Till now my mind had been swayed by the urgencies of this occasion.
These reflections were excluded, which rushed tumultuously upon me the
moment I was at leisure to receive them. Without foresight of a previous
moment, an entire change had been wrought in my condition.
I had been oppressed with a sense of the danger that flowed from the
existence of this man. By what means the peril could be annihilated, and
we be placed in security from his attempts, no efforts of mind could
suggest. To devise these means, and employ them with success, demanded,
as I conceived, the most powerful sagacity and the firmest courage. Now
the danger was no more. The intelligence in which plans of mischief
might be generated was extinguished or flown. Lifeless were the hands
ready to execute the dictates of that intelligence. The contriver of
enormous evil was, in one moment, bereft of the power and the will to
injure. Our past tranquillity had been owing to the belief of his death.
Fear and dismay had resumed their dominion when the mistake was
discovered. But now we might regain possession of our wonted confidence.
I had beheld with my own eyes the lifeless corpse of our implacable
adversary. Thus, in a moment, had terminated his long and flagitious
career. His restless indignation, his malignant projects, that had so
long occupied the stage and been so fertile of calamity, were now at an
end!
In the course of my meditations, the idea of the death of this man had
occurred, and it bore the appearance of a desirable event. Yet it was
little qualified to tranquillize my fears. In the long catalogue of
contingencies, this, indeed, was to be found; but it was as little
likely to happen as any other. It could not happen without a series of
anterior events paving the way for it. If his death came from us, it
must be the theme of design. It must spring from laborious circumvention
and deep-laid stratagems.
No. He was dead. I had killed him. What had I done? I had meditated
nothing. I was impelled by an unconscious necessity. Had the assailant
been my father, the consequence would have been the same. My
understanding had been neutral. Could it be? In a space so short, was it
possible that so tremendous a deed had been executed? Was I not deceived
by some portentous vision? I had witnessed the convulsions and last
agonies of Wiatte. He was no more, and I was his destroyer!
Such was the state of my mind for some time after this dreadful event.
Previously to it I was calm, considerate, and self-collected. I marked
the way that I was going. Passing objects were observed. If I adverted
to the series of my own reflections, my attention was not seized and
fastened by them. I could disengage myself at pleasure, and could pass,
without difficulty, from attention to the world within, to the
contemplation of that without.
Now my liberty, in this respect, was at an end. I was fettered,
confounded, smitten with excess of thought, and laid prostrate with
wonder! I no longer attended to my steps. When I emerged from my stupor,
I found that I had trodden back the way which I had lately come, and had
arrived within sight of the banker's door. I checked myself, and once
more turned my steps homeward.
This seemed to be a hint for entering into new reflections. "The deed,"
said I, "is irretrievable. I have killed the brother of my patroness,
the father of my love."
This suggestion was new. It instantly involved me in terror and
perplexity. How shall I communicate the tidings? What effect will they
produce? My lady's sagacity is obscured by the benevolence of her
temper. Her brother was sordidly wicked,--a hoary ruffian, to whom the
language of pity was as unintelligible as the gabble of monkeys. His
heart was fortified against compunction, by the atrocious habits of
forty years; he lived only to interrupt her peace, to confute the
promises of virtue, and convert to rancour and reproach the fair dame of
fidelity.
He was her brother still. As a human being, his depravity was never
beyond the health-restoring power of repentance. His heart, so long as
it beat, was accessible to remorse. The singularity of his birth had
made her regard this being as more intimately her brother, than would
have happened in different circumstances. It was her obstinate
persuasion that their fates were blended. The rumour of his death she
had never credited. It was a topic of congratulation to her friends, but
of mourning and distress to her. That he would one day reappear upon the
stage, and assume the dignity of virtue, was a source of consolation
with which she would never consent to part.
Her character was now known. When the doom of exile was pronounced upon
him, she deemed it incumbent on her to vindicate herself from aspersions
founded on misconceptions of her motives in refusing her interference.
