I hung over the unhappy wretch, whose emaciated form and rueful features
sufficiently bespoke that savage hands had only completed that
destruction which his miseries had begun. He was mangled by the tomahawk
in a shocking manner, and there was little hope that human skill could
save his life.
I was sensible of nothing but compassion. I acted without design, when,
seating myself on the floor, I raised his head and placed it on my
knees. This movement awakened his attention, and, opening his eyes, he
fixed them on my countenance. They testified neither insensibility, nor
horror, nor distraction. A faint emotion of surprise gave way to an
appearance of tranquillity. Having perceived these tokens of a state
less hopeless than I at first imagined, I spoke to him:--"My friend, how
do you feel? Can any thing be done for you?"
He answered me in a tone more firm and with more coherence of ideas
than previous appearances had taught me to expect. "No," said he; "thy
kindness, good youth, can avail me nothing. The end of my existence here
is at hand. May my guilt be expiated by the miseries that I have
suffered, and my good deeds only attend me to the presence of my divine
Judge!
"I am waiting, not with trembling or dismay, for this close of my
sorrows. I breathed but one prayer, and that prayer has been answered. I
asked for an interview with thee, young man; but, feeling as I now feel,
this interview, so much desired, was beyond my hope. Now thou art come,
in due season, to hear the last words that I shall need to utter.
"I wanted to assure thee that thy efforts for my benefit were not
useless. They have saved me from murdering myself, a guilt more
inexpiable than any which it was in my power to commit.
"I retired to the innermost recess of Norwalk, and gained the summit of
a hill, by subterranean paths. This hill I knew to be on all sides
inaccessible to human footsteps, and the subterranean passages were
closed up by stones. Here I believed my solitude exempt from
interruption, and my death, in consequence of famine, sure.
"This persuasion was not taken away by your appearance on the opposite
steep. The chasm which severed us I knew to be impassable. I withdrew
from your sight.
"Some time after, awakening from a long sleep, I found victuals beside
me. He that brought it was invisible. For a time, I doubted whether some
messenger of heaven had not interposed for my salvation. How other than
by supernatural means my retreat should be explored, I was unable to
conceive. The summit was encompassed by dizzy and profound gulfs, and
the subterranean passages were still closed.
"This opinion, though corrected by subsequent reflection, tended to
change the course of my desperate thoughts. My hunger, thus
importunately urged, would not abstain, and I ate of the food that was
provided. Henceforth I determined to live, to resume the path of
obscurity and labour which I had relinquished, and wait till my God
should summon me to retribution. To anticipate his call is only to
redouble our guilt.
"I designed not to return to Inglefield's service, but to choose some
other and remoter district. Meanwhile, I had left in his possession a
treasure, which my determination to die had rendered of no value, but
which my change of resolution restored. Enclosed in a box at
Inglefield's were the memoirs of Euphemia Lorimer, by which, in all my
vicissitudes, I had been hitherto accompanied, and from which I
consented to part only because I had refused to live. My existence was
now to be prolonged, and this manuscript was once more to constitute the
torment and the solace of my being.
"I hastened to Inglefield's by night. There was no need to warn him of
my purpose. I desired that my fate should be an eternal secret to my
ancient master and his neighbours. The apartment containing my box was
well known, and easily accessible.
"The box was found, but broken and rifled of its treasure. My transports
of astonishment, and indignation, and grief, yielded to the resumption
of my fatal purpose. I hastened back to the hill, and determined anew to
perish.
"This mood continued to the evening of the ensuing day. Wandering over
rocks and pits, I discovered the manuscript lying under a jutting
precipice. The chance that brought it hither was not less propitious and
miraculous than that by which I had been supplied with food. It produced
a similar effect upon my feelings, and, while in possession of this
manuscript, I was reconciled to the means of life. I left the mountain,
and, traversing the wilderness, stopped in Chetasco. That kind of
employment which I sought was instantly procured; but my new vocation
was scarcely assumed when a band of savages invaded our security.
"Rambling in the desert by moonlight, I encountered these foes. They
rushed upon me, and, after numerous wounds, which for the present
neither killed nor disabled me, they compelled me to keep pace with them
in their retreat. Some hours have passed since the troop was overtaken
and my liberty redeemed. Hardships, and repeated wounds, inflicted at
the moment when the invaders were surprised and slain, have brought me
to my present condition. I rejoice that my course is about to
terminate."
