Influenced by these reasonings, I determined to retain what had thus
been put into my hands. My next care was in regard to the scene I should
choose, as the retreat of that life which I had just saved from the
grasp of the executioner. The danger to which I was exposed of forcible
interruption in my pursuits, was probably, in some respects, less now
than it had been previously to this crisis. Besides, that I was
considerably influenced in this deliberation by the strong loathing I
conceived for the situations in which I had lately been engaged. I knew
not in what mode Mr. Falkland intended to exercise his vengeance against
me; but I was seized with so unconquerable an aversion to disguise, and
the idea of spending my life in personating a fictitious character, that
I could not, for the present at least, reconcile my mind to any thing of
that nature. The same kind of disgust I had conceived for the
metropolis, where I had spent so many hours of artifice, sadness, and
terror. I therefore decided in favour of the project which had formerly
proved amusing to my imagination, of withdrawing to some distant, rural
scene, a scene of calmness and obscurity, where for a few years at
least, perhaps during the life of Mr. Falkland, I might be hidden from
the world, recover the wounds my mind had received in this fatal
connection, methodise and improve the experience which had been
accumulated, cultivate the faculties I in any degree possessed, and
employ the intervals of these occupations in simple industry, and the
intercourse of guileless, uneducated, kind-intentioned minds. The
menaces of my persecutor seemed to forebode the inevitable interruption
of this system. But I deemed it wise to put these menaces out of my
consideration I compared them to death, which must infallibly overtake
us we know not when; but the possibility of whose arrival next year,
next week, to-morrow, must be left out of the calculation of him who
would enter upon any important or well-concerted undertaking.
Such were the ideas that determined my choice. Thus did my youthful mind
delineate the system of distant years, even when the threats of instant
calamity still sounded in my ears. I was inured to the apprehension of
mischief, till at last the hoarse roarings of the beginning tempest had
lost their power of annihilating my peace. I however thought it
necessary, while I was most palpably within the sphere of the enemy, to
exert every practicable degree of vigilance. I was careful not to incur
the hazards of darkness and solitude. When I left the town it was with
the stage-coach, an obvious source of protection against glaring and
enormous violence. Meanwhile I found myself no more exposed to
molestation in my progress, than the man in the world who should have
had the least reason for apprehensions of this nature. As the distance
increased, I relaxed something in my precaution, though still awake to a
sense of danger, and constantly pursued with the image of my foe. I
fixed upon an obscure market-town in Wales as the chosen seat of my
operations. This place recommended itself to my observation as I was
wandering in quest of an abode. It was clean, cheerful, and of great
simplicity of appearance. It was at a distance from any public and
frequented road, and had nothing which could deserve the name of trade.
The face of nature around it was agreeably diversified, being partly
wild and romantic, and partly rich and abundant in production.
Here I solicited employment in two professions; the first, that of a
watchmaker, in which though the instructions I had received were few,
they were eked out and assisted by a mind fruitful in mechanical
invention; the other, that of an instructor in mathematics and its
practical application, geography, astronomy, land-surveying, and
navigation. Neither of these was a very copious source of emolument in
the obscure retreat I had chosen for myself; but, if my receipts were
slender, my disbursements were still fewer. In this little town I became
acquainted with the vicar, the apothecary, the lawyer, and the rest of
the persons who, time out of mind, had been regarded as the top gentry
of the place. Each of these centred in himself a variety of occupations.
There was little in the appearance of the vicar that reminded you of his
profession, except on the recurring Sunday. At other times he
condescended, with his evangelical hand to guide the plough, or to drive
the cows from the field to the farm-yard for the milking. The apothecary
occasionally officiated as a barber, and the lawyer was the village
schoolmaster.
By all these persons I was received with kindness and hospitality. Among
people thus remote from the bustle of human life there is an open spirit
of confidence, by means of which a stranger easily finds access to their
benevolence and good-will. My manners had never been greatly debauched
from the simplicity of rural life by the scenes through which I had
passed; and the hardships I had endured had given additional mildness to
my character. In the theatre upon which I was now placed I had no rival.