The manuscript, though unpublished, was widely circulated. None could
resist her simple and touching eloquence, nor rise from the perusal
without resigning his heart to the most impetuous impulses of
admiration, and enlisting himself among the eulogists of her justice and
her fortitude. This was the only monument, in a written form, of her
genius. As such it was engraven on my memory. The picture that it
described was the perpetual companion of my thoughts.
Alas! It had, perhaps, been well for me if it had been buried in eternal
oblivion. I read in it the condemnation of my deed, the agonies she was
preparing to suffer, and the indignation that would overflow upon the
author of so signal a calamity.
I had rescued my life by the sacrifice of his. Whereas I should have
died. Wretched and precipitate coward! What had become of my boasted
gratitude? Such was the zeal that I had vowed to her. Such the services
which it was the business of my life to perform. I had snatched her
brother from existence. I had torn from her the hope which she so
ardently and indefatigably cherished. From a contemptible and dastardly
regard to my own safety I had failed in the moment of trial and when
called upon by Heaven to evince the sincerity of my professions.
She had treated my professions lightly. My vows of eternal devotion she
had rejected with lofty disinterestedness. She had arraigned my
impatience of obligation as criminal, and condemned every scheme I had
projected for freeing myself from the burden which her beneficence had
laid upon me. The impassioned and vehement anxiety with which, in former
days, she had deprecated the vengeance of her lover against Wiatte, rung
in my ears. My senses were shocked anew by the dreadful sounds, "Touch
not my brother. Wherever you meet with him, of whatever outrage he be
guilty, suffer him to pass in safety. Despise me; abandon me; kill me.
All this I can bear even from you; but spare, I implore you, my unhappy
brother. The stroke that deprives him of life will not only have the
same effect upon me, but will set my portion in everlasting misery."
To these supplications I had been deaf. It is true I had not rushed upon
him unarmed, intending no injury nor expecting any. Of that degree of
wickedness I was, perhaps, incapable. Alas! I have immersed myself
sufficiently deep in crimes. I have trampled under foot every motive
dear to the heart of honour. I have shown myself unworthy the society of
men.
Such were the turbulent suggestions of that moment. My pace slackened. I
stopped, and was obliged to support myself against a wall. The sickness
that had seized my heart penetrated every part of my frame. There was
but one thing wanting to complete my distraction.--"My lady," said I,
"believed her fate to be blended with that of Wiatte. Who shall affirm
that the persuasion is a groundless one? She had lived and prospered,
notwithstanding the general belief that her brother was dead. She would
not hearken to the rumour. Why? Because nothing less than indubitable
evidence would suffice to convince her? Because the counter-intimation
flowed from an infallible source? How can the latter supposition be
confuted? Has she not predicted the event?
"The period of terrible fulfilment has arrived. The same blow that
bereaved _him_ of life has likewise ratified her doom.
"She has been deceived. It is nothing more, perhaps, than a fond
imagination. It matters not. Who knows not the cogency of faith? That
the pulses of life are at the command of the will? The bearer of these
tidings will be the messenger of death. A fatal sympathy will seize her.
She will shrink, and swoon, and perish, at the news!
"Fond and short-sighted wretch! This is the price thou hast given for
security. In the rashness of thy thought, thou saidst, 'Nothing is
wanting but his death to restore us to confidence and safety.' Lo! the
purchase is made. Havoc and despair, that were restrained during his
life, were let loose by his last sigh. Now only is destruction made
sure. Thy lady, thy Clarice, thy friend, and thyself, are, by this act,
involved in irretrievable and common ruin!"
I started from my attitude. I was scarcely conscious of any transition.
The interval was fraught with stupor, and amazement. It seemed as if my
senses had been hushed in sleep, while the powers of locomotion were
unconsciously exerted to bear me to my chamber. By whatever means the
change was effected, there I was.
I have been able to proceed thus far. I can scarcely believe the
testimony of my memory that assures me of this. My task is almost
executed; but whence shall I obtain strength enough to finish it? What I
have told is light as gossamer, compared with the insupportable and
crushing horrors of that which is to come. Heaven, in token of its
vengeance, will enable me to proceed. It is fitting that my scene should
thus close.
