be here if he

had not meditated evil?

He confesses that this has been his second attempt. What was the

scene of his former conspiracy? Was it not he whose whispers

betrayed him? Am I deceived? or was there not a faint resemblance

between the voice of this man and that which talked of grasping my

throat and extinguishing my life in a moment? Then he had a

colleague in his crime; now he is alone. Then death was the scope

of his thoughts; now an injury unspeakably more dreadful. How

thankful should I be to the power that has interposed to save me!

That power is invisible. It is subject to the cognizance of one of

my senses. What are the means that will inform me of what nature

it is? He has set himself to counter-work the machinations of this

man, who had menaced destruction to all that is dear to me, and

whose coming had surmounted every human impediment. There was none

to rescue me from his grasp. My rashness even hastened the

completion of his scheme, and precluded him from the benefits of

deliberation. I had robbed him of the power to repent and forbear.

Had I been apprised of the danger, I should have regarded my

conduct as the means of rendering my escape from it impossible.

Such, likewise, seem to have been the fears of my invisible

protector. Else why that startling entreaty to refrain from

opening the closet? By what inexplicable infatuation was I

compelled to proceed?

“Surely,” said I, “there is omnipotence in the cause that changed

the views of a man like Carwin. The divinity that shielded me from

his attempts will take suitable care of my future safety. Thus to

yield to my fears is to deserve that they should be real.”

Scarcely had I uttered these words, when my attention was startled

by the sound of footsteps. They denoted some one stepping into the

piazza in front of my house. My new-born confidence was

extinguished in a moment. Carwin, I thought, had repented his

departure, and was hastily returning. The possibility that his

return was prompted by intentions consistent with my safety found

no place in my mind. Images of violation and murder assailed me

anew, and the terrors which succeeded almost incapacitated me from

taking any measures for my defense. It was an impulse of which I

was scarcely conscious that made me fasten the lock and draw the

bolts of my chamber door. Having done this, I threw myself on a

seat; for I trembled to a degree which disabled me from standing,

and my soul was so perfectly absorbed in the act of listening, that

almost the vital motions were stopped.

The door below creaked on its hinges. It was not again thrust to,

but appeared to remain open. Footsteps entered, traversed the

entry, and began to mount the stairs. How I detested the folly of

not pursuing the man when he withdrew, and bolting after him the

outer door! Might he not conceive this omission to be a proof that

my angel had deserted me, and be thereby fortified in guilt?

Every step on the stairs which brought him nearer to my chamber

added vigor to my desperation. The evil with which I was menaced

was to be at any rate eluded. How little did I preconceive the

conduct which, in an exigence like this, I should be prone to

adopt! You will suppose that deliberation and despair would have

suggested the same course of action, and that I should have

unhesitatingly resorted to the best means of personal defense

within my power. A penknife lay open upon my table. I remembered

that it was there, and seized it. For what purpose you will

scarcely inquire. It will be immediately supposed that I meant it

for my last refuge, and that, if all other means should fail, I

should plunge it into the heart of my ravisher.

I have lost all faith in the steadfastness of human resolves. It

was thus that in periods of calm I had determined to act. No

cowardice had been held by me in greater abhorrence than that which

prompted an injured female to destroy, not her injurer ere the

injury was perpetrated, but herself when it was without remedy.

Yet now this penknife appeared to me of no other use than to baffle

my assailant and prevent the crime by destroying myself. To

deliberate at such a time was impossible; but, among the tumultuous

suggestions of the moment, I do not recollect that it once occurred

to me to use it as an instrument of direct defense.

The steps had now reached the second floor. Every footfall

accelerated the completion without augmenting the certainty of

evil. The consciousness that the door was fast, now that nothing

but that was interposed between me and danger, was a source of some

consolation. I cast my eye toward the window. This, likewise, was

a new suggestion. If the door should give way, it was my sudden

resolution to throw myself from the window. Its height from the

ground, which was covered beneath by a brick pavement, would insure

my destruction; but I thought not of that.

When opposite to my door the footsteps ceased. Was he listening

whether my fears were allayed and my caution were asleep? Did he

hope to take me by surprise? Yet, if so, why did he allow so many

noisy signals to betray his approach? Presently the steps were

again heard to approach the door. A hand was laid upon the lock,

and the latch pulled back. Did he imagine it possible that I

should fail to secure the door? A slight effort was made to push

it open, as if, all bolts being withdrawn, a slight effort only was

required.

I no sooner perceived this than I moved swiftly toward the window.

Carwin’s frame might be said to be all muscle. His strength and

activity had appeared, in various instances, to be prodigious. A

slight exertion of his force would demolish the door. Would not

that exertion be made? Too surely it would; but, at the same

moment that this obstacle should yield and he should enter the

apartment, my determination was formed to leap from the window. My

senses were still bound to this object. I gazed at the door in

momentary expectation that the assault would be made. The pause

continued. The person without was irresolute and motionless.