My mechanical occupation had hitherto been a non-resident; and the
schoolmaster, who did not aspire to the sublime heights of science I
professed to communicate, was willing to admit me as a partner in the
task of civilising the unpolished manners of the inhabitants. For the
parson, civilisation was no part of his trade; his business was with the
things of a better life, not with the carnal concerns of this material
scene; in truth, his thoughts were principally occupied with his oatmeal
and his cows.
These however were not the only companions which this remote retirement
afforded me. There was a family of a very different description, of
which I gradually became the chosen intimate. The father was a shrewd,
sensible, rational man, but who had turned his principal attention to
subjects of agriculture. His wife was a truly admirable and
extraordinary woman. She was the daughter of a Neapolitan nobleman, who,
after having visited, and made a considerable figure, in every country
in Europe, had at length received the blow of fate in this village. He
had been banished his country upon suspicion of religious and political
heresy, and his estates confiscated. With this only child, like Prospero
in the Tempest, he had withdrawn himself to one of the most obscure and
uncultivated regions of the world. Very soon however after his arrival
in Wales he had been seized with a malignant fever, which carried him
off in three days. He died possessed of no other property than a few
jewels, and a bill of credit, to no considerable amount, upon an English
banker.
Here then was the infant Laura, left in a foreign country, and without
a single friend. The father of her present husband was led by motives of
pure humanity to seek to mitigate the misfortunes of the dying Italian.
Though a plain uninstructed man, with no extraordinary refinement of
intellect, there was something in his countenance that determined the
stranger in his present forlorn and melancholy situation, to make him
his executor, and the guardian of his daughter. The Neapolitan
understood enough of English to explain his wishes to this friendly
attendant of his death-bed. As his circumstances were narrow, the
servants of the stranger, two Italians, a male and a female, were sent
back to their own country soon after the death of their master.
Laura was at this time eight years of age. At these tender years she had
been susceptible of little direct instruction; and, as she grew up, even
the memory of her father became, from year to year, more vague and
indistinct in her mind. But there was something she derived from her
father, whether along with the life he bestowed, or as the consequence
of his instruction and manners, which no time could efface. Every added
year of her life contributed to develop the fund of her accomplishments.
She read, she observed, she reflected. Without instructors, she taught
herself to draw, to sing, and to understand the more polite European
languages. As she had no society in this remote situation but that of
peasants, she had no idea of honour or superiority to be derived from
her acquisitions; but pursued them from a secret taste, and as the
sources of personal enjoyment.
A mutual attachment gradually arose between her and the only son of her
guardian. His father led him, from early youth, to the labours and the
sports of the field, and there was little congeniality between his
pursuits and those of Laura. But this was a defect that she was slow to
discover. She had never been accustomed to society in her chosen
amusements, and habit at that time even made her conceive, that they
were indebted to solitude for an additional relish. The youthful rustic
had great integrity, great kindness of heart, and was a lad of excellent
sense. He was florid, well-proportioned, and the goodness of his
disposition made his manners amiable. Accomplishments greater than these
she had never seen in human form, since the death of her father. In
fact, she is scarcely to be considered as a sufferer in this instance;
since, in her forlorn and destitute condition, it is little probable,
when we consider the habits and notions that now prevail, that her
accomplishments, unassisted by fortune, would have procured her an equal
alliance in marriage.
When she became a mother her heart opened to a new affection. The idea
now presented itself, which had never occurred before, that in her
children at least she might find the partners and companions of her
favourite employments. She was, at the time of my arrival, mother of
four, the eldest of which was a son. To all of them she had been a most
assiduous instructor. It was well for her perhaps that she obtained this
sphere for the exercise of her mind. It came just at the period when the
charm which human life derives from novelty is beginning to wear off. It
gave her new activity and animation. It is perhaps impossible that the
refinements of which human nature is capable should not, after a time,
subside into sluggishness, if they be not aided by the influence of
society and affection.