Here the speaker was interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of the party
by whom he had been brought hither. Their astonishment at seeing me
sustaining the head of the dying man may be easily conceived. Their
surprise was more strongly excited by the disappearance of the captive
whom they had left in this apartment, bound hand and foot. It now
appeared that, of the savage troop who had adventured thus far in search
of pillage and blood, all had been destroyed but two, who had been led
hither as prisoners. On their entrance into this house, one of the party
had been sent to Walcot's to summon Sarsefield to the aid of the wounded
man, while others had gone in search of cords to secure the arms and
legs of the captives, who had hitherto been manacled imperfectly.
The cords were brought and one of them was bound; but the other, before
the same operation was begun upon him, broke, by a sudden effort, the
feeble ligatures by which he was at present constrained, and, seizing a
musket that lay near him, fired on his enemies, and then rushed out of
doors. All eagerly engaged in the pursuit. The savage was fleet as a
deer, and finally eluded his pursuers.
While their attention was thus engaged abroad, he that remained found
means to extricate his wrists and ankles from his bonds, and, betaking
himself to the stairs, escaped, as I before described, through the
window of the room which I had occupied. They pestered me with their
curiosity and wonder, for I was known to all of them; but, waiving the
discussion of my own concerns, I entreated their assistance to carry
Clithero to the chamber and the bed which I had just deserted.
I now, in spite of pain, fatigue, and watchfulness, set out to go to
Walton's. Sarsefield was ready to receive me at the door, and the
kindness and compassion of the family were active in my behalf. I was
conducted to a chamber and provided with suitable attendance and
remedies.
I was not unmindful of the more deplorable condition of Clithero. I
incessantly meditated on the means for his relief. His case stood in
need of all the vigilance and skill of a physician, and Sarsefield was
the only one of that profession whose aid could be seasonably
administered. Sarsefield, therefore, must be persuaded to bestow this
aid.
There was but one mode of conquering his abhorrence of this man,--to
prepossess my friend with the belief of the innocence of Clithero, or to
soothe him into pity by a picture of remorse and suffering. This could
be done, and in the manner most conformable to truth, by a simple
recital of the incidents that had befallen, and by repeating the
confession which had been extorted from Clithero.
I requested all but my friend to leave my chamber, and then, soliciting
a patient hearing, began the narrative of Waldegrave's death; of the
detection of Clithero beneath the shade of the elm; of the suspicions
which were thence produced; and of the forest interview to which these
suspicions gave birth. I then repeated, without variation or addition,
the tale which was then told. I likewise mentioned my subsequent
transactions in Norwalk, so far as they illustrated the destiny of
Clithero.
During this recital, I fixed my eyes upon the countenance of Sarsefield,
and watched every emotion as it arose or declined. With the progress of
my tale, his indignation and his fury grew less, and at length gave
place to horror and compassion.
His seat became uneasy; his pulse throbbed with new vehemence. When I
came to the motives which prompted the unhappy man to visit the chamber
of his mistress, he started from his seat, and sometimes strode across
the floor in a troubled mood, and sometimes stood before me, with his
breath almost suspended in the eagerness of his attention. When I
mentioned the lifted dagger, the shriek from behind, and the apparition
that interposed, he shuddered and drew back, as if a dagger had been
aimed at his breast.
When the tale was done, some time elapsed in mutual and profound
silence. My friend's thoughts were involved in a mournful and
indefinable reverie. From this he at length recovered and spoke:--
"It is true. A tale like this could never be the fruit of invention, or
be invented to deceive. He has done himself injustice. His character was
spotless and fair. All his moral properties seemed to have resolved
themselves into gratitude, fidelity, and honour.
"We parted at the door, late in the evening, as he mentioned, and he
guessed truly that subsequent reflection had induced me to return and to
disclose the truth to Mrs. Lorimer. Clarice, relieved by the sudden
death of her friend, and unexpectedly by all, arrived at the same hour.
"These tidings astonished, afflicted, and delighted the lady. Her
brother's death had been long believed by all but herself. To find her
doubts verified, and his existence ascertained, was the dearest
consolation that he ever could bestow. She was afflicted at the proofs
that had been noted of the continuance of his depravity, but she dreaded
no danger to herself from his malignity or vengeance.
"The ignorance and prepossessions of this woman were remarkable. On this
subject only she was perverse, headstrong, obstinate. Her anxiety to
benefit this archruffian occupied her whole thoughts, and allowed her no
time to reflect upon the reasonings or remonstrances of others. She
could not be prevailed on to deny herself to his visits, and I parted
from her in the utmost perplexity.
"A messenger came to me at midnight, entreating my immediate presence.
Some disaster had happened, but of what kind the messenger was unable to
tell. My fears easily conjured up the image of Wiatte. Terror scarcely
allowed me to breathe. When I entered the house of Mrs. Lorimer, I was
conducted to her chamber. She lay upon the bed in a state of
stupefaction, that arose from some mental cause. Clarice sat by her,
wringing her hands, and pouring forth her tears without intermission.
