I was aroused from this stupor by sounds that evidently arose in
the next chamber. Was it possible that I had been mistaken in the
figure which I had seen on the bank? or had Carwin, by some
inscrutable means, penetrated once more into this chamber? The
opposite door opened; footsteps came forth, and the person,
advancing to mine, knocked.
So unexpected an incident robbed me of all presence of mind, and,
starting up, I involuntarily exclaimed, “Who is there?” An answer
was immediately given. The voice, to my inexpressible
astonishment, was Pleyel’s.
“It is I. Have you risen? If you have not, make haste; I want
three minutes’ conversation with you in the parlor. I will wait
for you there.” Saying this, he retired from the door.
Should I confide in the testimony of my ears? If that were true,
it was Pleyel that had been hitherto immured in the opposite
chamber; he whom my rueful fancy had depicted in so many ruinous
and ghastly shapes; he whose footsteps had been listened to with
such inquietude! What is man, that knowledge is so sparingly
conferred upon him! that his heart should be wrung with distress,
and his frame be exanimated with fear, though his safety be
encompassed with impregnable walls! What are the bounds of human
imbecility! He that warned me of the presence of my foe refused
the intimation by which so many racking fears would have been
precluded.
Yet who would have imagined the arrival of Pleyel at such an hour?
His tone was desponding and anxious. Why this unseasonable
summons? and why this hasty departure? Some tidings he, perhaps,
bears of mysterious and unwelcome import.
My impatience would not allow me to consume much time in
deliberation; I hastened down. Pleyel I found standing at a
window, with eyes cast down as in meditation, and arms folded on
his breast. Every line in his countenance was pregnant with
sorrow. To this was added a certain wanness and air of fatigue.
The last time I had seen him appearances had been the reverse of
these. I was startled at the change. The first impulse was to
question him as to the cause. This impulse was supplanted by some
degree of confusion, flowing from a consciousness that love had too
large, and, as it might prove, a perceptible, share in creating
this impulse. I was silent.
Presently he raised his eyes and fixed them upon me. I read in
them an anguish altogether ineffable. Never had I witnessed a like
demeanor in Pleyel. Never, indeed, had I observed a human
countenance in which grief was more legibly inscribed. He seemed
struggling for utterance; but, his struggles being fruitless, he
shook his head and turned away from me.
My impatience would not allow me to be longer silent. “What,” said
I, “for heaven’s sake, my friend,—what is the matter?”
He started at the sound of my voice. His looks, for a moment,
became convulsed with an emotion very different from grief. His
accents were broken with rage:—
“The matter! O wretch!—thus exquisitely fashioned,—on whom
nature seemed to have exhausted all her graces; with charms so
awful and so pure! how art thou fallen! From what height fallen!
A ruin so complete,—so unheard of!”
His words were again choked by emotion. Grief and pity were again
mingled in his features. He resumed, in a tone half suffocated by
sobs:—
“But why should I upbraid thee? Could I restore to thee what thou
hast lost, efface this cursed stain, snatch thee from the jaws of
this fiend, I would do it. Yet what will avail my efforts? I have
not arms with which to contend with so consummate, so frightful a
depravity.
“Evidence less than this would only have excited resentment and
scorn. The wretch who should have breathed a suspicion injurious
to thy honor would have been regarded without anger: not hatred or
envy could have prompted him; it would merely be an argument of
madness. That my eyes, that my ears, should bear witness to thy
fall! By no other way could detestable conviction be imparted.
“Why do I summon thee to this conference? Why expose myself to thy
derision? Here admonition and entreaty are vain. Thou knowest him
already for a murderer and thief. I thought to have been the first
to disclose to thee his infamy; to have warned thee of the pit to
which thou art hastening; but thy eyes are open in vain. Oh, foul
and insupportable disgrace!
