I had food enough for the longest contemplation. My steps partook, as
usual, of the vehemence of my thoughts, and I reached my uncle's gate
before I believed myself to have lost sight of the elm. I looked up and
discovered the well-known habitation. I could not endure that my
reflections should so speedily be interrupted. I therefore passed the
gate, and stopped not till I had reached a neighbouring summit, crowned
with chestnut-oaks and poplars.
Here I more deliberately reviewed the incidents that had just occurred.
The inference was just, that the man, half clothed and digging, was a
sleeper; but what was the cause of this morbid activity? What was the
mournful vision that dissolved him in tears, and extorted from him
tokens of inconsolable distress? What did he seek, or what endeavour to
conceal, in this fatal spot? The incapacity of sound sleep denotes a
mind sorely wounded. It is thus that atrocious criminals denote the
possession of some dreadful secret. The thoughts, which considerations
of safety enable them to suppress or disguise during wakefulness,
operate without impediment, and exhibit their genuine effects, when the
notices of sense are partly excluded and they are shut out from a
knowledge of their entire condition.
This is the perpetrator of some nefarious deed. What but the murder of
Waldegrave could direct his steps hither? His employment was part of
some fantastic drama in which his mind was busy. To comprehend it
demands penetration into the recesses of his soul. But one thing is
sure: an incoherent conception of his concern in that transaction
bewitches him hither. This it is that deluges his heart with bitterness
and supplies him with ever-flowing tears.
But whence comes he? He does not start from the bosom of the earth, or
hide himself in airy distance. He must have a name and a terrestrial
habitation. It cannot be at an immeasurable distance from the haunted
elm. Inglefield's house is the nearest. This may be one of its
inhabitants. I did not recognise his features, but this was owing to the
dusky atmosphere and to the singularity of his garb. Inglefield has two
servants, one of whom was a native of this district, simple, guileless,
and incapable of any act of violence. He was, moreover, devoutly
attached to his sect. He could not be the criminal.
The other was a person of a very different cast. He was an emigrant from
Ireland, and had been six months in the family of my friend. He was a
pattern of sobriety and gentleness. His mind was superior to his
situation. His natural endowments were strong, and had enjoyed all the
advantage of cultivation. His demeanour was grave, and thoughtful, and
compassionate. He appeared not untinctured with religion; but his
devotion, though unostentatious, was of a melancholy tenor.
There was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to
engender suspicion. The neighbourhood was populous. But, as I conned
over the catalogue, I perceived that the only foreigner among us was
Clithero. Our scheme was, for the most part, a patriarchal one. Each
farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an exception to
the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and character,
previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. The elm was
surrounded by his master's domains. An actor there must be, and no one
was equally questionable.
The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man, the
ignorance in which we were placed respecting his former situation, his
possible motives for abandoning his country and choosing a station so
much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger my
suspicions became. Formerly, when occupied with conjectures relative to
the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur; but the
seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct had raised him to a level
with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of suspicion. I did
not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance among us, and
to the obscurity that hung over his origin and past life. But now these
considerations appeared so highly momentous as almost to decide the
question of his guilt.
But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty?
Henceforth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. I was to
gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he lived,
and were the perpetual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For this
end I was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable
interrogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ultimate
solution of my doubts.
I acquiesced in this view of things with considerable satisfaction. It
seemed as if the maze was no longer inscrutable. It would be quickly
discovered who were the agents and instigators of the murder of my
friend.
But it suddenly occurred to me, For what purpose shall I prosecute this
search? What benefit am I to reap from this discovery? How shall I
demean myself when the criminal is detected? I was not insensible, at
that moment, of the impulses of vengeance, but they were transient. I
detested the sanguinary resolutions that I had once formed. Yet I was
fearful of the effects of my hasty rage, and dreaded an encounter in
consequence of which I might rush into evils which no time could repair,
nor penitence expiate.
"But why," said I, "should it be impossible to arm myself with firmness?
If forbearance be the dictate of wisdom, cannot it be so deeply engraven
on my mind as to defy all temptation, and be proof against the most
abrupt surprise? My late experience has been of use to me. It has shown
me my weakness and my strength. Having found my ancient fortifications
insufficient to withstand the enemy, what should I learn from thence but
that it becomes me to strengthen and enlarge them?
"No caution, indeed, can hinder the experiment from being hazardous. Is
it wise to undertake experiments by which nothing can be gained, and
much may be lost? Curiosity is vicious, if undisciplined by reason, and
inconducive to benefit."