Neither could explain to me the nature of the scene. I made inquiries of
the servants and attendants. They merely said that the family as usual
had retired to rest, but their lady's bell rung with great violence, and
called them in haste to her chamber, where they found her in a swoon
upon the floor, and the young lady in the utmost affright and
perturbation.
"Suitable means being used, Mrs. Lorimer had, at length, recovered, but
was still nearly insensible. I went to Clithero's apartments; but he was
not to be found, and the domestics informed me that, since he had gone
with me, he had not returned. The doors between this chamber and the
court were open; hence, that some dreadful interview had taken place,
perhaps with Wiatte, was an unavoidable conjecture. He had withdrawn,
however, without committing any personal injury.
"I need not mention my reflections upon this scene. All was tormenting
doubt and suspense, till the morning arrived, and tidings were received
that Wiatte had been killed in the streets. This event was antecedent to
that which had occasioned Mrs. Lorimer's distress and alarm. I now
remembered that fatal prepossession by which the lady was governed, and
her frantic belief that her death and that of her brother were to fall
out at the same time. Could some witness of his death have brought her
tidings of it? Had he penetrated, unexpected and unlicensed, to her
chamber? and were these the effects produced by the intelligence?
"Presently I knew that not only Wiatte was dead, but that Clithero had
killed him. Clithero had not been known to return, and was nowhere to be
found. He, then, was the bearer of these tidings, for none but he could
have found access or egress without disturbing the servants.
"These doubts were at length at an end. In a broken and confused manner,
and after the lapse of some days, the monstrous and portentous truth was
disclosed. After our interview, the lady and her daughter had retired to
the same chamber; the former had withdrawn to her closet, and the latter
to bed. Some one's entrance alarmed the lady, and, coming forth after a
moment's pause, the spectacle which Clithero has too faithfully
described presented itself.
"What could I think? A life of uniform hypocrisy, or a sudden loss of
reason, were the only suppositions to be formed. Clithero was the parent
of fury and abhorrence in my heart. In either case I started at the
name. I shuddered at the image of the apostate or the maniac.
"What? Kill the brother whose existence was interwoven with that of his
benefactress and his friend? Then hasten to her chamber, and attempt her
life? Lift a dagger to destroy her who had been the author of his being
and his happiness?
"He that could meditate a deed like this was no longer man. An agent
from hell had mastered his faculties. He was become the engine of
infernal malice, against whom it was the duty of all mankind to rise up
in arms and never to desist till, by shattering it to atoms, its power
to injure was taken away.
"All inquiries to discover the place of his retreat were vain. No
wonder, methought, that he wrapped himself in the folds of impenetrable
secrecy. Curbed, checked, baffled in the midst of his career, no wonder
that he shrunk into obscurity, that he fled from justice and revenge,
that he dared not meet the rebukes of that eye which, dissolving in
tenderness or flashing with disdain, had ever been irresistible.
"But how shall I describe the lady's condition? Clithero she had
cherished from his infancy. He was the stay, the consolation, the pride
of her life. His projected alliance with her daughter made him still
more dear. Her eloquence was never tired of expatiating on his purity
and rectitude. No wonder that she delighted in this theme, for he was
her own work. His virtues were the creatures of her bounty.
"How hard to be endured was this sad reverse! She can be tranquil, but
never more will she be happy. To promote her forgetfulness of him, I
persuaded her to leave her country, which contained a thousand memorials
of past calamity, and which was lapsing fast into civil broils. Clarice
has accompanied us, and time may effect the happiness of others by her
means, though she can never remove the melancholy of her mother.
"I have listened to your tale, not without compassion. What would you
have me to do? To prolong his life would be merely to protract his
misery.
"He can never be regarded with complacency by my wife. He can never be
thought of without shuddering by Clarice. Common ills are not without a
cure less than death, but here all remedies are vain. Consciousness
itself is the malady, the pest, of which he only is cured who ceases to
think."
I could not but assent to this mournful conclusion: yet, though death
was better to Clithero than life, could not some of his mistakes be
rectified? Euphemia Lorimer, contrary to his belief, was still alive. He
dreamed that she was dead, and a thousand evils were imagined to flow
from that death. This death, and its progeny of ills, haunted his fancy,
and added keenness to his remorse. Was it not our duty to rectify this
error?
Sarsefield reluctantly assented to the truth of my arguments on this
head. He consented to return, and afford the dying man the consolation
of knowing that the being whom he adored as a benefactor and parent had
not been deprived of existence, though bereft of peace by his act.