My fancy began to be infected with the errors of my understanding. The
mood into which my mind was plunged was incapable of any propitious
intermission. All within me was tempestuous and dark. My ears were
accessible to no sounds but those of shrieks and lamentations. It was
deepest midnight, and all the noises of a great metropolis were hushed.
Yet I listened as if to catch some strain of the dirge that was begun.
Sable robes, sobs, and a dreary solemnity encompassed me on all sides, I
was haunted to despair by images of death, imaginary clamours, and the
train of funeral pageantry. I seemed to have passed forward to a distant
era of my life. The effects which were come were already realized. The
foresight of misery created it, and set me in the midst of that hell
which I feared.
From a paroxysm like this the worst might reasonably be dreaded, yet the
next step to destruction was not suddenly taken. I paused on the brink
of the precipice, as if to survey the depth of that frenzy that invaded
me; was able to ponder on the scene, and deliberate, in a state that
partook of calm, on the circumstances of my situation. My mind was
harassed by the repetition of one idea. Conjecture deepened into
certainty. I could place the object in no light which did not
corroborate the persuasion that, in the act committed, I had insured the
destruction of my lady. At length my mind, somewhat relieved from the
tempest of my fears, began to trace and analyze the consequences which I
dreaded.
The fate of Wiatte would inevitably draw along with it that of his
sister. In what way would this effect be produced? Were they linked
together by a sympathy whose influence was independent of sensible
communication? Could she arrive at a knowledge of his miserable and by
other than verbal means? I had heard of such extraordinary
copartnerships in being and modes of instantaneous intercourse among
beings locally distant. Was this a new instance of the subtlety of mind?
Had she already endured his agonies, and like him already ceased to
breathe?
Every hair bristled at this horrible suggestion. But the force of
sympathy might be chimerical. Buried in sleep, or engaged in careless
meditation, the instrument by which her destiny might be accomplished
was the steel of an assassin. A series of events, equally beyond the
reach of foresight with those which had just happened, might introduce,
with equal abruptness, a similar disaster. What, at that moment, was her
condition? Reposing in safety in her chamber, as her family imagined.
But were they not deceived? Was she not a mangled corpse? Whatever were
her situation, it could not be ascertained, except by extraordinary
means, till the morning. Was it wise to defer the scrutiny till then?
Why not instantly investigate the truth?
These ideas passed rapidly through my mind. A considerable portion of
time and amplification of phrase are necessary to exhibit, verbally,
ideas contemplated in a space of incalculable brevity. With the same
rapidity I conceived the resolution of determining the truth of my
suspicions. All the family, but myself, were at rest. Winding passages
would conduct me, without danger of disturbing them, to the hall, from
which double staircases ascended. One of these led to a saloon above, on
the east side of which was a door that communicated with a suite of
rooms occupied by the lady of the mansion. The first was an antechamber,
in which a female servant usually lay. The second was the lady's own
bedchamber. This was a sacred recess, with whose situation, relative to
the other apartments of the building, I was well acquainted, but of
which I knew nothing from my own examination, having never been admitted
into it.
Thither I was now resolved to repair. I was not deterred by the sanctity
of the place and hour. I was insensible to all consequences but the
removal of my doubts. Not that my hopes were balanced by my fears. That
the same tragedy had been performed in her chamber and in the street,
nothing hindered me from believing with as much cogency as if my own
eyes had witnessed it, but the reluctance with which we admit a
detestable truth.
To terminate a state of intolerable suspense, I resolved to proceed
forthwith to her chamber. I took the light and paced, with no
interruption, along the galleries. I used no precaution. If I had met a
servant or robber, I am not sure that I should have noticed him. My
attention was too perfectly engrossed to allow me to spare any to a
casual object. I cannot affirm that no one observed me. This, however,
was probable from the distribution of the dwelling. It consisted of a
central edifice and two wings, one of which was appropriated to
domestics and the other, at the extremity of which my apartment was
placed, comprehended a library, and rooms for formal and social and
literary conferences. These, therefore, were deserted at night, and my
way lay along these. Hence it was not likely that my steps would be
observed.
