University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Several days had passed since this conference,
and, contrary to his custom, Harding, in
all this time, had kept out of my sight. His
absence was felt by both Constance and myself.
He had been, of late, almost the only
companion known to either of us. Why I
liked him I knew not. His virtues were
many, and virtues were, at no time, a subject
of my admiration. That he was loved by
Constance, I had no question; that he loved
her I felt equally certain—but it was the passion
of an angel on the part of both; and it
may be that knowing the torture which it
brought with it to both of them, my malignant

spirit found pleasure in bringing them together.
It was not a charitable mood, I am satisfied,
that made me solicitous that he should
be as much as possible an inmate of my
dwelling.

He came at last, and I was struck with his
appearance. The change for the worse was
dreadfully obvious. He looked like one, who
had been for many nights without sleep. He
was pale, nervous in the last degree, and awfully
haggard.

“I am miserable,” said he, “since you
breathed that accursed story in my ears.
Tell me, I conjure you, Martin, as you value
my quiet, that you but jested with me—that
the whole affair was but a fabrication—a
fetch of the nightmare—a mere vision of the
fancy.”

Will it be believed, that having thus an opportunity,
even then, of undoing the impression
I had created, I took no advantage of it. I
persisted in the story—I was impelled to do
so, and could not forbear. There was an impulse
that mastered the will—that defied the
cooler judgment—that led me waywardly, as
it thought proper. You have read that strange
poem of Coleridge, in which the “Auncient
Marinere” is made, whether he will or no, and
in spite of every obstacle, to thrust his terrible
narrative into the ears of the unwilling listener.
It was so with me; but though I was thus
compelled to denounce my crime, the will had
still some exercise, and I made use of it for my
security. I changed the particulars so materially
from the facts, as they really were, that
inquiry must only have resulted in my acquittal.

The state of mind under which Harding
labored, was of melancholy consequence, to
him, at least, if not to me. Sad and disappointed,
he left me without a word, and for
some days more I saw him not. At length he
came to me looking worse than ever.

“I shall go mad, Faber, with this infernal
secret. It keeps me awake all night. It fills
my chamber with spectres. I am haunted
with the presence of the girl, you accuse yourself
of having murdered.

“Go to—will you be a child all your life.
Why should she haunt you?—it is not you
who have murdered her—she does not trouble
me.

“Nevertheless, she does. She calls upon
me to bring you to justice. I awake and she
is muttering in my ears. She implores—she

threatens—she stands by my bed side in the
darkness—she shakes the curtains—I hear
the rustling of her garments—I hear her
words; and when I seek to sleep, her cries
of “Murder,! Murder! Murder!” are shouted,
and ring through all my senses, as the sound
of a sullen, swinging bell in the wilderness.
Save me, Martin—from this vision—save me
from the consequence of your own imprudence
in telling me this story. Assure me that it is
untrue, or I feel that I shall be unable to keep
the secret. It is like a millstone around my
neck—it makes a hell within my heart.”

“What! and would you betray me—would
you bring me to punishment, for an offence
which I have told you was involuntary, and
which I unconsciously committed? Your
sense of honor, apart from your feeling of

friendship, alone, should be sufficient to restrain
you. I cannot believe that you would
violate your pledge—that you can betray
the confidence reposed in you.”

Silenced, but not satisfied, and far more
miserable than ever, the poor youth, whose
nerves were daily become more and more unsteady
and sensitive under these exciting influences,
went away;—but the next day, he
came again—his look was fixed and resolute,
and an air of desperate decision marked every
feature.

“I am about to go to the Justice, Martin, to
reveal all this story, precisely as you have
told it to me—I cannot bear a continuance of
life, haunted as I have been, by innumerable
terrors, ever since I heard it. But last night,
I heard the distinct denunciations of the murdered

girl, couched in the strongest language,
emphatically uttered in my ears. The whole
scene was before me, and the horrors of the
damned, could not exceed those which encompassed
my spirit. I fled from the chamber—
from the house. In the woods I have passed
the whole night in the deepest prayer. My
determination is the result of the soundest
conviction of its necessity. I can keep your
secret no longer.”

I paused for a moment, and having prepared
myself for all difficulties by a consideration
of all the circumstances, I simply bade
him—“Go then—if he was determined upon
the betrayal of his friend and the forfeiture of
his honor.”

“Reproach me not thus, Martin”—was his
reply. “Forgive me, but I must do so. I

must either disclose all or commit self-murder.
I cannot keep within my bosom that
which makes it an Ætna—which keeps it forever
in flame and explosion. Forgive—forgive
me!” Thus speaking, he rushed from
my presence.