University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

I am now rather to narrate the labors of another
than of myself, and to record the progress
of Harding in the newly assumed duties
of his life, of which, to their termination, I had
little, if any suspicion.

In accordance with his design, and in this
respect, my own habits and disposition favored
him largely, he was with me at all hours—we
were inseparable. He pretended a taste for
gunning, and though a poor sportsman, provided
with the usual accoutrements, he would
sally forth with me, day after day, in the pursuit
of the game, in which the neighboring
country was plentifully supplied. Day by

day, at all hours, in all places, we were still
together, and seemingly in the same pursuit;
yet, did we not always hunt. We chose fine
rambles—pleasant and devious windings of
country, secluded roads, hills and dales and
deep forests, in which a moody and reflective
spirit might well indulge in its favorite fancies.
Of this make were we both. To-day
we were in one direction—to-morrow in another,
until the neighboring world and woods,
for an extent in some quarters of twenty miles,
became familiar to us in our excursions. I was
struck with Harding's new habit of observation.
In our rambles before he had seen,
or appeared to see, nothing. Now nothing
escaped his notice and attention. Tree and
stump—hill and vale—wood and water—all
grew familiar, and a subject of large and narrow
examination. He seemed particularly solicitous
of the true relations of things—of parallel
distances—objects of comparative size,
and the dependencies of a group, in the compass
of his survey. Having great fondness
for landscape drawing and some skill in the
art, I put these peculiarities down to the account
of this propensity, and gave myself no
concern about it; but not unfrequently, turning
suddenly, would I detect the fixed gaze of
his eye, fastened inquiringly upon my own.
On such occasions he would turn aside with
a degree of confusion, which, did not, however,
provoke my suspicions. There was no
object in these wanderings that seemed too
humble for his survey. He peered into every
cup of the hills—into hollow trees—groped
his way through the most thickly spread and
seemingly impervious undergrowth, and suffered
no fatigue, and shrunk back from no difficulty.
Having hit upon a new spot, which
looked impervious or dark, he would, before
its examination, closely watch my progress—
the direction which I took and the peculiar
expression of my face. These practices were
not unseen by me then, but I regarded them
as having no object—I was certainly blind to
their true one. It is only now that the mystery
of his mind is unveiled—that his new-born
daring is accounted for—that he now appears
the rational and strong spirit I had not
then regarded him.

We had now, in these rambles, taken, with
the exception of a single one, every possible
route, leading into the neighboring country.
Bold and daring as I was, I had always

avoided the path which led to the little islet
and the scenes of my crime, though, certainly
without exception, the most beautiful and attractive
among them. This had not escaped
his attention—though he had so contrived it,
as not to appear to have a care or even to be
conscious, what route we were to pursue. It
now happened, however, that we were called
upon to retread spots which had grown familiar,
and more than once my companion would
exclaim—

“Have we not been here before—can we
not take some new direction?”

Still I avoided the route too well known to
me, and still he had not ventured to propose
taking it. He would not alarm me by a suggestion,
though one which would have been
so perfectly natural. He took another mode