I proceeded to the hall. The principal parlour was beneath her chamber.
In the confusion of my thoughts, I mistook one for the other. I
rectified, as soon as I detected, my mistake. I ascended, with a beating
heart, the staircase. The door of the antechamber was unfastened. I
entered, totally regardless of disturbing the girl who slept within. The
bed which she occupied was concealed by curtains. Whether she were
there, I did not stop to examine. I cannot recollect that any tokens
were given of wakefulness or alarm. It was not till I reached the door
of her own apartment that my heart began to falter.
It was now that the momentousness of the question I was about to decide
rushed with its genuine force upon my apprehension. Appalled and aghast,
I had scarcely power to move the bolt. If the imagination of her death
was not to be supported, how should I bear the spectacle of wounds and
blood? Yet this was reserved for me. A few paces would set me in the
midst of a scene of which I was the abhorred contriver. Was it right to
proceed? There were still the remnants of doubt. My forebodings might
possibly be groundless. All within might be safety and serenity. A
respite might be gained from the execution of an irrevocable sentence.
What could I do? Was not any thing easy to endure in comparison with the
agonies of suspense? If I could not obviate the evil I must bear it, but
the torments of suspense were susceptible of remedy.
I drew back the bolt, and entered with the reluctance of fear, rather
than the cautiousness of guilt. I could not lift my eyes from the
ground. I advanced to the middle of the room. Not a sound like that of
the dying saluted my-ear. At length, shaking off the fetters of
hopelessness, I looked up.
I saw nothing calculated to confirm my fears. Everywhere there reigned
quiet and order. My heart leaped with exultation. "Can it be," said I,
"that I have been betrayed with shadows?--But this is not sufficient."
Within an alcove was the bed that belonged to her. If her safety were
inviolate, it was here that she reposed. What remained to convert
tormenting doubt into ravishing certainty? I was insensible to the
perils of my present situation. If she, indeed, were there, would not my
intrusion awaken her? She would start and perceive me, at this hour,
standing at her bedside. How should I account for an intrusion so
unexampled and audacious? I could not communicate my fears. I could not
tell her that the blood with which my hands were stained had flowed from
the wounds of her brother.
My mind was inaccessible to such considerations. They did not even
modify my predominant idea. Obstacles like these, had they existed,
would have been trampled under foot.
Leaving the lamp, that I bore, on the table, I approached the bed. I
slowly drew aside the curtain, and beheld her tranquilly slumbering. I
listened, but so profound was her sleep, that not even her breathings
could be overheard. I dropped the curtain and retired.
How blissful and mild were the illuminations of my bosom at this
discovery! A joy that surpassed all utterance succeeded the fierceness
of desperation. I stood, for some moments, wrapped in delightful
contemplation. Alas! it was a luminous but transient interval. The
madness to whose black suggestions it bore so strong a contrast began
now to make sensible approaches on my understanding.
"True," said I, "she lives. Her slumber is serene and happy. She is
blind to her approaching destiny. Some hours will at least be rescued
from anguish and death. When she wakes, the phantom that soothed her
will vanish. The tidings cannot be withheld from her. The murderer of
thy brother cannot hope to enjoy thy smiles. Those ravishing accents,
with which thou hast used to greet me, will be changed. Scowling and
reproaches, the invectives of thy anger and the maledictions of thy
justice, will rest upon my head,
"What is the blessing which I made the theme of my boastful arrogance?
This interval of being and repose is momentary. She will awake, but only
to perish at the spectacle of my ingratitude. She will awake only to the
consciousness of instantly-impending death. When she again sleeps she
will wake no more. I, her son,--I, whom the law of my birth doomed to
poverty and hardship, but whom her unsolicited beneficence snatched from
those evils, and endowed with the highest good known to intelligent
beings, the consolations of science and the blandishments of
affluence,--to whom the darling of her life, the offspring in whom are
faithfully preserved the lineaments of its angelic mother, she has not
denied! What is the recompense that I have made? How have I discharged
the measureless debt of gratitude to which she is entitled? Thus!--
"Cannot my guilt be extenuated? Is there not a good that I can do thee?