During Sarsefield's absence my mind was busy in revolving the incidents
that had just occurred. I ruminated on the last words of Clithero. There
was somewhat in his narrative that was obscure and contradictory. He had
left the manuscript, which he so much and so justly prized, in his
cabinet. He entered the chamber in my absence, and found the cabinet
unfastened and the manuscript gone. It was I by whom the cabinet was
opened; but the manuscript supposed to be contained in it was buried in
the earth beneath the elm. How should Clithero be unacquainted with its
situation, since none but Clithero could have dug for it this grave?
This mystery vanished when I reflected on the history of my own
manuscript. Clithero had buried his treasure with his own hands, as mine
had been secreted by myself; but both acts had been performed during
sleep. The deed was neither prompted by the will nor noticed by the
senses of him by whom it was done. Disastrous and humiliating is the
state of man! By his own hands is constructed the mass of misery and
error in which his steps are forever involved.
Thus it was with thy friend. Hurried on by phantoms too indistinct to be
now recalled, I wandered from my chamber to the desert. I plunged into
some unvisited cavern, and easily proceeded till I reached the edge of a
pit. There my step was deceived, and I tumbled headlong from the
precipice. The fall bereaved me of sense, and I continued breathless and
motionless during the remainder of the night and the ensuing day.
How little cognizance have men over the actions and motives of each
other! How total is our blindness with regard to our own performances!
Who would have sought me in the bowels of this mountain? Ages might have
passed away, before my bones would be discovered in this tomb by some
traveller whom curiosity had prompted to explore it.
I was roused from these reflections by Sarsefield's return. Inquiring
into Clithero's condition, he answered that the unhappy man was
insensible, but that, notwithstanding numerous and dreadful gashes in
different parts of his body, it was possible that, by submitting to the
necessary treatment, he might recover.
Encouraged by this information, I endeavoured to awaken the zeal and
compassion of my friend in Clithero's behalf. He recoiled with
involuntary shuddering from any task which would confine him to the
presence of this man. Time and reflection, he said, might introduce
different sentiments and feelings, but at present he could not but
regard this person as a maniac, whose disease was irremediable, and
whose existence could not be protracted but to his own misery and the
misery of others.
Finding him irreconcilably averse to any scheme connected with the
welfare of Clithero, I began to think that his assistance as a surgeon
was by no means necessary. He had declared that the sufferer needed
nothing more than common treatment; and to this the skill of a score of
aged women in this district, furnished with simples culled from the
forest, and pointed out, of old time, by Indian _leeches_, was no
less adequate than that of Sarsefield. These women were ready and
officious in their charity, and none of them were prepossessed against
the sufferer by a knowledge of his genuine story.
Sarsefield, meanwhile, was impatient for my removal to Inglefield's
habitation, and that venerable friend was no less impatient to receive
me. My hurts were superficial, and my strength sufficiently repaired by
a night's repose. Next day I went thither, leaving Clithero to the care
of his immediate neighbours.
Sarsefield's engagements compelled him to prosecute his journey into
Virginia, from which he had somewhat deviated in order to visit
Solesbury. He proposed to return in less than a month, and then to take
me in his company to New York. He has treated me with paternal
tenderness, and insists upon the privilege of consulting for my interest
as if he were my real father. Meanwhile these views have been disclosed
to Inglefield, and it is with him that I am to remain, with my sisters,
until his return.
My reflections have been various and tumultuous. They have been busy in
relation to you, to Weymouth, and especially to Clithero. The latter,
polluted with gore and weakened by abstinence, fatigue, and the loss of
blood, appeared in my eyes to be in a much more dangerous condition than
the event proved him to be. I was punctually informed of the progress of
his cure, and proposed in a few days to visit him. The duty of
explaining the truth, respecting the present condition of Mrs. Lorimer,
had devolved upon me. By imparting this intelligence, I hoped to work
the most auspicious revolutions in his feelings, and prepared,
therefore, with alacrity, for an interview.
In this hope I was destined to be disappointed. On the morning on which
I intended to visit him, a messenger arrived from the house in which he
was entertained, and informed us that the family, on entering the sick
man's apartment, had found it deserted. It appeared that Clithero had,
during the night, risen from his bed and gone secretly forth. No traces
of his flight have since been discovered.
But, oh, my friend, the death of Waldegrave, thy brother, is at length
divested of uncertainty and mystery. Hitherto, I had been able to form
no conjecture respecting it; but the solution was found shortly after
this time.