The son of the Welch farmer by this admirable woman was about seventeen
years of age at the time of my settlement in their neighbourhood. His
eldest sister was one year younger than himself. The whole family
composed a group, with which a lover of tranquillity and virtue would
have delighted to associate in any situation. It is easy therefore to
conceive how much I rejoiced in their friendship, in this distant
retirement, and suffering, as I felt myself, from the maltreatment and
desertion of my species. The amiable Laura had a wonderful quickness of
eye, and rapidity of apprehension; but this feature in her countenance
was subdued by a sweetness of disposition, such as I never in any other
instance saw expressed in the looks of a human being. She soon
distinguished me by her kindness and friendship; for, living as she had
done, though familiar with the written productions of a cultivated
intellect, she had never seen the thing itself realised in a living
being, except in the person of her father. She delighted to converse
with me upon subjects of literature and taste, and she eagerly invited
my assistance in the education of her children. The son, though young,
had been so happily improved and instructed by his mother, that I found
in him nearly all the most essential qualities we require in a friend.
Engagement and inclination equally led me to pass a considerable part of
every day in this agreeable society. Laura treated me as if I had been
one of the family; and I sometimes flattered myself that I might one day
become such in reality. What an enviable resting-place for me, who had
known nothing but calamity, and had scarcely dared to look for sympathy
and kindness in the countenance of a human being!
The sentiments of friendship which early disclosed themselves between me
and the member of this amiable family daily became stronger. At every
interview, the confidence reposed in me by the mother increased. While
our familiarity gained in duration, it equally gained in that subtlety
of communication by which it seemed to shoot forth its roots in every
direction. There are a thousand little evanescent touches in the
development of a growing friendship, that are neither thought of, nor
would be understood, between common acquaintances. I honoured and
esteemed the respectable Laura like a mother; for, though the difference
of our ages was by no means sufficient to authorise the sentiment, it
was irresistibly suggested to me by the fact of her always being
presented to my observation under the maternal character. Her son was a
lad of great understanding, generosity, and feeling, and of no
contemptible acquirements; while his tender years, and the uncommon
excellence of his mother, subtracted something from the independence of
his judgment, and impressed him with a sort of religious deference for
her will. In the eldest daughter I beheld the image of Laura; for that I
felt attached to her for the present; and I sometimes conceived it
probable that hereafter I might learn to love her for her own
sake.--Alas, it was thus that I amused myself with the visions of distant
years, while I stood in reality on the brink of the precipice!
It will perhaps be thought strange that I never once communicated the
particulars of my story to this amiable matron, or to my young friend,
for such I may also venture to call him, her son. But in truth I
abhorred the memory of this story; I placed all my hopes of happiness in
the prospect of its being consigned to oblivion. I fondly flattered
myself that such would be the event: in the midst of my unlooked-for
happiness, I scarcely recollected, or, recollecting, was disposed to
yield but a small degree of credit to, the menaces of Mr. Falkland.
One day, that I was sitting alone with the accomplished Laura, she
repeated his all-dreadful name. I started with astonishment, amazed
that a woman like this, who knew nobody, who lived as it were alone in a
corner of the universe, who had never in a single instance entered into
any fashionable circle, this admirable and fascinating hermit, should,
by some unaccountable accident, have become acquainted with this fatal
and tremendous name. Astonishment however was not my only sensation. I
became pale with terror; I rose from my seat; I attempted to sit down
again; I reeled out of the room, and hastened to bury myself in
solitude. The unexpectedness of the incident took from me all
precaution, and overwhelmed my faculties. The penetrating Laura observed
my behaviour; but nothing further occurred to excite her attention to it
at that time; and, concluding from my manner that enquiry would be
painful to me, she humanely suppressed her curiosity.
I afterwards found that Mr. Falkland had been known to the father of
Laura; that he had been acquainted with the story of Count Malvesi, and
with a number of other transactions redounding in the highest degree to
the credit of the gallant Englishman. The Neapolitan had left letters in
which these transactions were recorded, and which spoke of Mr. Falkland
in the highest terms of panegyric. Laura had been used to regard every
little relic of her father with a sort of religious veneration; and, by
this accident, the name of Mr. Falkland was connected in her mind with
the sentiments of unbounded esteem.