“There is but one path. I know you will disappear together. In
thy ruin, how will the felicity and honor of multitudes be
involved! But it must come. This scene shall not be blotted by
his presence. No doubt thou wilt shortly see thy detested
paramour. This scene will be again polluted by a midnight
assignation. Inform him of his dangers; tell him that his crimes
are known; let him fly far and instantly from this spot, if he
desires to avoid the fate which menaced him in Ireland.
“And wilt thou not stay behind? But shame upon my weakness! I
know not what I would say. I have done what I purposed. To stay
longer, to expostulate, to beseech, to enumerate the consequences
of thy act,—what end can it serve but to blazon thy infamy and
embitter our woes? And yet, oh, think—think ere it be too late—
on the distresses which thy flight will entail upon us; on the
base, groveling, and atrocious character of the wretch to whom thou
hast sold thy honor. But what is this? Is not thy effrontery
impenetrable and thy heart thoroughly cankered? Oh, most specious
and most profligate of women!”
Saying this, he rushed out of the house. I saw him in a few
moments hurrying along the path which led to my brother’s. I had
no power to prevent his going, or to recall or to follow him. The
accents I had heard were calculated to confound and bewilder. I
looked around me, to assure myself that the scene was real. I
moved, that I might banish the doubt that I was awake. Such
enormous imputations from the mouth of Pleyel! To be stigmatized
with the names of wanton and profligate! To be charged with the
sacrifice of honor! with midnight meetings with a wretch known to
be a murderer and thief! with an intention to fly in his company!
What I had heard was surely the dictate of frenzy, or it was built
upon some fatal, some incomprehensible mistake. After the horrors
of the night, after undergoing perils so imminent from this man, to
be summoned to an interview like this!—to find Pleyel fraught with
a belief that, instead of having chosen death as a refuge from the
violence of this man, I had hugged his baseness to my heart, had
sacrificed for him my purity, my spotless name, my friendships, and
my fortune! That even madness could engender accusations like
these was not to be believed.
What evidence could possibly suggest conceptions so wild? After
the unlooked-for interview with Carwin in my chamber, he retired.
Could Pleyel have observed his exit? It was not long after that
Pleyel himself entered. Did he build on this incident his odious
conclusions? Could the long series of my actions and sentiments
grant me no exemption from suspicions so foul? Was it not more
rational to infer that Carwin’s designs had been illicit? that my
life had been endangered by the fury of one whom, by some means, he
had discovered to be an assassin and robber? that my honor had been
assailed, not by blandishments, but by violence?
He has judged me without hearing. He has drawn from dubious
appearances conclusions the most improbable and unjust. He has
loaded me with all outrageous epithets. He has ranked me with
prostitutes and thieves. I cannot pardon thee, Pleyel, for this
injustice. Thy understanding must be hurt. If it be not,—if thy
conduct was sober and deliberate,—I can never forgive an outrage
so unmanly and so gross.
These thoughts gradually gave place to others. Pleyel was
possessed by some momentary frenzy; appearances had led him into
palpable errors. Whence could his sagacity have contracted this
blindness? Was it not love? Previously assured of my affection
for Carwin, distracted with grief and jealousy, and impelled hither
at that late hour by some unknown instigation, his imagination
transformed shadows into monsters, and plunged him into these
deplorable errors.
This idea was not unattended with consolation. My soul was divided
between indignation at his injustice and delight on account of the
source from which I conceived it to spring. For a long time they
would allow admission to no other thoughts. Surprise is an emotion
that enfeebles, not invigorates. All my meditations were
accompanied with wonder. I rambled with vagueness, or clung to one
image with an obstinacy which sufficiently testified the maddening
influence of late transactions.
Gradually I proceeded to reflect upon the consequences of Pleyel’s
mistake, and on the measures I should take to guard myself against
future injury from Carwin. Should I suffer this mistake to be
detected by time? When his passion should subside, would he not
perceive the flagrancy of his injustice and hasten to atone for it?