to effect his purpose, and one day, just as we
were about to pass the little hollow in the
woods, which led directly upon the path I so
much wished to avoid, he saw, or pretended
to see, some game upon which to exercise his
skill, and, without saying more, he darted into
the avenue. I was compelled to follow, and,
slowly, and with feelings I was ashamed to
possess, but could not control, I prepared to
call up the whole history of crime and terror,
already sufficiently vivid to the eye of memory.
We pursued the devious route, and once
more I found myself retracing a region, which
though for months untrodden, was still as
freshly in my recollections, as when I made it
the field of exercise for all the black and blasting
passions running then riot in my soul. On
we went from point to point, of all the places
in my memory, each of which had its distinct
association, and spoke audibly to my spirit of
some endearment or reproach, some sorrow
or delight. Here was the little lake,—here
the islet where I first discovered her. Here
the scene of her dishonor and of my triumph—
here the place of our usual meeting, and here
—the spot upon which she perished under my
hands. I strove not to look. I felt all things
too vividly in my soul, and though I closed
my eyes, I could not shut out the images of
terror which were momentarily conjured up
by my imagination. I strove to look in all
quarters but in that which witnessed our
struggle and my crime, but my eyes invariably
turned at last and settled down on the one
spot, where, I beheld, at length, the distinct
outline of her figure, as it had, at the time,
appeared before me. Slowly it seemed to
rise from its recumbent posture, and, while I
breathed not, I beheld it proceed along the road
which I had taken, when bearing the inanimate
burden from which that now guiding
spirit had forever departed, to its place of
final slumber in the body of the rock, which
stood rigidly in the distance. I followed it,
unconsciously, with my eyes. My respiration
had utterly ceased—my hair was moist
and active—my lips were colorless and cold,
and my cheeks were ashen. A palsying wind
seemed to penetrate my bones, and though
not a joint trembled, yet they were all powerless.
I became conscious at last of my condition
and appearance, from discovering the
eyes of Harding anxiously bent upon mine
and following the direction of their gaze.
There was something so expressive—so earnest
in his look, that, though yet utterly unsuspicious
of his design, I was nevertheless not
a little offended at his seeming curiosity. I
recovered myself on the instant of making
this discovery, and turned round abruptly
upon him. As if detected in some impropriety,
his eyes fell from the look which I gave
him in evident confusion; and, without a
word, we prepared to proceed in our ramble.
Not willing to suggest a solitary movement
while in this region, which should prompt
doubt or inquiry, I left the choice of road to
himself, and saw with some concern that we
were now taking the direct route to the cottage
of old Andrews, the father of Emily. I
had no fear of exposure from any such interview,
for, I had so contrived it, that all suspicion
was diverted from myself in the minds
of the family. I had busied myself in the
little inquiries that had been made into her
fate—had pretended not a small portion of
sorrow and regret—had made sundry presents,
which in the depressed condition in which
they lived, had readily contributed still more
to their blindness; and never having been recognized,
in the dotage of the old man, as the
boy who had contributed to his first great misfortune,
I had escaped all imputations on the
subject of the second. Besides, I had taken
care to visit them frequently, though privately,
for a short period of time after the event, and
felt secure that I had no other position in their
regard, than that of confiding and friendly consideration.
But the subject had become irksome,
and, in addition to this fact, I had, for
the first time, perceived in my mind the possibility
that my companion, coupling the conversation
of the family, which would most
probably turn upon the fate of their daughter,
with my own story, might be enabled to gather
from the particulars such information as would
open the trail, and prepare the way for further
evidence. But the cautious policy of Harding
silenced my alarm, and indeed, my great error
from the first, consisted in the humble estimate
I had been taught to make of his character for
firmness. There is no greater mistake, than in
despising him to whom you have given a reason
to become an enemy. Where there is
mind, contempt will engender malice, and
where there is malice, there is a ceaseless
prompter, which one day will couple the venom
with the sting. Self-esteem in exaggerating
my own strength to myself, had also taught me
to undervalue that of others—in this way, I assisted
his pursuit, and helped him to his object.

We came soon upon the cottage. The old
man sat glowering in idiotic abstraction in a
corner chair, which he kept in a continual
rocking motion. His mind seemed utterly
gone, and though he spoke to both, he appeared
to recognize neither of us. His wife was
glad to see me, and thanked me repeatedly for
some articles of dress which I had sent her
some months before, since which period, until
then, I had not seen her. An unavoidable association
called up the memory of Emily, and
the tears of the old woman were again renewed.
Harding with an air of common-place inquiry,
and a manner of the most perfect indifference,
almost amounting to unconsciousness,

inquired into the story to which she had referred,
and while she told it as far as it was known
to herself, busied himself in plaiting into something
like form, the remains of a handful of
osiers which he had plucked on the way. His
very indifference, had not my fate otherwise
ordained, should have alarmed my watchfulness,
so utterly different did it appear from the
emotion which he usually expressed when
called to listen to a narrative so sorrowful and
touching. But he heard it, as if in a dream.
His mind seemed wandering, and I was lulled
into the most complete security. Never was
indifference so well enacted—never had mortal
been more attentive to a history than Harding
to this. All its details had been carefully treasured
up, and where the old lady had associated
me with the adventures of her daughter, his
mind had taken deep note, and the record in his
memory was ineradicably written. Over the
chimney place stood a rude portrait of the murdered
girl, to which, when the old lady called
for his attention to her beautiful features, he
scarcely gave a glance; and he, whom destiny
selected to bring the murderer of her child to
punishment, provoked openly the anger of the
mother, by his glaring inattention to the story of
her supposed fate. We left the cottage after a
somewhat protracted visit. I had no concern—
not the slightest apprehension, so completely
had my companion played his part in the transaction—but
he had not lost a word, not a look
not an action, in all the events of that morning.
His eye was forever upon me—his thoughts
were dissecting mine, and the most distant association
of cause and effect, drawn vividly together
by his intellect, quickened into sleepless
exercise and energy by the influences acting
upon it, supplied him with the materials for
commencing the true history of my crime.

We passed the rock on our return. I could
not keep my eyes from it; and his eyes were
on mine. He saw the same ashy paleness of
my cheek and look, and he saw that this rock
had something to do with my history. In the
analysis of a story like mine—so terribly romantic
as it was—his imagination became a
prime auxiliar, and with its aid, where a dull
man would have paused for fact, with the felicity
of truth, it supplied them, and he grew
confident and strong in each hour of progression
in his labor.