University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Here was wrought a surprizing change in my
friend. What was it that had shaken conviction
so firm? Had any thing occurred during my fit,
adequate to produce so total an alteration? My
attendants informed me that he had not left my
apartment; that the unusual duration of my fit, and
the failure, for a time, of all the means used for my
recovery, had filled him with grief and dismay. Did
he regard the effect which his reproaches had produced
as a proof of my sincerity?

In this state of mind, I little regarded my languors
of body. I rose and requested an interview with
him before my departure, on which I was resolved,
notwithstanding his earnest solicitation to spend the
night at his house. He complied with my request.
The tenderness which he had lately betrayed, had
now disappeared, and he once more relapsed into a
chilling solemnity.

I told him that I was preparing to return to my
brother's; that I had come hither to vindicate my
innocence from the foul aspersions which he had
cast upon it. My pride had not taken refuge in
silence or distance. I had not relied upon time, or
the suggestions of his cooler thoughts, to consute his
charges. Conscious as I was that I was perfectly
guiltless, and entertaining some value for his good
opinion, I could not prevail upon myself to believe
that my efforts to make my innocence manifest,
would be fruitless. Adverse appearances might

be numerous and specious, but they were unquestionably
false. I was willing to believe him sincere,
that he made no charges which he himself
did not believe; but these charges were destitute of
truth. The grounds of his opinion were fallacious;
and I desired an opportunity of detecting their fallacy.
I entreated him to be explicit, and to give
me a detail of what he had heard, and what he had
seen.

At these words, my companion's countenance
grew darker. He appeared to be struggling with
his rage. He opened his lips to speak, but his accents
died away ere they were formed. This conflict
lasted for some minutes, but his fortitude was
finally successful. He spoke as follows:

“I would fain put an end to this hateful scene:
what I shall say, will be breath idly and unprofitably
consumed. The clearest narrative will add
nothing to your present knowledge. You are acquainted
with the grounds of my opinion, and yet
you avow yourself innocent: Why then should I
rehearse these grounds? You are apprized of the
character of Carwin: Why then should I enumerate
the discoveries which I have made respecting
him? Yet, since it is your request; since, considering
the limitedness of human faculties, some error
may possibly lurk in those appearances which I
have witnessed, I will briefly relate what I know.

“Need I dwell upon the impressions which your
conversation and deportment originally made upon
me? We parted in childhood; but our intercourse,
by letter, was copious and uninterrupted. How
fondly did I anticipate a meeting with one whom
her letters had previously taught me to consider as
the first of women, and how fully realized were
the expectations that I had formed!

“Here, said I, is a being, after whom sages
may model their transcendent intelligence, and
painters, their ideal beauty. Here is exemplified,
that union between intellect and form, which has
hitherto existed only in the conceptions of the poet.
I have watched your eyes; my attention has hung
upon your lips. I have questioned whether the
enchantments of your voice were more conspicuous
in the intricacies of melody, or the emphasis of
rhetoric. I have marked the transitions of your
discourse, the felicities of your expression, your
refined argumentation, and glowing imagery; and
been forced to acknowledge, that all delights were
meagre and contemptible, compared with those connected
with the audience and sight of you. I have
contemplated your principles, and been astonished at
the solidity of their foundation, and the perfection
of their structure. I have traced you to your home.
I have viewed you in relation to your servants, to
your family, to your neighbours, and to the world.
I have seen by what skilful arrangements you facilitate
the performance of the most arduous and complicated
duties; what daily accessions of strength
your judicious discipline bestowed upon your memory;
what correctness and abundance of knowledge
was daily experienced by your unwearied application
to books, and to writing. If she that
possesses so much in the bloom of youth, will go
on accumulating her stores, what, said I, is the
picture she will display at a mature age?