Did it not become my character to testify resentment for language
and treatment so opprobrious? Wrapped up in the consciousness of
innocence, and confiding in the influence of time and reflection to
confute so groundless a charge, it was my province to be passive
and silent.
As to the violences meditated by Carwin, and the means of eluding
them, the path to be taken by me was obvious. I resolved to tell
the tale to my brother and regulate myself by his advice. For this
end, when the morning was somewhat advanced, I took the way to his
house. My sister was engaged in her customary occupations. As
soon as I appeared, she remarked a change in my looks. I was not
willing to alarm her by the information which I had to communicate.
Her health was in that condition which rendered a disastrous tale
particularly unsuitable. I forbore a direct answer to her
inquiries, and inquired, in my turn, for Wieland.
“Why,” said she, “I suspect something mysterious and unpleasant has
happened this morning. Scarcely had we risen when Pleyel dropped
among us. What could have prompted him to make us so early and so
unseasonable a visit I cannot tell. To judge from the disorder of
his dress, and his countenance, something of an extraordinary
nature has occurred. He permitted me merely to know that he had
slept none, nor even undressed, during the past night. He took
your brother to walk with him. Some topic must have deeply engaged
them, for Wieland did not return till the breakfast hour was
passed, and returned alone. His disturbance was excessive; but he
would not listen to my importunities, or tell me what had happened.
I gathered, from hints which he let fall, that your situation was
in some way the cause; yet he assured me that you were at your own
house, alive, in good health, and in perfect safety. He scarcely
ate a morsel, and immediately after breakfast went out again. He
would not inform me whither he was going, but mentioned that he
probably might not return before night.”
I was equally astonished and alarmed by this information. Pleyel
had told his tale to my brother, and had, by a plausible and
exaggerated picture, instilled into him unfavorable thoughts of me.
Yet would not the more correct judgment of Wieland perceive and
expose the fallacy of his conclusions? Perhaps his uneasiness
might arise from some insight into the character of Carwin, and
from apprehensions for my safety. The appearances by which Pleyel
had been misled might induce him likewise to believe that I
entertained an indiscreet though not dishonorable affection for
Carwin. Such were the conjectures rapidly formed. I was
inexpressibly anxious to change them into certainty. For this end
an interview with my brother was desirable. He was gone no one
knew whither, and was not expected speedily to return. I had no
clew by which to trace his footsteps.
My anxieties could not be concealed from my sister. They
heightened her solicitude to be acquainted with the cause. There
were many reasons persuading me to silence; at least, till I had
seen my brother, it would be an act of inexcusable temerity to
unfold what had lately passed. No other expedient for eluding her
importunities occurred to me but that of returning to my own house.
I recollected my determination to become a tenant of this roof. I
mentioned it to her. She joyfully acceded to this proposal, and
suffered me with less reluctance to depart when I told her that it
was with a view to collect and send to my new dwelling what
articles would be immediately useful to me.
Once more I returned to the house which had been the scene of so
much turbulence and danger. I was at no great distance from it
when I observed my brother coming out. On seeing me he stopped,
and, after ascertaining, as it seemed, which way I was going, he
returned into the house before me. I sincerely rejoiced at this
event, and I hastened to set things, if possible, on their right
footing.
His brow was by no means expressive of those vehement emotions with
which Pleyel had been agitated. I drew a favorable omen from this
circumstance. Without delay I began the conversation.
“I have been to look for you,” said I, “but was told by Catharine
that Pleyel had engaged you on some important and disagreeable
affair. Before his interview with you he spent a few minutes with
me. These minutes he employed in upbraiding me for crimes and
intentions with which I am by no means chargeable. I believe him
to have taken up his opinions on very insufficient grounds. His
behavior was in the highest degree precipitate and unjust, and,
until I receive some atonement, I shall treat him, in my turn, with
that contempt which he justly merits; meanwhile, I am fearful that
he has prejudiced my brother against me. That is an evil which I
most anxiously deprecate, and which I shall indeed exert myself to
remove. Has he made me the subject of this morning’s conversation?”