Must I perpetrate unmingled evil? Is the province assigned me that of an
infernal emissary, whose efforts are concentred in a single purpose, and
that purpose a malignant one? I am the author of thy calamities.
Whatever misery is reserved for thee, I am the source whence it flows.
Can I not set bounds to the stream? Cannot I prevent thee from returning
to a consciousness which, till it ceases to exist, will not cease to be
rent and mangled?
"Yes. It is in my power to screen thee from the coming storm; to
accelerate thy journey to rest. I will do it."
The impulse was not to be resisted. I moved with the suddenness of
lightning. Armed with a pointed implement that lay----it was a dagger.
As I set down the lamp, I struck the edge. Yet I saw it not, or noticed
it not till I needed its assistance. By what accident it came hither, to
what deed of darkness it had already been subservient, I had no power to
inquire. I stepped to the table and seized it.
The time which this action required was insufficient to save me. My doom
was ratified by powers which no human energies can counterwork.--Need I
go further? Did you entertain any imagination of so frightful a
catastrophe? I am overwhelmed by turns with dismay and with wonder. I am
prompted by turns to tear my heart from my breast and deny faith to the
verdict of my senses.
Was it I that hurried to the deed? No. It was the demon that possessed
me. My limbs were guided to the bloody office by a power foreign and
superior to mine. I had been defrauded, for a moment, of the empire of
my muscles. A little moment for that sufficed. If my destruction had
not been decreed, why was the image of Clarice so long excluded? Yet why
do I say long? The fatal resolution was conceived, and I hastened to the
execution, in a period too brief for more than itself to be viewed by
the intellect.
What then? Were my hands imbrued in this precious blood? Was it to this
extremity of horror that my evil genius was determined to urge me? Too
surely this was his purpose; too surely I was qualified to be its
minister.
I lifted the weapon. Its point was aimed at the bosom of the sleeper.
The impulse was given.
At the instant a piercing shriek was uttered behind me, and a
stretched-out hand, grasping the blade, made it swerve widely from its
aim. It descended, but without inflicting a wound. Its force was spent
upon the bed.
Oh for words to paint that stormy transition! I loosed my hold of the
dagger. I started back, and fixed eyes of frantic curiosity on the
author of my rescue. He that interposed to arrest my deed, that started
into being and activity at a moment so pregnant with fate, without
tokens of his purpose or his coming being previously imparted, could
not, methought, be less than divinity.
The first glance that I darted on this being corroborated my conjecture.
It was the figure and lineaments of Mrs. Lorimer. Negligently habited in
flowing and brilliant white, with features bursting with terror and
wonder, the likeness of that being who was stretched upon the bed now
stood before me.
All that I am able to conceive of angel was comprised in the moral
constitution of this woman. That her genius had overleaped all bounds,
and interposed to save her, was no audacious imagination. In the state
in which my mind then was, no other belief than this could occupy the
first place.
My tongue was tied. I gazed by turns upon her who stood before me, and
her who lay upon the bed, and who, awakened by the shriek that had been
uttered, now opened her eyes. She started from her pillow, and, by
assuming a new and more distinct attitude, permitted me to recognise
_Clarice herself_!
Three days before, I had left her, beside the bed of a dying friend, at
a solitary mansion in the mountains of Donegal. Here it had been her
resolution to remain till her friend should breathe her last. Fraught
with this persuasion, knowing this to be the place and hour of repose of
my lady, hurried forward by the impetuosity of my own conceptions,
deceived by the faint gleam which penetrated through the curtain and
imperfectly-irradiated features which bore, at all times, a powerful
resemblance to those of Mrs. Lorimer, I had rushed to the brink of this
terrible precipice!
Why did I linger on the verge? Why, thus perilously situated, did I not
throw myself headlong? The steel was yet in my hand. A single blow would
have pierced my heart, and shut out from my remembrance and foresight
the past and the future.
