Before I reached the city it was dusk. It was my purpose to spend the
night at Mettingen. I was not solicitous, as long as I was attended by
a faithful servant, to be there at an early hour. My exhausted strength
required me to take some refreshment. With this view, and in order to
pay respect to one whose affection for me was truly maternal, I stopped
at Mrs. Baynton's. She was absent from home; but I had scarcely entered
the house when one of her domestics presented me a letter. I opened and
read as follows:
"To Clara Wieland,
"What shall I say to extenuate the misconduct of last night? It is my
duty to repair it to the utmost of my power, but the only way in which
it can be repaired, you will not, I fear, be prevailed on to adopt. It
is by granting me an interview, at your own house, at eleven o'clock
this night. I have no means of removing any fears that you may entertain
of my designs, but my simple and solemn declarations. These, after what
has passed between us, you may deem unworthy of confidence. I cannot
help it. My folly and rashness has left me no other resource. I will
be at your door by that hour. If you chuse to admit me to a conference,
provided that conference has no witnesses, I will disclose to you
particulars, the knowledge of which is of the utmost importance to your
happiness. Farewell.
CARWIN."
What a letter was this! A man known to be an assassin and robber; one
capable of plotting against my life and my fame; detected lurking in
my chamber, and avowing designs the most flagitious and dreadful, now
solicits me to grant him a midnight interview! To admit him alone into
my presence! Could he make this request with the expectation of my
compliance? What had he seen in me, that could justify him in admitting
so wild a belief? Yet this request is preferred with the utmost gravity.
It is not accompanied by an appearance of uncommon earnestness. Had
the misconduct to which he alludes been a slight incivility, and the
interview requested to take place in the midst of my friends, there
would have been no extravagance in the tenor of this letter; but, as it
was, the writer had surely been bereft of his reason.
I perused this epistle frequently. The request it contained might be
called audacious or stupid, if it had been made by a different person;
but from Carwin, who could not be unaware of the effect which it must
naturally produce, and of the manner in which it would unavoidably be
treated, it was perfectly inexplicable. He must have counted on the
success of some plot, in order to extort my assent. None of those
motives by which I am usually governed would ever have persuaded me to
meet any one of his sex, at the time and place which he had prescribed.
Much less would I consent to a meeting with a man, tainted with the
most detestable crimes, and by whose arts my own safety had been so
imminently endangered, and my happiness irretrievably destroyed. I
shuddered at the idea that such a meeting was possible. I felt some
reluctance to approach a spot which he still visited and haunted.
Such were the ideas which first suggested themselves on the perusal of
the letter. Meanwhile, I resumed my journey. My thoughts still dwelt
upon the same topic. Gradually from ruminating on this epistle, I
reverted to my interview with Pleyel. I recalled the particulars of the
dialogue to which he had been an auditor. My heart sunk anew on viewing
the inextricable complexity of this deception, and the inauspicious
concurrence of events, which tended to confirm him in his error. When
he approached my chamber door, my terror kept me mute. He put his ear,
perhaps, to the crevice, but it caught the sound of nothing human. Had
I called, or made any token that denoted some one to be within, words
would have ensued; and as omnipresence was impossible, this discovery,
and the artless narrative of what had just passed, would have saved me
from his murderous invectives. He went into his chamber, and after some
interval, I stole across the entry and down the stairs, with
inaudible steps. Having secured the outer doors, I returned with less
circumspection. He heard me not when I descended; but my returning steps
were easily distinguished. Now he thought was the guilty interview at
an end. In what other way was it possible for him to construe these
signals?
How fallacious and precipitate was my decision! Carwin's plot owed its
success to a coincidence of events scarcely credible. The balance was
swayed from its equipoise by a hair. Had I even begun the conversation
with an account of what befel me in my chamber, my previous interview
with Wieland would have taught him to suspect me of imposture; yet, if
I were discoursing with this ruffian, when Pleyel touched the lock of my
chamber door, and when he shut his own door with so much violence, how,
he might ask, should I be able to relate these incidents? Perhaps he
had withheld the knowledge of these circumstances from my brother, from
whom, therefore, I could not obtain it, so that my innocence would have
thus been irresistibly demonstrated.