Queen Mab, three days after my adventure, was seized in her hut on
suspicion of having aided and counselled her countrymen in their late
depredations. She was not to be awed or intimidated by the treatment she
received, but readily confessed and gloried in the mischief she had
done, and accounted for it by enumerating the injuries which she had
received from her neighbours.
These injuries consisted in contemptuous or neglectful treatment, and in
the rejection of groundless and absurd claims. The people of Chetasco
were less obsequious to her humours than those of Solesbury, her ancient
neighbourhood, and her imagination brooded for a long time over nothing
but schemes of revenge. She became sullen, irascible, and spent more of
her time in solitude than ever.
A troop of her countrymen at length visited her hut. Their intentions
being hostile, they concealed from the inhabitants their presence in
this quarter of the country. Some motives induced them to withdraw and
postpone, for the present, the violence which they meditated. One of
them, however, more sanguinary and audacious than the rest, would not
depart without some gratification of his vengeance. He left his
associates and penetrated by night into Solesbury, resolving to attack
the first human being whom he should meet. It was the fate of thy
unhappy brother to encounter this ruffian, whose sagacity made him
forbear to tear away the usual trophy from the dead, lest he should
afford grounds for suspicion as to the authors of the evil.
Satisfied with this exploit, he rejoined his companions, and, after an
interval of three weeks, returned with a more numerous party, to execute
a more extensive project of destruction. They were counselled and
guided, in all their movements, by Queen Mab, who now explained these
particulars and boldly defied her oppressors. Her usual obstinacy and
infatuation induced her to remain in her ancient dwelling and prepare to
meet the consequences.
This disclosure awakened anew all the regrets and anguish which flowed
from that disaster. It has been productive, however, of some benefit.
Suspicions and doubts, by which my soul was harassed, and which were
injurious to the innocent, are now at an end. It is likewise some
imperfect consolation to reflect that the assassin has himself been
killed, and probably by my own hand. The shedder of blood no longer
lives to pursue his vocation, and justice is satisfied.
Thus have I fulfilled my promise to compose a minute relation of my
sufferings. I remembered my duty to thee, and, as soon as I was able to
hold a pen, employed it to inform thee of my welfare. I could not at
that time enter into particulars, but reserved a more copious narrative
till a period of more health and leisure.
On looking back, I am surprised at the length to which my story has run.
I thought that a few days would suffice to complete it; but one page has
insensibly been added to another, till I have consumed weeks and filled
volumes. Here I will draw to a close; I will send you what I have
written, and discuss with you in conversation my other immediate
concerns, and my schemes for the future. As soon as I have seen
Sarsefield, I will visit you. FAREWELL. E. H.
SOLESBURY, November 10.
Letter I.
_To Mr. Sarsefield._
PHILADELPHIA.
I came hither but ten minutes ago, and write this letter in the bar of
the stage-house. I wish not to lose a moment in informing you of what
has happened. I cannot do justice to my own feelings when I reflect upon
the rashness of which I have been guilty.
I will give you the particulars to-morrow. At present, I shall only say
that Clithero is alive, is apprized of your wife's arrival and abode in
New York, and has set out with mysterious intentions to visit her.
May Heaven avert the consequences of such a design! May you be enabled,
by some means, to prevent their meeting! If you cannot prevent it--but I
must not reason on such an event, nor lengthen out this letter.
E. H.
Letter II.
_To the Same._
I will now relate the particulars which I yesterday promised to send
you. You heard through your niece of my arrival at Inglefield's, in
Solesbury: my inquiries, you may readily suppose, would turn upon the
fate of my friend's servant Clithero, whose last disappearance was so
strange and abrupt, and of whom, since that time, I had heard nothing.
You are indifferent to his fate, and are anxious only that his existence
and misfortunes may be speedily forgotten. I confess that it is somewhat
otherwise with me. I pity him; I wish to relieve him, and cannot admit
the belief that his misery is without a cure. I want to find him out. I
want to know his condition, and, if possible, to afford him comfort and
inspire him with courage and hope.
Inglefield replied to my questions:--"Oh yes! He has appeared. The
strange being is again upon the stage. Shortly after he left his
sick-bed, I heard from Philip Beddington, of Chetasco, that Deb's hut had
found a new tenant. At first I imagined that the Scotsman who built it
had returned; but, making closer inquiries, I found that the new tenant
was my servant. I had no inclination to visit him myself, but frequently
inquired respecting him of those who lived or passed that way, and find
that he still lives there."
"But how!" said I: "what is his mode of subsistence? The winter has been
no time for cultivation; and he found, I presume, nothing in the
ground."