The moment of insanity had gone by, and I was once more myself. Instead
of regarding the act which I had meditated as the dictate of compassion
or of justice, it only added to the sum of my ingratitude, and gave
wings to the whirlwind that was sent to bear me to perdition.
Perhaps I was influenced by a sentiment which I had not leisure to
distribute into parts. My understanding was, no doubt, bewildered in the
maze of consequences which would spring from my act. How should I
explain my coming hither in this murderous guise, my arm lifted to
destroy the idol of my soul and the darling child of my patroness? In
what words should I unfold the tale of Wiatte, and enumerate the motives
that terminated in the present scene? What penalty had not my
infatuation and cruelty deserved? What could I less than turn the
dagger's point against my own bosom?
A second time, the blow was thwarted and diverted. Once more this
beneficent interposer held my arm from the perpetration of a new
iniquity. Once more frustrated the instigations of that demon, of whose
malice a mysterious destiny had consigned me to be the sport and the
prey.
Every new moment added to the sum of my inexpiable guilt. Murder was
succeeded, in an instant, by the more detestable enormity of suicide.
She to whom my ingratitude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of
which she was the author, had now added to her former acts that of
rescuing me from the last of mischiefs.
I threw the weapon on the floor. The zeal which prompted her to seize my
arm, this action occasioned to subside, and to yield place to those
emotions which this spectacle was calculated to excite. She watched me
in silence, and with an air of ineffable solicitude. Clarice, governed
by the instinct of modesty, wrapped her bosom and face in the
bedclothes, and testified her horror by vehement but scarcely-articulate
exclamations.
I moved forward, but my steps were random and tottering. My thoughts
were fettered by reverie, and my gesticulations destitute of meaning. My
tongue faltered without speaking, and I felt as if life and death were
struggling within me for the mastery.
My will, indeed, was far from being neutral in this contest. To such as
I, annihilation is the supreme good. To shake off the ills that fasten
on us by shaking off existence, is a lot which the system of nature has
denied to man. By escaping from life, I should be delivered from this
scene, but should only rush into a world of retribution, and be immersed
in new agonies.
I was yet to live. No instrument of my deliverance was within reach. I
was powerless. To rush from the presence of these women to hide me
forever from their scrutiny and their upbraiding, to snatch from their
minds all traces of the existence of Clithero, was the scope of
unutterable longings.
Urged to flight by every motive of which my nature was susceptible, I
was yet rooted to the spot. Had the pause been only to be interrupted by
me, it would have lasted forever.
At length, the lady, clasping her hands and lifting them, exclaimed, in
a tone melting into pity and grief,--
"Clithero! what is this? How came you hither, and why?"
I struggled for utterance:--"I came to murder you. Your brother has
perished by my hands. Fresh from the commission of this deed, I have
hastened hither to perpetrate the same crime upon you."
"My brother!" replied the lady, with new vehemence. "Oh, say not so! I
have just heard of his return, from Sarsefield, and that he lives."
"He is dead," repeated I, with fierceness; "I know it. It was I that
killed him."
"Dead!" she faintly articulated. "And by thee, Clithero? Oh! cursed
chance that hindered thee from killing me also! Dead! Then is the omen
fulfilled! Then am I undone! Lost forever!"
Her eyes now wandered from me, and her countenance sunk into a wild and
rueful expression. Hope was utterly extinguished in her heart, and life
forsook her at the same moment. She sunk upon the floor pallid and
breathless.
How she came into possession of this knowledge I know not. It is
possible that Sarsefield had repented of concealment, and, in the
interval that passed between our separation and my encounter with
Wiatte, had returned, and informed her of the reappearance of this
miscreant.
Thus, then, was my fate consummated. I was rescued from destroying her
by a dagger, only to behold her perish by the tidings which I brought.
Thus was every omen of mischief and misery fulfilled. Thus was the
enmity of Wiatte rendered efficacious, and the instrument of his
destruction changed into the executioner of his revenge.
Such is the tale of my crimes. It is not for me to hope that the curtain
of oblivion will ever shut out the dismal spectacle. It will haunt me
forever. The torments that grow out of it can terminate only with the
thread of my existence, but that, I know full well, will never end.