The first impulse which flowed from these ideas was to return upon my
steps, and demand once more an interview; but he was gone: his parting
declarations were remembered.
Pleyel, I exclaimed, thou art gone for ever! Are thy mistakes beyond
the reach of detection? Am I helpless in the midst of this snare?
The plotter is at hand. He even speaks in the style of penitence. He
solicits an interview which he promises shall end in the disclosure of
something momentous to my happiness. What can he say which will avail to
turn aside this evil? But why should his remorse be feigned? I have
done him no injury. His wickedness is fertile only of despair; and the
billows of remorse will some time overbear him. Why may not this event
have already taken place? Why should I refuse to see him?
This idea was present, as it were, for a moment. I suddenly recoiled
from it, confounded at that frenzy which could give even momentary
harbour to such a scheme; yet presently it returned. At length I even
conceived it to deserve deliberation. I questioned whether it was
not proper to admit, at a lonely spot, in a sacred hour, this man of
tremendous and inscrutable attributes, this performer of horrid deeds,
and whose presence was predicted to call down unheard-of and unutterable
horrors.
What was it that swayed me? I felt myself divested of the power to will
contrary to the motives that determined me to seek his presence. My mind
seemed to be split into separate parts, and these parts to have
entered into furious and implacable contention. These tumults gradually
subsided. The reasons why I should confide in that interposition which
had hitherto defended me; in those tokens of compunction which this
letter contained; in the efficacy of this interview to restore its
spotlessness to my character, and banish all illusions from the mind of
my friend, continually acquired new evidence and new strength.
What should I fear in his presence? This was unlike an artifice intended
to betray me into his hands. If it were an artifice, what purpose would
it serve? The freedom of my mind was untouched, and that freedom would
defy the assaults of blandishments or magic. Force was I not able to
repel. On the former occasion my courage, it is true, had failed at the
imminent approach of danger; but then I had not enjoyed opportunities of
deliberation; I had foreseen nothing; I was sunk into imbecility by my
previous thoughts; I had been the victim of recent disappointments
and anticipated ills: Witness my infatuation in opening the closet in
opposition to divine injunctions.
Now, perhaps, my courage was the offspring of a no less erring
principle. Pleyel was for ever lost to me. I strove in vain to assume
his person, and suppress my resentment; I strove in vain to believe in
the assuaging influence of time, to look forward to the birth-day of new
hopes, and the re-exaltation of that luminary, of whose effulgencies I
had so long and so liberally partaken.
What had I to suffer worse than was already inflicted?
Was not Carwin my foe? I owed my untimely fate to his treason. Instead
of flying from his presence, ought I not to devote all my faculties to
the gaining of an interview, and compel him to repair the ills of
which he has been the author? Why should I suppose him impregnable
to argument? Have I not reason on my side, and the power of imparting
conviction? Cannot he be made to see the justice of unravelling the maze
in which Pleyel is bewildered?
He may, at least, be accessible to fear. Has he nothing to fear from
the rage of an injured woman? But suppose him inaccessible to such
inducements; suppose him to persist in all his flagitious purposes; are
not the means of defence and resistance in my power?
In the progress of such thoughts, was the resolution at last formed. I
hoped that the interview was sought by him for a laudable end; but, be
that as it would, I trusted that, by energy of reasoning or of action, I
should render it auspicious, or, at least, harmless.
Such a determination must unavoidably fluctuate. The poet's chaos was
no unapt emblem of the state of my mind. A torment was awakened in my
bosom, which I foresaw would end only when this interview was past, and
its consequences fully experienced. Hence my impatience for the arrival
of the hour which had been prescribed by Carwin.
Meanwhile, my meditations were tumultuously active. New impediments
to the execution of the scheme were speedily suggested. I had apprized
Catharine of my intention to spend this and many future nights with her.
Her husband was informed of this arrangement, and had zealously approved
it. Eleven o'clock exceeded their hour of retiring. What excuse should
I form for changing my plan? Should I shew this letter to Wieland, and
submit myself to his direction? But I knew in what way he would decide.