"Deb's hut," replied my friend, "is his lodging and his place of
retirement, but food and clothing he procures by labouring on a
neighbouring farm. This farm is next to that of Beddington, who
consequently knows something of his present situation. I find little or
no difference in his present deportment and those appearances which he
assumed while living with me, except that he retires every night to his
hut, and holds as little intercourse as possible with the rest of
mankind. He dines at his employer's table; but his supper, which is
nothing but rye-bread, he carries home with him, and, at all those times
when disengaged from employment, he secludes himself in his hut, or
wanders nobody knows whither."
This was the substance of Inglefield's intelligence. I gleaned from it
some satisfaction. It proved the condition of Clithero to be less
deplorable and desperate than I had previously imagined. His fatal and
gloomy thoughts seemed to have somewhat yielded to tranquillity.
In the course of my reflections, however, I could not but perceive that
his condition, though eligible when compared with what it once was, was
likewise disastrous and humiliating, compared with his youthful hopes
and his actual merits. For such a one to mope away his life in this
unsocial and savage state was deeply to be deplored. It was my duty, if
possible, to prevail on him to relinquish his scheme. And what would be
requisite, for that end, but to inform him of the truth?
The source of his dejection was the groundless belief that he had
occasioned the death of his benefactress. It was this alone that could
justly produce remorse or grief. It was a distempered imagination both
in him and in me that had given birth to this opinion, since the terms
of his narrative, impartially considered, were far from implying that
catastrophe. To him, however, the evidence which he possessed was
incontestable. No deductions from probability could overthrow his
belief. This could only be effected by similar and counter evidence. To
apprize him that she was now alive, in possession of some degree of
happiness, the wife of Sarsefield, and an actual resident on this shore,
would dissipate the sanguinary apparition that haunted him, cure his
diseased intellects, and restore him to those vocations for which his
talents, and that rank in society for which his education, had qualified
him. Influenced by these thoughts, I determined to visit his retreat.
Being obliged to leave Solesbury the next day, I resolved to set out the
same afternoon, and, stopping in Chetasco for the night, seek his
habitation at the hour when he had probably retired to it.
This was done. I arrived at Beddington's at nightfall. My inquiries
respecting Clithero obtained for me the same intelligence from him which
I had received from Inglefield. Deb's hut was three miles from this
habitation, and thither, when the evening had somewhat advanced, I
repaired. This was the spot which had witnessed so many perils during
the last year; and my emotions, on approaching it, were awful. With
palpitating heart and quick steps I traversed the road, skirted on each
side by thickets, and the area before the house. The dwelling was by no
means in so ruinous a state as when I last visited it. The crannies
between the logs had been filled up, and the light within was
perceivable only at a crevice in the door.
Looking through this crevice, I perceived a fire in the chimney, but the
object of my visit was nowhere to be seen. I knocked and requested
admission, but no answer was made. At length I lifted the latch and
entered. Nobody was there.
It was obvious to suppose that Clithero had gone abroad for a short
time, and would speedily return; or perhaps some engagement had detained
him at his labour later than usual. I therefore seated myself on some
straw near the fire, which, with a woollen rug, appeared to constitute
his only bed. The rude bedstead which I formerly met was gone. The
slender furniture, likewise, which had then engaged my attention, had
disappeared. There was nothing capable of human use but a heap of fagots
in the corner, which seemed intended for fuel. How slender is the
accommodation which nature has provided for man, and how scanty is the
portion which our physical necessities require!
While ruminating upon this scene, and comparing past events with the
objects before me, the dull whistling of the gale without gave place to
the sound of footsteps. Presently the door opened, and Clithero entered
the apartment. His aspect and guise were not essentially different from
those which he wore when an inhabitant of Solesbury.
To find his hearth occupied by another appeared to create the deepest
surprise. He looked at me without any tokens of remembrance. His
features assumed a more austere expression, and, after scowling on my
person for a moment, he withdrew his eyes, and, placing in a corner a
bundle which he bore in his hand, he turned and seemed preparing to
withdraw.
I was anxiously attentive to his demeanour, and, as soon as I perceived
his purpose to depart, leaped on my feet to prevent it. I took his hand,
and, affectionately pressing it, said, "Do you not know me? Have you so
soon forgotten me, who is truly your friend?"
He looked at me with some attention, but again withdrew his eyes, and
placed himself in silence on the seat which I had left. I seated myself
near him, and a pause of mutual silence ensued.
My mind was full of the purpose that brought me hither, but I knew not
in what manner to communicate my purpose. Several times I opened my lips
to speak, but my perplexity continued, and suitable words refused to
suggest themselves. At length I said, in a confused tone,--
"I came hither with a view to benefit a man with whose misfortunes his
own lips have made me acquainted, and who has awakened in my breast the
deepest sympathy. I know the cause and extent of his dejection. I know
the event which has given birth to horror and remorse in his heart. He
believes that, by his means, his patroness and benefactress has found an
untimely death."