The scene by which I was surrounded was perhaps more grateful to me,
than it would have been to most other persons with my degree of
intellectual cultivation. Sore with persecution and distress, and
bleeding at almost every vein, there was nothing I so much coveted as
rest and tranquillity. It seemed as if my faculties were, at least for
the time, exhausted by the late preternatural intensity of their
exertions, and that they stood indispensably in need of a period of
comparative suspension.
This was however but a temporary feeling. My mind had always been
active, and I was probably indebted to the sufferings I had endured, and
the exquisite and increased susceptibility they produced, for new
energies. I soon felt the desire of some additional and vigorous
pursuit. In this state of mind, I met by accident, in a neglected corner
of the house of one of my neighbours, with a general dictionary of four
of the northern languages. This incident gave a direction to my
thoughts. In my youth I had not been inattentive to languages. I
determined to attempt, at least for my own use, an etymological analysis
of the English language. I easily perceived, that this pursuit had one
advantage to a person in my situation, and that a small number of books,
consulted with this view, would afford employment for a considerable
time. I procured other dictionaries. In my incidental reading, I noted
the manner in which words were used, and applied these remarks to the
illustration of my general enquiry. I was unintermitted in my assiduity,
and my collections promised to accumulate. Thus I was provided with
sources both of industry and recreation, the more completely to divert
my thoughts from the recollection of my past misfortunes.
In this state, so grateful to my feelings, week after week glided away
without interruption and alarm. The situation in which I was now placed
had some resemblance to that in which I had spent my earlier years, with
the advantage of a more attractive society, and a riper judgment. I
began to look back upon the intervening period as upon a distempered and
tormenting dream; or rather perhaps my feelings were like those of a
man recovered from an interval of raging delirium, from ideas of horror,
confusion, flight, persecution, agony, and despair! When I recollected
what I had undergone, it was not without satisfaction, as the
recollection of a thing that was past; every day augmented my hope that
it was never to return. Surely the dark and terrific menaces of Mr.
Falkland were rather the perturbed suggestions of his angry mind, than
the final result of a deliberate and digested system! How happy should I
feel, beyond the ordinary lot of man, if, after the terrors I had
undergone, I should now find myself unexpectedly restored to the
immunities of a human being!
While I was thus soothing my mind with fond imaginations, it happened
that a few bricklayers and their labourers came over from a distance of
five or six miles, to work upon some additions to one of the better sort
of houses in the town, which had changed its tenant. No incident could
be more trivial than this, had it not been for a strange coincidence of
time between this circumstance, and a change which introduced itself
into my situation. This first manifested itself in a sort of shyness
with which I was treated, first by one person, and then another, of my
new-formed acquaintance. They were backward to enter into conversation
with me, and answered my enquiries with an awkward and embarrassed air.
When they met me in the street or the field, their countenances
contracted a cloud, and they endeavoured to shun me. My scholars quitted
me one after another; and I had no longer any employment in my
mechanical profession. It is impossible to describe the sensations,
which the gradual but uninterrupted progress of this revolution produced
in my mind. It seemed as if I had some contagious disease, from which
every man shrunk with alarm, and left me to perish unassisted and alone.
I asked one man and another to explain to me the meaning of these
appearances; but every one avoided the task, and answered in an evasive
and ambiguous manner. I sometimes supposed that it was all a delusion of
the imagination; till the repetition of the sensation brought the
reality too painfully home to my apprehension. There are few things that
give a greater shock to the mind, than a phenomenon in the conduct of
our fellow men, of great importance to our concerns, and for which we
are unable to assign any plausible reason. At times I was half inclined
to believe that the change was not in other men, but that some
alienation of my own understanding generated the horrid vision. I
endeavoured to awaken from my dream, and return to my former state of
enjoyment and happiness; but in vain. To the same consideration it may
be ascribed, that, unacquainted with the source of the evil, observing
its perpetual increase, and finding it, so far as I could perceive,
entirely arbitrary in its nature, I was unable to ascertain its limits,
or the degree in which it would finally overwhelm me.
