I retired accordingly to my apartment, and spent the prescribed hour in
anxious and irresolute reflections. They were no other than had hitherto
occurred, but they occurred with more force than ever. Some fatal
obstinacy, however, got possession of me, and I persisted in the
resolution of concealing _one thing_. We become fondly attached to
objects and pursuits, frequently for no conceivable reason but the pain
and trouble they cost us. In proportion to the danger in which they
involve us do we cherish them. Our darling potion is the poison that
scorches our vitals.
After some time, I went to Ludloe's apartment. I found him solemn, and
yet benign, at my entrance. After intimating my compliance with the
terms prescribed, which I did, in spite of all my labour for composure,
with accents half faultering, he proceeded to put various questions to
me, relative to my early history.
I knew there was no other mode of accomplishing the end in view, but by
putting all that was related in the form of answers to questions; and
when meditating on the character of Ludloe, I experienced excessive
uneasiness as to the consummate art and penetration which his questions
would manifest. Conscious of a purpose to conceal, my fancy invested
my friend with the robe of a judicial inquisitor, all whose questions
should aim at extracting the truth, and entrapping the liar.
In this respect, however, I was wholly disappointed. All his inquiries
were general and obvious.--They betokened curiosity, but not
suspicion; yet there were moments when I saw, or fancied I saw, some
dissatisfaction betrayed in his features; and when I arrived at that
period of my story which terminated with my departure, as his companion,
for Europe, his pauses were, I thought, a little longer and more museful
than I liked. At this period, our first conference ended. After a talk,
which had commenced at a late hour, and had continued many hours, it was
time to sleep, and it was agreed that next morning the conference should
be renewed.
On retiring to my pillow, and reviewing all the circumstances of this
interview, my mind was filled with apprehension and disquiet. I seemed
to recollect a thousand things, which showed that Ludloe was not fully
satisfied with my part in this interview. A strange and nameless mixture
of wrath and of pity appeared, on recollection, in the glances which,
from time to time, he cast upon me. Some emotion played upon his
features, in which, as my fears conceived, there was a tincture of
resentment and ferocity. In vain I called my usual sophistries to
my aid. In vain I pondered on the inscrutable nature of my peculiar
faculty. In vain I endeavoured to persuade myself, that, by telling the
truth, instead of entitling myself to Ludloe's approbation, I should
only excite his anger, by what he could not but deem an attempt to
impose upon his belief an incredible tale of impossible events. I had
never heard or read of any instance of this faculty. I supposed the case
to be absolutely singular, and I should be no more entitled to credit in
proclaiming it, than if I should maintain that a certain billet of wood
possessed the faculty of articulate speech. It was now, however,
too late to retract. I had been guilty of a solemn and deliberate
concealment. I was now in the path in which there was no turning back,
and I must go forward.
The return of day's encouraging beams in some degree quieted my
nocturnal terrors, and I went, at the appointed hour, to Ludloe's
presence. I found him with a much more cheerful aspect than I expected,
and began to chide myself, in secret, for the folly of my late
apprehensions.
After a little pause, he reminded me, that he was only one among many,
engaged in a great and arduous design. As each of us, continued he, is
mortal, each of us must, in time, yield his post to another.--Each of us
is ambitious to provide himself a successor, to have his place filled
by one selected and instructed by himself. All our personal feelings and
affections are by no means intended to be swallowed up by a passion for
the general interest; when they can be kept alive and be brought into
play, in subordination and subservience to the _great end_, they are
cherished as useful, and revered as laudable; and whatever austerity and
rigour you may impute to my character, there are few more susceptible of
personal regards than I am.
You cannot know, till _you_ are what _I_ am, what deep, what
all-absorbing interest I have in the success of my tutorship on this
occasion. Most joyfully would I embrace a thousand deaths, rather than
that you should prove a recreant. The consequences of any failure in
your integrity will, it is true, be fatal to yourself: but there are
some minds, of a generous texture, who are more impatient under ills
they have inflicted upon others, than of those they have brought upon
themselves; who had rather perish, themselves, in infamy, than bring
infamy or death upon a benefactor.
Perhaps of such noble materials is your mind composed. If I had not
thought so, you would never have been an object of my regard, and
therefore, in the motives that shall impel you to fidelity, sincerity,
and perseverance, some regard to my happiness and welfare will, no
doubt, have place.
And yet I exact nothing from you on this score. If your own safety be
insufficient to controul you, you are not fit for us. There is, indeed,
abundant need of all possible inducements to make you faithful. The task
of concealing nothing from me must be easy. That of concealing every
thing from others must be the only arduous one. The _first_ you can
hardly fail of performing, when the exigence requires it, for what
motive can you possibly have to practice evasion or disguise with
me? You have surely committed no crime; you have neither robbed, nor
murdered, nor betrayed. If you have, there is no room for the fear of
punishment or the terror of disgrace to step in, and make you hide your
guilt from me. You cannot dread any further disclosure, because I can
have no interest in your ruin or your shame: and what evil could
ensue the confession of the foulest murder, even before a bench of
magistrates, more dreadful than that which will inevitably follow the
practice of the least concealment to me, or the least undue disclosure
to others?
You cannot easily conceive the emphatical solemnity with which this was
spoken. Had he fixed piercing eyes on me while he spoke; had I perceived
him watching my looks, and labouring to penetrate my secret thoughts, I
should doubtless have been ruined: but he fixed his eyes upon the floor,
and no gesture or look indicated the smallest suspicion of my conduct.
After some pause, he continued, in a more pathetic tone, while his whole
frame seemed to partake of his mental agitation.