These words produced a visible shock in my companion, which evinced that
I had at least engaged his attention. I proceeded:--
"This unhappy lady was cursed with a wicked and unnatural brother. She
conceived a disproportionate affection for this brother, and erroneously
imagined that her fate was blended with his, that their lives would
necessarily terminate at the same period, and that, therefore, whoever
was the contriver of his death was likewise, by a fatal and invincible
necessity, the author of her own.
"Clithero was her servant, but was raised by her bounty to the station
of her son and the rank of her friend. Clithero, in self-defence, took
away the life of that unnatural brother, and, in that deed, falsely but
cogently believed that he had perpetrated the destruction of his
benefactress.
"To ascertain the truth, he sought her presence. She was found, the
tidings of her brother's death were communicated, and she sank
breathless at his feet."
At these words Clithero started from the ground, and cast upon me looks
of furious indignation. "And come you hither," he muttered, "for this
end?--to recount my offences and drive me again to despair?"
"No," answered I, with quickness; "I come to outroot a fatal but
powerful illusion. I come to assure you that the woman with whose
destruction you charge yourself is _not dead_."
These words, uttered with the most emphatical solemnity, merely produced
looks in which contempt was mingled with anger. He continued silent.
"I perceive," resumed I, "that my words are disregarded. Would to Heaven
I were able to conquer your incredulity, could show you not only the
truth but the probability of my tale! Can you not confide in me? that
Euphemia Lorimer is now alive, is happy, is the wife of Sarsefield? that
her brother is forgotten and his murderer regarded without enmity or
vengeance?"
He looked at me with a strange expression of contempt. "Come," said he,
at length; "make out thy assertion to be true. Fall on thy knees, and
invoke the thunder of Heaven to light on thy head if thy words be false.
Swear that Euphemia Lorimer is alive; happy; forgetful of Wiatte and
compassionate of me. Swear that thou hast seen her; talked with her;
received from her own lips the confession of her pity for him who aimed
a dagger at her bosom. Swear that she is Sarsefield's wife."
I put my hands together, and, lifting my eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "I
comply with your conditions. I call the omniscient God to witness that
Euphemia Lorimer is alive; that I have seen her with these eyes; have
talked with her; have inhabited the same house for months."
These asseverations were listened to with shuddering. He laid not aside,
however, an air of incredulity and contempt. "Perhaps," said he, "thou
canst point out the place of her abode?--canst guide me to the city, the
street, the very door of her habitation?"
"I can. She resides at this moment in the city of New York; in Broadway;
in a house contiguous to the--."
"'Tis well!" exclaimed my companion, in a tone loud, abrupt, and in the
utmost degree vehement. "'Tis well! Rash and infatuated youth, thou hast
ratified, beyond appeal or forgiveness, thy own doom. Thou hast once
more let loose my steps, and sent me on a fearful journey. Thou hast
furnished the means of detecting thy imposture. I will fly to the spot
which thou describest. I will ascertain thy falsehood with my own eyes.
If she be alive, then am I reserved for the performance of a new crime.
My evil destiny will have it so. If she be dead, I shall make thee
expiate."
So saying, he darted through the door, and was gone in a moment beyond
my sight and my reach. I ran to the road, looked on every side, and
called; but my calls were repeated in vain. He had fled with the
swiftness of a deer.
My own embarrassment, confusion, and terror were inexpressible. His last
words were incoherent. They denoted the tumult and vehemence of frenzy.
They intimated his resolution to seek the presence of your wife. I had
furnished a clue which could not fail to conduct him to her presence.
What might not be dreaded from the interview? Clithero is a maniac. This
truth cannot be concealed. Your wife can with difficulty preserve her
tranquillity when his image occurs to her remembrance. What must it be
when he starts up before her in his neglected and ferocious guise, and
armed with purposes perhaps as terrible as those which had formerly led
him to her secret chamber and her bedside?
His meaning was obscurely conveyed. He talked of a deed for the
performance of which his malignant fate had reserved him, which was to
ensue their meeting, and which was to afford disastrous testimony of the
infatuation which had led me hither.
Heaven grant that some means may suggest themselves to you of
intercepting his approach! Yet I know not what means can be conceived.
Some miraculous chance may befriend you; yet this is scarcely to be
hoped. It is a visionary and fantastic base on which to rest our
security.