In the midst however of the wonderful and seemingly inexplicable nature
of this scene, there was one idea that instantly obtruded itself, and
that I could never after banish from my mind. It is Falkland! In vain I
struggled against the seeming improbability of the supposition. In vain
I said, "Mr. Falkland, wise as he is, and pregnant in resources, acts by
human, not by supernatural means. He may overtake me by surprise, and in
a manner of which I had no previous expectation; but he cannot produce a
great and notorious effect without some visible agency, however
difficult it may be to trace that agency to its absolute author. He
cannot, like those invisible personages who are supposed from time to
time to interfere in human affairs, ride in the whirlwind, shroud
himself in clouds and impenetrable darkness, and scatter destruction
upon the earth from his secret habitation." Thus it was that I bribed my
imagination, and endeavoured to persuade myself that my present
unhappiness originated in a different source from my former. All evils
appeared trivial to me, in comparison with the recollection and
perpetuation of my parent misfortune. I felt like a man distracted, by
the incoherence of my ideas to my present situation, excluding from it
the machinations of Mr. Falkland, on the one hand; and on the other, by
the horror I conceived at the bare possibility of again encountering his
animosity, after a suspension of many weeks, a suspension as I had hoped
for ever. An interval like this was an age to a person in the calamitous
situation I had so long experienced. But, in spite of my efforts, I
could not banish from my mind the dreadful idea. My original conceptions
of the genius and perseverance of Mr. Falkland had been such, that I
could with difficulty think any thing impossible to him. I knew not how
to set up my own opinions of material causes and the powers of the human
mind, as the limits of existence. Mr. Falkland had always been to my
imagination an object of wonder, and that which excites our wonder we
scarcely suppose ourselves competent to analyse.
It may well be conceived, that one of the first persons to whom I
thought of applying for an explanation of this dreadful mystery was the
accomplished Laura. My disappointment here cut me to the heart. I was
not prepared for it. I recollected the ingenuousness of her nature, the
frankness of her manners, the partiality with which she had honoured me.
If I were mortified with the coldness, the ruggedness, and the cruel
mistake of principles with which the village inhabitants repelled my
enquiries, the mortification I suffered, only drove me more impetuously
to seek the cure of my griefs from this object of my admiration. "In
Laura," said I, "I am secure from these vulgar prejudices. I confide in
her justice. I am sure she will not cast me off unheard, nor without
strictly examining a question on all sides, in which every thing that is
valuable to a person she once esteemed, may be involved."
Thus encouraging myself, I turned my steps to the place of her
residence. As I passed along I called up all my recollection, I summoned
my faculties. "I may be made miserable," said I, "but it shall not be
for want of any exertion of mine, that promises to lead to happiness. I
will be clear, collected, simple in narrative, ingenuous in
communication. I will leave nothing unsaid that the case may require. I
will not volunteer any thing that relates to my former transactions with
Mr. Falkland; but, if I find that my present calamity is connected with
those transactions, I will not fear but that by an honest explanation I
shall remove it."
I knocked at the door. A servant appeared, and told me that her mistress
hoped I would excuse her; she must really beg to dispense with my visit.
I was thunderstruck. I was rooted to the spot. I had been carefully
preparing my mind for every thing that I supposed likely to happen, but
this event had not entered into my calculations. I roused myself in a
partial degree, and walked away without uttering a word.
I had not gone far before I perceived one of the workmen following me,
who put into my hands a billet. The contents were these:--
"MR. WILLIAMS,
"Let me see you no more. I have a right at least to expect your
compliance with this requisition; and, upon that condition, I pardon the
enormous impropriety and guilt with which you have conducted yourself to
me and my family.
"LAURA DENISON."
The sensations with which I read these few lines are indescribable. I
found in them a dreadful confirmation of the calamity that on all sides
invaded me. But what I felt most was the unmoved coldness with which
they appeared to be written. This coldness from Laura, my comforter, my
friend, my mother! To dismiss, to cast me off for ever, without one
thought of compunction!
I determined however, in spite of her requisition, and in spite of her
coldness, to have an explanation with her. I did not despair of
conquering the antipathy she harboured. I did not fear that I should
rouse her from the vulgar and unworthy conception, of condemning a man,
in points the most material to his happiness, without stating the
accusations that are urged against him, and without hearing him in
reply.