He would fervently dissuade me from going. Nay, would he not do more?
He was apprized of the offences of Carwin, and of the reward offered
for his apprehension. Would he not seize this opportunity of executing
justice on a criminal?
This idea was new. I was plunged once more into doubt. Did not equity
enjoin me thus to facilitate his arrest? No. I disdained the office of
betrayer. Carwin was unapprized of his danger, and his intentions were
possibly beneficent. Should I station guards about the house, and
make an act, intended perhaps for my benefit, instrumental to his own
destruction? Wieland might be justified in thus employing the knowledge
which I should impart, but I, by imparting it, should pollute myself
with more hateful crimes than those undeservedly imputed to me. This
scheme, therefore, I unhesitatingly rejected. The views with which
I should return to my own house, it would therefore be necessary to
conceal. Yet some pretext must be invented. I had never been initiated
into the trade of lying. Yet what but falshood was a deliberate
suppression of the truth? To deceive by silence or by words is the same.
Yet what would a lie avail me? What pretext would justify this change in
my plan? Would it not tend to confirm the imputations of Pleyel? That
I should voluntarily return to an house in which honor and life had so
lately been endangered, could be explained in no way favorable to my
integrity.
These reflections, if they did not change, at least suspended my
decision. In this state of uncertainty I alighted at the _hut_. We gave
this name to the house tenanted by the farmer and his servants, and
which was situated on the verge of my brother's ground, and at a
considerable distance from the mansion. The path to the mansion was
planted by a double row of walnuts. Along this path I proceeded alone.
I entered the parlour, in which was a light just expiring in the socket.
There was no one in the room. I perceived by the clock that stood
against the wall, that it was near eleven. The lateness of the hour
startled me. What had become of the family? They were usually retired
an hour before this; but the unextinguished taper, and the unbarred
door were indications that they had not retired. I again returned to the
hall, and passed from one room to another, but still encountered not a
human being.
I imagined that, perhaps, the lapse of a few minutes would explain
these appearances. Meanwhile I reflected that the preconcerted hour had
arrived. Carwin was perhaps waiting my approach. Should I immediately
retire to my own house, no one would be apprized of my proceeding. Nay,
the interview might pass, and I be enabled to return in half an hour.
Hence no necessity would arise for dissimulation.
I was so far influenced by these views that I rose to execute this
design; but again the unusual condition of the house occurred to me, and
some vague solicitude as to the condition of the family. I was nearly
certain that my brother had not retired; but by what motives he could
be induced to desert his house thus unseasonably I could by no means
divine. Louisa Conway, at least, was at home and had, probably, retired
to her chamber; perhaps she was able to impart the information I wanted.
I went to her chamber, and found her asleep. She was delighted and
surprized at my arrival, and told me with how much impatience and
anxiety my brother and his wife had waited my coming. They were fearful
that some mishap had befallen me, and had remained up longer than the
usual period. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Catharine would
not resign the hope of seeing me. Louisa said she had left them both in
the parlour, and she knew of no cause for their absence.
As yet I was not without solicitude on account of their personal safety.
I was far from being perfectly at ease on that head, but entertained no
distinct conception of the danger that impended over them. Perhaps to
beguile the moments of my long protracted stay, they had gone to
walk upon the bank. The atmosphere, though illuminated only by the
star-light, was remarkably serene. Meanwhile the desirableness of an
interview with Carwin again returned, and I finally resolved to seek it.
I passed with doubting and hasty steps along the path. My dwelling, seen
at a distance, was gloomy and desolate. It had no inhabitant, for my
servant, in consequence of my new arrangement, had gone to Mettingen.
The temerity of this attempt began to shew itself in more vivid colours
to my understanding. Whoever has pointed steel is not without arms; yet
what must have been the state of my mind when I could meditate, without
shuddering, on the use of a murderous weapon, and believe myself secure
merely because I was capable of being made so by the death of another?
Yet this was not my state. I felt as if I was rushing into deadly toils,
without the power of pausing or receding.