My brother’s countenance testified no surprise at my address. The
benignity of his looks was nowise diminished.
“It is true,” said he, “your conduct was the subject of our
discourse. I am your friend as well as your brother. There is no
human being whom I love with more tenderness and whose welfare is
nearer my heart. Judge, then, with what emotions I listened to
Pleyel’s story. I expect and desire you to vindicate yourself from
aspersions so foul, if vindication be possible.”
The tone with which he uttered the last words affected me deeply.
“If vindication be possible!” repeated I. “From what you know, do
you deem a formal vindication necessary? Can you harbor for a
moment the belief of my guilt?”
He shook his head with an air of acute anguish. “I have
struggled,” said he, “to dismiss that belief. You speak before a
judge who will profit by any pretense to acquit you who is ready to
question his own senses when they plead against you.”
These words incited a new set of thoughts in my mind. I began to
suspect that Pleyel had built his accusations on some foundation
unknown to me. “I may be a stranger to the grounds of your belief.
Pleyel loaded me with indecent and virulent invectives, but he
withheld from me the facts that generated his suspicions. Events
took place last night of which some of the circumstances were of an
ambiguous nature. I conceived that these might possibly have
fallen under his cognizance, and that, viewed through the mists of
prejudice and passion, they supplied a pretense for his conduct,
but believed that your more unbiased judgment would estimate them
at their just value. Perhaps his tale has been different from what
I suspect it to be. Listen, then, to my narrative. If there be
anything in his story inconsistent with mine, his story is false.”
I then proceeded to a circumstantial relation of the incidents of
the last night. Wieland listened with deep attention. Having
finished, “This,” continued I, “is the truth. You see in what
circumstances an interview took place between Carwin and me. He
remained for hours in my closet, and for some minutes in my
chamber. He departed without haste or interruption. If Pleyel
marked him as he left the house, (and it is not impossible that he
did,) inferences injurious to my character might suggest themselves
to him. In admitting them, he gave proofs of less discernment and
less candor than I once ascribed to him.”
“His proofs,” said Wieland, after a considerable pause, “are
different. That he should be deceived is not possible. That he
himself is not the deceiver could not be believed, if his testimony
were not inconsistent with yours; but the doubts which I
entertained are now removed. Your tale, some parts of it, is
marvelous; the voice which exclaimed against your rashness in
approaching the closet, your persisting, notwithstanding that
prohibition, your belief that I was the ruffian, and your
subsequent conduct, are believed by me, because I have known you
from childhood, because a thousand instances have attested your
veracity, and because nothing less than my own hearing and vision
would convince me, in opposition to her own assertions, that my
sister had fallen into wickedness like this.”
I threw my arms around him and bathed his cheek with my tears.
“That,” said I, “is spoken like my brother. But what are the
proofs?”
He replied, “Pleyel informed me that, in going to your house, his
attention was attracted by two voices. The persons speaking sat
beneath the bank, out of sight. These persons, judging by their
voices, were Carwin and you. I will not repeat the dialogue. If
my sister was the female, Pleyel was justified in concluding you to
be indeed one of the most profligate of women. Hence his
accusations of you, and his efforts to obtain my concurrence to a
plan by which an eternal separation should be brought about between
my sister and this man.”
I made Wieland repeat this recital. Here indeed was a tale to fill
me with terrible foreboding. I had vainly thought that my safety
could be sufficiently secured by doors and bars, but this is a foe
from whose grasp no power of divinity can save me! His artifices
will ever lay my fame and happiness at his mercy. How shall I
counterwork his plots or detect his coadjutor? He has taught some
vile and abandoned female to mimic my voice. Pleyel’s ears were
the witnesses of my dishonor. This is the midnight assignation to
which he alluded. Thus is the silence he maintained when
attempting to open the door of my chamber, accounted for. He
supposed me absent, and meant, perhaps, had my apartment been
accessible, to leave in it some accusing memorial.