Though I had no doubt, by means of resolution, of gaining access to her
in her house, yet I preferred taking her unprepared, and not warmed
against me by any previous contention. Accordingly, the next morning, at
the time she usually devoted to half an hour's air and exercise, I
hastened to her garden, leaped the paling, and concealed myself in an
arbour. Presently I saw, from my retreat, the younger part of the family
strolling through the garden, and from thence into the fields; but it
was not my business to be seen by them. I looked after them however with
earnestness, unobserved; and I could not help asking myself, with a
deep and heartfelt sigh, whether it were possible that I saw them now
for the last time?
They had not advanced far into the fields, before their mother made her
appearance. I observed in her her usual serenity and sweetness of
countenance. I could feel my heart knocking against my ribs. My whole
frame was in a tumult. I stole out of the arbour; and, as I advanced
nearer, my pace became quickened.
"For God's sake, madam," exclaimed I, "give me a hearing! Do not avoid
me!"
She stood still. "No, sir," she replied, "I shall not avoid you. I
wished you to dispense with this meeting; but since I cannot obtain
that--I am conscious of no wrong; and therefore, though the meeting
gives me pain, it inspires me with no fear."
"Oh, madam," answered I, "my friend! the object of all my reverence!
whom I once ventured to call my mother! can you wish not to hear me? Can
you have no anxiety for my justification, whatever may be the
unfavourable impression you may have received against me?"
"Not an atom. I have neither wish nor inclination to hear you. That tale
which, in its plain and unadorned state, is destructive of the character
of him to whom it relates, no colouring can make an honest one."
"Good God! Can you think of condemning a man when you have heard only
one side of his story?"
"Indeed I can," replied she with dignity. "The maxim of hearing both
sides may be very well in some cases; but it would be ridiculous to
suppose that there are not cases, that, at the first mention, are too
clear to admit the shadow of a doubt. By a well-concerted defence you
may give me new reasons to admire your abilities; but I am acquainted
with them already. I can admire your abilities, without tolerating your
character."
"Madam! Amiable, exemplary Laura! whom, in the midst of all your
harshness and inflexibility, I honour! I conjure you, by every thing
that is sacred, to tell me what it is that has filled you with this
sudden aversion to me."
"No, sir; that you shall never obtain from me. I have nothing to say to
you. I stand still and hear you; because virtue disdains to appear
abashed and confounded in the presence of vice. Your conduct even at
this moment, in my opinion, condemns you. True virtue refuses the
drudgery of explanation and apology. True virtue shines by its own
light, and needs no art to set it off. You have the first principles of
morality as yet to learn."
"And can you imagine, that the most upright conduct is always superior
to the danger of ambiguity?"
"Exactly so. Virtue, sir, consists in actions, and not in words. The
good man and the bad are characters precisely opposite, not characters
distinguished from each other by imperceptible shades. The Providence
that rules us all, has not permitted us to be left without a clew in the
most important of all questions. Eloquence may seek to confound it; but
it shall be my care to avoid its deceptive influence. I do not wish to
have my understanding perverted, and all the differences of things
concealed from my apprehension."
"Madam, madam! it would be impossible for you to hold this language, if
you had not always lived in this obscure retreat, if you had ever been
conversant with the passions and institutions of men."
"It may be so. And, if that be the case, I have great reason to be
thankful to my God, who has thus enabled me to preserve the innocence of
my heart, and the integrity of my understanding."
"Can you believe then that ignorance is the only, or the safest,
preservative of integrity?"
"Sir, I told you at first, and I repeat to you again, that all your
declamation is in vain. I wish you would have saved me and yourself that
pain which is the only thing that can possibly result from it. But let
us suppose that virtue could ever be the equivocal thing you would have
me believe. Is it possible, if you had been honest, that you would not
have acquainted me with your story? Is it possible, that you would have
left me to have been informed of it by a mere accident, and with all the
shocking aggravations you well knew that accident would give it? Is it
possible you should have violated the most sacred of all trusts, and
have led me unknowingly to admit to the intercourse of my children a
character, which if, as you pretend, it is substantially honest, you
cannot deny to be blasted and branded in the face of the whole world?