Suddenly it occurred to me that Carwin might conceive me to have

fled. That I had not betaken myself to flight was, indeed, the

least probable of all conclusions. In this persuasion he must have

been confirmed on finding the lower door unfastened and the chamber

door locked. Was it not wise to foster this persuasion? Should I

maintain deep silence, this, in addition to other circumstances,

might encourage the belief, and he would once more depart. Every

new reflection added plausibility to this reasoning. It was

presently more strongly enforced when I noticed footsteps

withdrawing from the door. The blood once more flowed back to my

heart, and a dawn of exultation began to rise; but my joy was

short-lived. Instead of descending the stairs, he passed to the

door of the opposite chamber, opened it, and, having entered, shut

it after him with a violence that shook the house.

How was I to interpret this circumstance? For what end could he

have entered this chamber? Did the violence with which he closed

the door testify the depth of his vexation? This room was usually

occupied by Pleyel. Was Carwin aware of his absence on this night?

Could he be suspected of a design so sordid as pillage? If this

were his view, there were no means in my power to frustrate it. It

behooved me to seize the first opportunity to escape; but, if my

escape were supposed by my enemy to have been already effected, no

asylum was more secure than the present. How could my passage from

the house be accomplished without noises that might incite him to

pursue me?

Utterly at a loss to account for his going into Pleyel’s chamber, I

waited in instant expectation of hearing him come forth. All,

however, was profoundly still. I listened in vain for a

considerable period to catch the sound of the door when it should

again be opened. There was no other avenue by which he could

escape, but a door which led into the girl’s chamber. Would any

evil from this quarter befall the girl?

Hence arose a new train of apprehensions. They merely added to the

turbulence and agony of my reflections. Whatever evil impended

over her, I had no power to avert it. Seclusion and silence were

the only means of saving myself from the perils of this fatal

night. What solemn vows did I put up, that, if I should once more

behold the light of day, I would never trust myself again within

the threshold of this dwelling!

Minute lingered after minute, but no token was given that Carwin

had returned to the passage. What, I again asked, could detain him

in this room? Was it possible that he had returned, and glided

unperceived away? I was speedily aware of the difficulty that

attended an enterprise like this; and yet, as if by that means I

were capable of gaining any information on that head, I cast

anxious looks from the window.

The object that first attracted my attention was a human figure

standing on the edge of the bank. Perhaps my penetration was

assisted by my hopes. Be that as it will, the figure of Carwin was

clearly distinguishable. From the obscurity of my station, it was

impossible that I should be discerned by him; and yet he scarcely

suffered me to catch a glimpse of him. He turned and went down the

steep, which in this part was not difficult to be scaled.

My conjecture, then, had been right. Carwin has softly opened the

door, descended the stairs, and issued forth. That I should not

have overheard his steps was only less incredible than that my eyes

had deceived me. But what was now to be done? The house was at

length delivered from this detested inmate. By one avenue might he

again reenter. Was it not wise to bar the lower door? Perhaps he

had gone out by the kitchen door. For this end, he must have

passed through Judith’s chamber. These entrances being closed and

bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible with my

lonely condition.

The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me

struggle successfully with my fears. Yet I opened my own door with

the utmost caution, and descended as if I were afraid that Carwin

had been still immured in Pleyel’s chamber. The outer door was

ajar. I shut it with trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that

appended to it. I then passed with light and less cautious steps

through the parlor, but was surprised to discover that the kitchen

door was secure. I was compelled to acquiesce in the first

conjecture that Carwin had escaped through the entry.

My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. I

returned once more to my chamber, the door of which I was careful

to lock. It was no time to think of repose. The moonlight began

already to fade before the light of the day. The approach of

morning was betokened by the usual signals. I mused upon the

events of this night, and determined to take up my abode henceforth

at my brother’s. Whether I should inform him of what had happened

was a question which seemed to demand some consideration. My

safety unquestionably required that I should abandon my present

habitation.

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of

Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me.

I again ran over the possible causes of his absence on the

preceding day. My mind was attuned to melancholy. I dwelt, with

an obstinacy for which I could not account, on the idea of his

death. I painted to myself his struggles with the billows, and his

last appearance. I imagined myself a midnight wanderer on the

shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse, which the tide had cast

up. These dreary images affected me even to tears. I endeavored

not to restrain them. They imparted a relief which I had not

anticipated. The more copiously they flowed, the more did my

general sensations appear to subside into calm, and a certain

restlessness give way to repose.

Perhaps, relieved by this effusion, the slumber so much wanted

might have stolen on my senses, had there been no new cause of

alarm.