I cannot forget that my unfortunate temerity has created this evil. Yet
who could foresee this consequence of my intelligence? I imagined that
Clithero was merely a victim of erroneous gratitude, a slave of the
errors of his education and the prejudices of his rank; that his
understanding was deluded by phantoms in the mask of virtue and duty,
and not, as you have strenuously maintained, utterly subverted.
I shall not escape your censure, but I shall, likewise, gain your
compassion. I have erred, not through sinister or malignant intentions,
but from the impulse of misguided, indeed, but powerful, benevolence.
Letter III.
_To Edgar Huntly_.
NEW YORK.
EDGAR:--
After the fatigues of the day, I returned home. As I entered, my wife
was breaking the seal of a letter; but, on seeing me, she forbore, and
presented the letter to me.
"I saw," said she, "by the superscription of this letter, who the writer
was. So, agreeably to your wishes, I proceeded to open it; but you have
come just time enough to save me the trouble."
This letter was from you. It contained information relative to Clithero.
See how imminent a chance it was that saved my wife from a knowledge of
its contents! It required all my efforts to hide my perturbation from
her and excuse myself from showing her the letter.
I know better than you the character of Clithero, and the consequences
of a meeting between him and my wife. You may be sure that I would exert
myself to prevent a meeting.
The method for me to pursue was extremely obvious. Clithero is a madman,
whose liberty is dangerous, and who requires to be fettered and
imprisoned as the most atrocious criminal.
I hastened to the chief-magistrate, who is my friend, and, by proper
representations, obtained from him authority to seize Clithero wherever
I should meet with him, and effectually debar him from the perpetration
of new mischiefs.
New York does not afford a place of confinement for lunatics as suitable
to his case as Pennsylvania. I was desirous of placing him as far as
possible from the place of my wife's residence. Fortunately, there was a
packet for Philadelphia on the point of setting out on her voyage. This
vessel I engaged to wait a day or two, for the purpose of conveying him
to Pennsylvania Hospital. Meanwhile, proper persons were stationed at
Powles Hook, and at the quays where the various stage-boats from Jersey
arrive.
These precautions were effectual. Not many hours after the receipt of
your intelligence, this unfortunate man applied for a passage at
Elizabethtown, was seized the moment he set his foot on shore, and was
forthwith conveyed to the packet, which immediately set sail.
I designed that all these proceedings should be concealed from the
women, but unfortunately neglected to take suitable measures for
hindering the letter, which you gave me reason to expect on the ensuing
day, from coming into their hands. It was delivered to my wife in my
absence, and opened immediately by her.
You know what is, at present, her personal condition. You know what
strong reasons I had to prevent any danger or alarm from approaching
her. Terror could not assume a shape more ghastly than this. The effects
have been what might have been easily predicted. Her own life has been
imminently endangered, and an untimely birth has blasted my fondest
hope. Her infant, with whose future existence so many pleasures were
entwined, is dead.
I assure you, Edgar, my philosophy has not found itself lightsome and
active under this burden. I find it hard to forbear commenting on your
rashness in no very mild terms. You acted in direct opposition to my
counsel and to the plainest dictates of propriety. Be more circumspect
and more obsequious for the future.
You knew the liberty that would be taken of opening my letters; you knew
of my absence from home during the greatest part of the day, and the
likelihood, therefore, that your letters would fall into my wife's hands
before they came into mine. These considerations should have prompted
you to send them under cover to Whitworth or Harvey, with directions to
give them immediately to me.
Some of these events happened in my absence; for I determined to
accompany the packet myself, and see the madman safely delivered to the
care of the hospital.
I will not torture your sensibility by recounting the incidents of his
arrest and detention. You will imagine that his strong but perverted
reason exclaimed loudly against the injustice of his treatment. It was
easy for him to out-reason his antagonist, and nothing but force could
subdue his opposition. On me devolved the province of his jailer and his
tyrant,--a province which required a heart more steeled by spectacles of
suffering and the exercise of cruelty than mine had been.
Scarcely had we passed the Narrows, when the lunatic, being suffered to
walk the deck, (as no apprehensions were entertained of his escape in
such circumstances,) threw himself overboard, with a seeming intention
to gain the shore. The boat was immediately manned; the fugitive was
pursued; but, at the moment when his flight was overtaken, he forced
himself beneath the surface, and was seen no more.
With the life of this wretch, let our regrets and our forebodings
terminate. He has saved himself from evils for which no time would have
provided a remedy, from lingering for years in the noisome dungeon of a
hospital. Having no reason to continue my voyage, I put myself on board
a coasting-sloop, and regained this city in a few hours. I persuade
myself that my wife's indisposition will be temporary. It was impossible
to hide from her the death of Clithero, and its circumstances. May this
be the last arrow in the quiver of adversity! Farewell.