Go, sir; I despise you. You are a monster and not a man. I cannot tell
whether my personal situation misleads me; but, to my thinking, this
last action of yours is worse than all the rest. Nature has constituted
me the protector of my children. I shall always remember and resent the
indelible injury you have done them. You have wounded me to the very
heart, and have taught me to what a pitch the villainy of man can
extend."
"Madam, I can be silent no longer. I see that you have by some means
come to a hearing of the story of Mr. Falkland."
"I have. I am astonished you have the effrontery to pronounce his name.
That name has been a denomination, as far back as my memory can reach,
for the most exalted of mortals, the wisest and most generous of men."
"Madam, I owe it to myself to set you right on this subject. Mr.
Falkland--"
"Mr. Williams, I see my children returning from the fields, and coming
this way. The basest action you ever did was the obtruding yourself upon
them as an instructor. I insist that you see them no more. I command you
to be silent. I command you to withdraw. If you persist in your absurd
resolution of expostulating with me, you must take some other time."
I could continue no longer. I was in a manner heart-broken through the
whole of this dialogue. I could not think of protracting the pain of
this admirable woman, upon whom, though I was innocent of the crimes she
imputed to me, I had inflicted so much pain already. I yielded to the
imperiousness of her commands, and withdrew.
I hastened, without knowing why, from the presence of Laura to my own
habitation. Upon entering the house, an apartment of which I occupied, I
found it totally deserted of its usual inhabitants. The woman and her
children were gone to enjoy the freshness of the breeze. The husband was
engaged in his usual out-door occupations. The doors of persons of the
lower order in this part of the country are secured, in the day-time,
only with a latch. I entered, and went into the kitchen of the family.
Here, as I looked round, my eyes accidentally glanced upon a paper lying
in one corner, which, by some association I was unable to explain,
roused in me a strong sensation of suspicion and curiosity. I eagerly
went towards it, caught it up, and found it to be the very paper of the
WONDERFUL AND SURPRISING HISTORY OF CALEB WILLIAMS, the discovery of
which, towards the close of my residence in London, had produced in me
such inexpressible anguish.
This encounter at once cleared up all the mystery that hung upon my late
transactions. Abhorred and intolerable certainty succeeded to the doubts
which had haunted my mind. It struck me with the rapidity of lightning.
I felt a sudden torpor and sickness that pervaded every fibre of my
frame.
Was there no hope that remained for me? Was acquittal useless? Was there
no period, past or in prospect, that could give relief to my sufferings?
Was the odious and atrocious falsehood that had been invented against
me, to follow me wherever I went, to strip me of character, to deprive
me of the sympathy and good-will of mankind, to wrest from me the very
bread by which life must be sustained?
For the space perhaps of half an hour the agony I felt from this
termination to my tranquillity, and the expectation it excited of the
enmity which would follow me through every retreat, was such as to
bereave me of all consistent thinking, much more of the power of coming
to any resolution. As soon as this giddiness and horror of the mind
subsided, and the deadly calm that invaded my faculties was no more, one
stiff and master gale gained the ascendancy, and drove me to an instant
desertion of this late cherished retreat. I had no patience to enter
into further remonstrance and explanation with the inhabitants of my
present residence. I believed that it was in vain to hope to recover the
favourable prepossession and tranquillity I had lately enjoyed. In
encountering the prejudices that were thus armed against me, I should
have to deal with a variety of dispositions, and, though I might succeed
with some, I could not expect to succeed with all. I had seen too much
of the reign of triumphant falsehood, to have that sanguine confidence
in the effects of my innocence, which would have suggested itself to the
mind of any other person of my propensities and my age. The recent
instance which had occurred in my conversation with Laura might well
contribute to discourage me. I could not endure the thought of opposing
the venom that was thus scattered against me, in detail and through its
minuter particles. If ever it should be necessary to encounter it, if I
were pursued like a wild beast, till I could no longer avoid turning
upon my hunters, I would then turn upon the true author of this
unprincipled attack; I would encounter the calumny in its strong hold; I
would rouse myself to an exertion hitherto unessayed; and, by the
firmness, intrepidity, and unalterable constancy I should display, would
yet compel mankind to believe Mr. Falkland a suborner and a murderer!