Death is but a shifting of the scene; and the endless progress of
eternity, which to the good is merely the perfection of felicity, is to
the wicked an accumulation of woe. The self-destroyer is his own enemy:
this has ever been my opinion. Hitherto it has influenced my actions.
Now, though the belief continues, its influence on my conduct is
annihilated. I am no stranger to the depth of that abyss into which I
shall plunge. No matter. Change is precious for its own sake.
Well, I was still to live. My abode must be somewhere fixed. My conduct
was henceforth the result of a perverse and rebellious principle. I
banished myself forever from my native soil. I vowed never more to
behold the face of my Clarice, to abandon my friends, my books, all my
wonted labours and accustomed recreations.
I was neither ashamed nor afraid. I considered not in what way the
justice of the country would affect me. It merely made no part of my
contemplations. I was not embarrassed by the choice of expedients for
trammelling up the visible consequences and for eluding suspicion. The
idea of abjuring my country and flying forever from the hateful scene
partook, to my apprehension, of the vast, the boundless, and strange; of
plunging from the height of fortune to obscurity and indigence,
corresponded with my present state of mind. It was of a piece with the
tremendous and wonderful events that had just happened.
These were the images that haunted me, while I stood speechlessly gazing
at the ruin before me. I heard a noise from without, or imagined that I
heard it. My reverie was broken, and my muscular power restored. I
descended into the street, through doors of which I possessed one set of
keys, and hurried by the shortest way beyond the precincts of the city.
I had laid no plan. My conceptions with regard to the future were
shapeless and confused. Successive incidents supplied me with a clue,
and suggested, as they rose, the next step to be taken. I threw off the
garb of affluence, and assumed a beggar's attire. That I had money about
me for the accomplishment of my purposes was wholly accidental. I
travelled along the coast, and, when I arrived at one town, knew not why
I should go farther; but my restlessness was unabated, and change was
some relief. I it length arrived at Belfast. A vessel was preparing for
America. I embraced eagerly the opportunity of passing into a new world.
I arrived at Philadelphia. As soon as I landed I wandered hither, and
was content to wear out my few remaining days in the service of
Inglefield.
I have no friends. Why should I trust my story to mother? I have no
solicitude about concealment; but who is there who will derive pleasure
or benefit from my rehearsal? And why should I expatiate on so hateful a
scheme? Yet now have I consented to this. I have confided in you the
history of my disasters. I am not fearful of the use that you may be
disposed to make of it. I shall quickly set myself beyond the reach of
human tribunals. I shall relieve the ministers of law from the trouble
of punishing. The recent events which induced you to summon me to this
conference have likewise determined me to make this disclosure.
I was not aware, for some time, of my perturbed sleep. No wonder that
sleep cannot soothe miseries like mine; that I am alike infested by
memory in wakefulness and slumber. Yet I was anew distressed by the
discovery that my thoughts found their way to my lips, without my being
conscious of it, and that my steps wandered forth unknowingly and
without the guidance of my will.
The story you have told is not incredible. The disaster to which you
allude did not fail to excite my regret. I can still weep over the
untimely fall of youth and worth. I can no otherwise account for my
frequenting his shade than by the distant resemblance which the death of
this man bore to that of which I was the perpetrator. This resemblance
occurred to me at first. If he were able to weaken the impression which
was produced by my crime, this similitude was adapted to revive and
enforce them.
The wilderness, and the cave to which you followed me, were familiar to
my Sunday rambles. Often have I indulged in audible griefs on the cliffs
of that valley. Often have I brooded over my sorrows in the recesses of
that cavern. This scene is adapted to my temper. Its mountainous
asperities supply me with images of desolation and seclusion, and its
headlong streams lull me into temporary forgetfulness of mankind.
I comprehend you. You suspect me of concern in the death of Waldegrave.
You could not do otherwise. The conduct that you have witnessed was that
of a murderer. I will not upbraid you for your suspicions, though I have
bought exemption from them at a high price.