I am greatly at a loss by what means to impress you with a full
conviction of the truth of what I have just said. Endless are the
sophistries by which we seduce ourselves into perilous and doubtful
paths. What we do not see, we disbelieve, or we heed not. The sword may
descend upon our infatuated head from above, but we who are, meanwhile,
busily inspecting the ground at our feet, or gazing at the scene around
us, are not aware or apprehensive of its irresistible coming. In this
case, it must not be seen before it is felt, or before that time comes
when the danger of incurring it is over. I cannot withdraw the veil, and
disclose to your view the exterminating angel. All must be vacant and
blank, and the danger that stands armed with death at your elbow must
continue to be totally invisible, till that moment when its vengeance is
provoked or unprovokable. I will do my part to encourage you in good, or
intimidate you from evil. I am anxious to set before you all the motives
which are fitted to influence your conduct; but how shall I work on your
convictions?
Here another pause ensued, which I had not courage enough to interrupt.
He presently resumed.
Perhaps you recollect a visit which you paid, on Christmas day, in the
year ----, to the cathedral church at Toledo. Do you remember?
A moment's reflection recalled to my mind all the incidents of that day.
I had good reason to remember them. I felt no small trepidation when
Ludloe referred me to that day, for, at the moment, I was doubtful
whether there had not been some bivocal agency exerted On that occasion.
Luckily, however, it was almost the only similar occasion in which it
had been wholly silent.
I answered in the affirmative. I remember them perfectly.
And yet, said Ludloe, with a smile that seemed intended to disarm this
declaration of some of its terrors, I suspect your recollection is not
as exact as mine, nor, indeed, your knowledge as extensive. You met
there, for the first time, a female, whose nominal uncle, but real
father, a dean of that ancient church, resided in a blue stone house,
the third from the west angle of the square of St. Jago.
All this was exactly true.
This female, continued he, fell in love with you. Her passion made
her deaf to all the dictates of modesty and duty, and she gave you
sufficient intimations, in subsequent interviews at the same place, of
this passion; which, she being fair and enticing, you were not slow in
comprehending and returning. As not only the safety of your intercourse,
but even of both your lives, depended on being shielded even from
suspicion, the utmost wariness and caution was observed in all your
proceedings. Tell me whether you succeeded in your efforts to this end.
I replied, that, at the time, I had no doubt but I had.
And yet, said he, drawing something from his pocket, and putting it
into my hand, there is the slip of paper, with the preconcerted emblem
inscribed upon it, which the infatuated girl dropped in your sight, one
evening, in the left aisle of that church. That paper you imagined you
afterwards burnt in your chamber lamp. In pursuance of this token, you
deferred your intended visit, and next day the lady was accidentally
drowned, in passing a river. Here ended your connexion with her, and
with her was buried, as you thought, all memory of this transaction.
I leave you to draw your own inference from this disclosure. Meditate
upon it when alone. Recal all the incidents of that drama, and labour
to conceive the means by which my sagacity has been able to reach events
that took place so far off, and under so deep a covering. If you cannot
penetrate these means, learn to reverence my assertions, that I cannot
be deceived; and let sincerity be henceforth the rule of your conduct
towards me, not merely because it is right, but because concealment is
impossible.
We will stop here. There is no haste required of us. Yesterday's
discourse will suffice for to-day, and for many days to come. Let
what has already taken place be the subject of profound and mature
reflection. Review, once more, the incidents of your early life,
previous to your introduction to me, and, at our next conference,
prepare to supply all those deficiencies occasioned by negligence,
forgetfulness, or design on our first. There must be some. There must be
many. The whole truth can only be disclosed after numerous and repeated
conversations. These must take place at considerable intervals, and when
_all_ is told, then shall you be ready to encounter the final ordeal,
and load yourself with heavy and terrific sanctions.
I shall be the proper judge of the completeness of your
confession.--Knowing previously, and by unerring means, your whole
history, I shall be able to detect all that is deficient, as well as all
that is redundant. Your confessions have hitherto adhered to the truth,
but deficient they are, and they must be, for who, at a single trial,
can detail the secrets of his life? whose recollection can fully serve
him at an instant's notice? who can free himself, by a single effort,
from the dominion of fear and shame? We expect no miracles of fortitude
and purity from our disciples. It is our discipline, our wariness, our
laborious preparation that creates the excellence we have among us. We
find it not ready made.
I counsel you to join Mrs. Benington without delay. You may see me
when and as often as you please. When it is proper to renew the present
topic, it shall be renewed. Till then we will be silent.--Here Ludloe
left me alone, but not to indifference or vacuity. Indeed I was
overwhelmed with the reflections that arose from this conversation.
So, said I, I am still saved, if I have wisdom enough to use the
opportunity, from the consequences of past concealments. By a
distinction which I had wholly overlooked, but which could not be missed
by the sagacity and equity of Ludloe, I have praise for telling the
truth, and an excuse for withholding some of the truth. It was, indeed,
a praise to which I was entitled, for I have made no _additions_ to the
tale of my early adventures. I had no motive to exaggerate or dress out
in false colours. What I sought to conceal, I was careful to exclude
entirely, that a lame or defective narrative might awaken no suspicions.
The allusion to incidents at Toledo confounded and bewildered all my
thoughts. I still held the paper he had given me. So far as memory could
be trusted, it was the same which, an hour after I had received it,
I burnt, as I conceived, with my own hands. How Ludloe came into
possession of this paper; how he was apprised of incidents, to which
only the female mentioned and myself were privy; which she had too good
reason to hide from all the world, and which I had taken infinite pains
to bury in oblivion, I vainly endeavoured to conjecture.