I was not, however, to be diverted from my purpose. Curiosity, like
virtue, is its own reward. Knowledge is of value for its own sake, and
pleasure is annexed to the acquisition, without regard to any thing
beyond. It is precious even when disconnected with moral inducements and
heartfelt sympathies; but the knowledge which I sought by its union with
these was calculated to excite the most complex and fiery sentiments in
my bosom.
Hours were employed in revolving these thoughts. At length I began to be
sensible of fatigue, and, returning home, explored the way to my chamber
without molesting the repose of the family. You know that our doors are
always unfastened, and are accessible at all hours of the night.
My slumbers were imperfect, and I rejoiced when the morning light
permitted me to resume my meditations. The day glided away, I scarcely
know how, and, as I had rejoiced at the return of morning, I now hailed,
with pleasure, the approach of night.
My uncle and sisters having retired, I betook myself, instead of
following their example, to the _Chestnut-hill_. Concealed among
its rocks, or gazing at the prospect which stretched so far and so wide
around it, my fancy has always been accustomed to derive its highest
enjoyment from this spot. I found myself again at leisure to recall the
scene which I had witnessed during the last night, to imagine its
connection with the fate of Waldegrave, and to plan the means of
discovering the secret that was hidden under these appearances.
Shortly, I began to feel insupportable disquiet at the thoughts of
postponing this discovery. Wiles and stratagems were practicable, but
they were tedious, and of dubious success. Why should I proceed like a
plotter? Do I intend the injury of this person? A generous purpose will
surely excuse me from descending to artifices. There are two modes of
drawing forth the secrets of another,--by open and direct means and by
circuitous and indirect. Why scruple to adopt the former mode? Why not
demand a conference, and state my doubts, and demand a solution of them,
in a manner worthy of a beneficent purpose? Why not hasten to the spot?
He may be, at this moment, mysteriously occupied under this shade. I may
note his behaviour; I may ascertain his person, if not by the features
that belong to him, yet by tracing his footsteps when he departs, and
pursuing him to his retreats.
I embraced this scheme, which was thus suggested, with eagerness. I
threw myself with headlong speed down the hill and pursued my way to the
elm. As I approached the tree, my palpitations increased, though my pace
slackened. I looked forward with an anxious glance. The trunk of the
tree was hidden in the deepest shade. I advanced close up to it. No one
was visible, but I was not discouraged. The hour of his coming was,
perhaps, not arrived. I took my station at a small distance, beside a
fence, on the right hand.
An hour elapsed before my eyes lighted on the object of which they were
in search. My previous observation had been roving from one quarter to
another. At last, it dwelt upon the tree. The person whom I before
described was seated on the ground. I had not perceived him before, and
the means by which he placed himself in this situation had escaped my
notice. He seemed like one whom an effort of will, without the exercise
of locomotion, had transported hither, or made visible. His state of
disarray, and the darkness that shrouded him, prevented me, as before,
from distinguishing any peculiarities in his figure or countenance.
I continued watchful and mute. The appearances already described took
place on this occasion, except the circumstance of digging in the earth.
He sat musing for a while, then burst into sighs and lamentations.
These being exhausted, he rose to depart. He stalked away with a solemn
and deliberate pace. I resolved to tread, as closely as possible, in his
footsteps, and not to lose sight of him till the termination of his
career.
Contrary to my expectation, he went in a direction opposite to that
which led to Inglefield's. Presently, he stopped at bars, which he
cautiously removed, and, when he had passed through them, as
deliberately replaced. He then proceeded along an obscure path, which
led across stubble-fields, to a wood. The path continued through the
wood, but he quickly struck out of it, and made his way, seemingly at
random, through a most perplexing undergrowth of bushes and briers.
I was, at first, fearful that the noise which I made behind him, in
trampling down the thicket, would alarm him; but he regarded it not. The
way that he had selected was always difficult: sometimes considerable
force was requisite to beat down obstacles; sometimes it led into a deep
glen, the sides of which were so steep as scarcely to afford a footing;
sometimes into fens, from which some exertions were necessary to
extricate the feet, and sometimes through rivulets, of which the water
rose to the middle.
For some time I felt no abatement of my speed or my resolution. I
thought I might proceed, without fear, through brakes and dells which my
guide was able to penetrate. He was perpetually changing his direction.
I could form no just opinion as to my situation or distance from the
place at which we had set out.