“You know not the accuracy of my observation.
I was desirous that others should profit by an example
so rare. I therefore noted down, in writing,
every particular of your conduct. I was anxious
to benefit by an opportunity so seldom afforded us.
I laboured not to omit the slightest shade, or the

most petty line in your portrait. Here there was
no other task incumbent on me but to copy; there
was no need to exaggerate or overlook, in order
to produce a more unexceptionable pattern. Here
was a combination of harmonies and graces, incapable
of diminution or acceslion without injury to
its completeness.

“I found no end and no bounds to my task. No
display of a scene like this could be chargeable with
redundancy or superfluity. Even the colour of a
shoe, the knot of a ribband, or your attitude in
plucking a rose, were of moment to be recorded.
Even the arrangements of your breakfast-table and
your toilet have been amply displayed.

“I know that mankind are more easily enticed to
virtue by example than by precept. I know that
the absoluteness of a model, when supplied by invention,
diminishes its salutary influence, since it is
useless, we think, to strive after that which we know
to be beyond our reach. But the picture which I
drew was not a phantom; as a model, it was devoid
of imperfection; and to aspire to that height
which had been really attained, was by no means
unreasonable. I had another and more interesting
object in view. One existed who claimed all my
tenderness. Here, in all its parts, was a model
worthy of affiduous study, and indefatigable imitation.
I called upon her, as she wished to secure and
enhance my esteem, to mould her thoughts, her
words, her countenance, her actions, by this pattern.

“The task was exuberant of pleasure, and I
was deeply engaged in it, when an imp of mischief
was let loose in the form of Carwin. I admired his
powers and accomplishments. I did not wonder
that they were admired by you. On the rectitude
of your judgment, however, I relied to keep this

admiration within discreet and scrupulous bounds.
I assured myself, that the strangeness of his deportment,
and the obscurity of his life, would teach you
caution. Of all errors, my knowledge of your
character informed me that this was least likely to
besall you.

“You were powerfully affected by his first appearance;
you were bewitched by his countenance
and his tones; your description was ardent and pathetic:
I listened to you with some emotions of surprize.
The portrait you drew in his absence, and
the intensity with which you mused upon it, were
new and unexpected incidents. They bespoke a
sensibility somewhat too vivid; but from which,
while subjected to the guidance of an understanding
like yours, there was nothing to dread.

“A more direct intercourse took place between
you. I need not apologize for the solicitude which
I entertained for your safety. He that gifted me
with perception of excellence, compelled me to love
it. In the midst of danger and pain, my contemplations
have ever been cheered by your image.
Every object in competition with you, was worthless
and trivial. No price was too great by which
your safety could be purchased. For that end, the
sacrifice of ease, of health, and even of life, would
cheerfully have been made by me. What wonder
then, that I scrutinized the sentiments and deportment
of this man with ceaseless vigilance; that I
watched your words and your looks when he was
present; and that I extracted cause for the deepest
inquietudes, from every token which you gave of
having put your happiness into this man's keeping?

“I was cautious in deciding. I recalled the various
conversations in which the topics of love and
marriage had been discussed. As a woman, young,

beautiful, and independent, it behoved you to have
sortified your mind with just principles on this subject.
Your principles were eminently just. Had
not their rectitude and their firmness been attested
by your treatment of that specious seducer Dashwood?
These principles, I was prone to believe,
exempted you from danger in this new state of
things. I was not the last to pay my homage to the
unrivalled capacity, insinuation, and eloquence of
this man. I have disguised, but could never stifle
the conviction, that his eyes and voice had a witchcraft
in them, which rendered him truly formidable:
but I reflected on the ambiguous expression of his
countenance—an ambiguity which you were the
first to remark; on the cloud which obscured his
character; and on the suspicious nature of that concealment
which he studied; and concluded you to
be safe. I denied the obvious construction to appearances.
I referred your conduct to some principle
which had not been hitherto disclosed, but
which was reconcileable with those already known.