I began at length to be weary. A suspicion, likewise, suggested itself
to my mind, whether my guide did not perceive that he was followed, and
thus prolonged his journey in order to fatigue or elude his pursuer. I
was determined, however, to baffle his design. Though the air was
frosty, my limbs were bedewed with sweat and my joints were relaxed with
toil, but I was obstinately bent upon proceeding.
At length a new idea occurred to me. On finding me indefatigable in
pursuit, this person might resort to more atrocious methods of
concealment. But what had I to fear? It was sufficient to be upon my
guard. Man to man, I needed not to dread his encounter.
We at last arrived at the verge of a considerable precipice. He kept
along the edge. From this height, a dreary vale was discoverable,
embarrassed with the leafless stocks of bushes, and encumbered with
rugged and pointed rocks. This scene reminded me of my situation. The
desert tract called Norwalk, which I have often mentioned to you, my
curiosity had formerly induced me to traverse in various directions. It
was in the highest degree rugged, picturesque, and wild. This vale,
though I had never before viewed it by the glimpses of the moon,
suggested the belief that I had visited it before. Such a one I knew
belonged to this uncultivated region. If this opinion were true, we were
at no inconsiderable distance from Inglefield's habitation. "Where,"
said I, "is this singular career to terminate?"
Though occupied with these reflections, I did not slacken my pursuit.
The stranger kept along the verge of the cliff, which gradually declined
till it terminated in the valley. He then plunged into its deepest
thickets. In a quarter of an hour he stopped under a projecture of the
rock which formed the opposite side of the vale. He then proceeded to
remove the stalks, which, as I immediately perceived, concealed the
mouth of a cavern. He plunged into the darkness, and in a few moments
his steps were heard no more.
Hitherto my courage had supported me, but here it failed. Was this
person an assassin, who was acquainted with the windings of the grotto,
and who would take advantage of the dark to execute his vengeance upon
me, who had dared to pursue him to these forlorn retreats? or was he
maniac, or walker in his sleep? Whichever supposition were true, it
would be rash in me to follow him. Besides, he could not long remain in
these darksome recesses, unless some fatal accident should overtake him.
I seated myself at the mouth of the cave, determined patiently to wait
till he should think proper to emerge. This opportunity of rest was
exceedingly acceptable after so toilsome a pilgrimage. My pulse began to
beat more slowly, and the moisture that incommoded me ceased to flow.
The coolness, which for a little time was delicious, presently increased
to shivering, and I found it necessary to change my posture, in order to
preserve my blood from congealing.
After I had formed a path before the cavern's mouth, by the removal of
obstructions, I employed myself in walking to and fro. In this situation
I saw the moon gradually decline to the horizon, and, at length,
disappear. I marked the deepenings of the shade, and the mutations which
every object successively underwent. The vale was narrow, and hemmed in
on all sides by lofty and precipitous cliffs. The gloom deepened as the
moon declined, and the faintness of starlight was all that preserved my
senses from being useless to my own guidance.
I drew nearer the cleft at which this mysterious personage had entered.
I stretched my hands before it, determined that he should not emerge
from his den without my notice. His steps would, necessarily,
communicate the tidings of his approach. He could not move without a
noise which would be echoed to, on all sides, by the abruptness by which
this valley was surrounded. Here, then, I continued till the day began
to dawn, in momentary expectation of the stranger's reappearance.
My attention was at length excited by a sound that seemed to issue from
the cave. I imagined that the sleeper was returning, and prepared
therefore to seize him. I blamed myself for neglecting the opportunities
that had already been afforded, and was determined that another should
not escape. My eyes were fixed upon the entrance. The rustling
increased, and presently an animal leaped forth, of what kind I was
unable to discover. Heart-struck by this disappointment, but not
discouraged, I continued to watch, but in vain. The day was advancing
apace. At length the sun arose, and its beams glistened on the edges of
the cliffs above, whose sapless stalks and rugged masses were covered
with hoarfrost. I began to despair of success, but was unwilling to
depart until it was no longer possible to hope for the return of this
extraordinary personage. Whether he had been swallowed up by some of the
abysses of this grotto, or lurked near the entrance, waiting my
departure, or had made his exit at another and distant aperture, was
unknown to me.
Exhausted and discouraged, I prepared, at length, to return. It was easy
to find my way out of this wilderness by going forward in one direction,
regardless of impediments and cross-paths. My absence I believed to have
occasioned no alarm to my family, since they knew not of my intention to
spend the night abroad. Thus unsatisfactorily terminated this night's
adventures.