“I was not suffered to remain long in this suspence.
One evening, you may recollect, I came
to your house, where it was my purpose, as usual,
to lodge, somewhat earlier than ordinary. I spied
a light in your chamber as I approached from the
outside, and on inquiring of Judith, was informed
that you were writing. As your kinsman and
friend, and fellow-lodger, I thought I had a right to
be familiar. You were in your chamber, but your
employment and the time were such as to make it
no infraction of decorum to follow you thither.
The spirit of mischievous gaiety possessed me. I
proceeded on tiptoe. You did not perceive my entrance;
and I advanced softly till I was able to
overlook your shoulder.

“I had gone thus far in error, and had no power
to recede. How cautiously should we guard against
the first inroads of temptation! I knew that to pry
into your papers was criminal; but I reflected that
no sentiment of yours was of a nature which made
it your interest to conceal it. You wrote much
more than you permitted your friends to peruse.
My curiosity was strong, and I had only to throw
a glance upon the paper, to secure its gratification.
I should never have deliberately committed an act
like this. The slightest obstacle would have repelled
me; but my eye glanced almost spontaneously
upon the paper. I caught only parts of sentences;
but my eyes comprehended more at a glance,
because the characters were short-hand. I lighted
on the words summer-house, midnight, and made
out a passage which spoke of the propriety and of
the effects to be expected from another interview.
All this passed in less than a moment. I then
checked myself, and made myself known to you,
by a tap upon your shoulder.

“I could pardon and account for some trifling
alarm; but your trepidation and blushes were excessive.
You hurried the paper out of sight, and
seemed too anxious to discover whether I knew the
contents to allow yourself to make any inquiries. I
wondered at these appearances of consternation, but
did not reason on them until I had retired. When
alone, these incidents suggested themselves to my
reflections a new.

“To what scene, or what interview, I asked,
did you allude? Your disappearance on a former
evening, my tracing you to the recess in the bank,
your silence on my first and second call, your vague
answers and invincible embarrassment, when you,
at length, ascended the hill, I recollected with new

surprize. Could this be the summer-house alluded
to? A certain timidity and consciousness had generally
attended you, when this incident and this recess
had been the subjects of conversation. Nay,
I imagined that the last time that adventure was
mentioned, which happened in the presence of Carwin,
the countenance of the latter betrayed some
emotion. Could the interview have been with
him?

“This was an idea calculated to rouse every
faculty to contemplation. An interview at that
hour, in this darksome retreat, with a man of this
mysterious but formidable character; a clandestine
interview, and one which you afterwards endeavoured
with so much solicitude to conceal! It was
a fearful and portentous occurrence. I could not
measure his power, or fathom his designs. Had he
rifled from you the secret of your love, and reconciled
you to concealment and nocturnal meetings?
I scarcely ever spent a night of more inquietude.

“I knew not how to act. The ascertainment
of this man's character and views seemed to be,
in the first place, necessary. Had he openly preferred
his suit to you, we should have been impowered
to make direct inquiries; but since he had
chosen this obscure path, it seemed reasonable to
infer that his character was exceptionable. It, at
least, subjected us to the necessity of resorting to
other means of information. Yet the improbability
that you should commit a deed of such rashness,
made me reflect anew upon the insufficiency
of those grounds on which my suspicions had been
built, and almost to condemn myself for harbouring
them.

“Though it was mere conjecture that the interview
spoken of had taken place with Carwin,

yet two ideas occurred to involve me in the most
painful doubts. This man's reasonings might be so
specious, and his artifices so profound, that, aided
by the passion which you had conceived for him, he
had finally succeeded; or his situation might be such
as to justify the secrecy which you maintained. In
neither case did my wildest reveries suggest to me,
that your honor had been forfeited.

“I could not talk with you on this subject. If
the imputation was false, its atrociousness would
have justly drawn upon me your resentment, and I
must have explained by what facts it had been suggested.
If it were true, no benefit would follow
from the mention of it. You had chosen to conceal
it for some reasons, and whether these reasons
were true or false, it was proper to discover and
remove them in the first place. Finally, I acquiesced
in the least painful supposition, trammelled as
it was with perplexities, that Carwin was upright,
and that, if the reasons of your silence were known
they would be found to be just.