University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

My right hand, grasping the unseen knife, was
still disengaged. It was lifted to strike. All my
strength was exhausted, but what was sufficient to
the performance of this deed. Already was the
energy awakened, and the impulse given, that
should bear the fatal steel to his heart, when—
Wieland shrunk back: his hand was withdrawn.
Breathless with affright and desperation, I stood,
freed from his grasp; unassailed; untouched.

Thus long had the power which controuled the
scene forborne to interfere; but now his might was
irresistible, and Wieland in a moment was disarmed
of all his purposes. A voice, louder than human
organs could produce, shriller than language
can depict, burst from the ceilling, and commanded
him—to hold!

Trouble and dismay succeeded to the stedfastness
that had lately been displayed in the looks of Wieland.
His eyes roved from one quarter to another,
with an expression of doubt. He seemed to wait
for a further intimation.

Carwin's agency was here easily recognized. I
had besought him to interpose in my defence. He
had flown. I had imagined him deaf to my prayer,
and resolute to see me perish: yet he disappeared
merely to devise and execute the means of my relief.

Why did he not forbear when this end was accomplished?
Why did his misjudging zeal and accursed

precipitation overpass that limit? Or meant
he thus to crown the scene, and conduct his inscrutable
plots to this consummation?

Such ideas were the fruit of subsequent contemplation.
This moment was pregnant with fate. I
had no power to reason. In the career of my tempestuous
thoughts, rent into pieces, as my mind
was, by accumulating horrors, Carwin was unseen
and unsuspected. I partook of Wieland's credulity,
shook with his amazement, and panted with
his awe.

Silence took place for a moment; so much as
allowed the attention to recover its post. Then
new sounds were uttered from above.

“Man of errors! cease to cherish thy delusion:
not heaven or hell, but thy senses have misled thee
to commit these acts. Shake off thy phrenzy, and
ascend into rational and human. Be lunatic no
longer.”

My brother opened his lips to speak. His tone
was terrific and faint. He muttered an appeal to
heaven. It was difficult to comprehend the theme
of his inquiries. They implied doubt as to the nature
of the impulse that hitherto had guided him,
and questioned whether he had acted in consequence
of insane perceptions.

To these interrogatories the voice, which now
seemed to hover at his shoulder, loudly answered in
the affirmative. Then uninterrupted silence ensued.

Fallen from his lofty and heroic station; now
finally restored to the perception of truth; weighed
to earth by the recollection of his own deeds; consoled
no longer by a consciousness of rectitude, for
the less of offspring and wife—a loss for which he
was indebted to his own misguided hand; Wieland

was transformed at once into the man of sorrows!

He reflected not that credit should be as reasonably
denied to the last, as to any former intimation;
that one might as justly be ascribed to erring or
diseased senses as the other. He saw not that this
discovery in no degree affected the integrity of his
conduct; that his motives had lost none of their
claims to the homage of mankind; that the preference
of supreme good, and the boundless energy
of duty, were undiminished in his bosom.

It is not for me to pursue him through the
ghastly changes of his countenance. Words he
had none. Now he sat upon the floor, motionless
in all his limbs, with his eyes glazed and fixed; a
monument of woe.

Anon a spirit of tempestuous but undesigning
activity seized him. He rose from his place and
strode across the floor, tottering and at random.
His eyes were without moisture, and gleamed with
the fire that consumed his vitals. The muscles of
his face were agitated by convulsion. His lips
moved, but no sound escaped him.

That nature should long sustain this conflict was
not to be believed. My state was little different
from that of my brother. I entered, as it were,
into his thought. My heart was visited and rent
by his pangs—Oh that thy phrenzy had never been
cured! that thy madness, with its blissful visions,
would return! or, if that must not be, that thy
scene would hasten to a clofe! that death would
cover thee with his oblivion!

What can I wish for thee? Thou who hast
vied with the great preacher of thy faith in sanctity
of motives, and in elevation above sensual and selfish!
Thou whom thy fate has changed into paricide

and savage! Can I wish for the continuance
of thy being? No.

For a time his movements seemed destitute of
purpose. If he walked; if he turned; if his fingers
were entwined with each other; if his hands were
pressed against opposite sides of his head with a
force sufficient to crush it into pieces; it was to
tear his mind from self-contemplation; to waste his
thoughts on external objects.

Speedily this train was broken. A beam appeared
to be darted into his mind, which gave a
purpose to his efforts. An avenue to escape presented
itself; and now he eagerly gazed about him:
when my thoughts became engaged by his demeanour,
my fingers were stretched as by a mechanical
force, and the knife, no longer heeded or of use,
escaped from my grasp, and fell unperceived on the
floor. His eye now lighted upon it; he seized it
with the quickness of thought.

I shrieked aloud, but it was too late. He plunged
it to the hilt in his neck; and his life instantly
escaped with the stream that gushed from the
wound. He was stretched at my feet; and my
hands were sprinkled with his blood as he fell.

Such was thy last deed, my brother! For a spectacle
like this was it my fate to be reserved! Thy
eyes were closed—thy face ghastly with death—
thy arms, and the spot where thou liedest, floated
in thy life's blood! These images have not, for a
moment, forsaken me. Till I am breathless and
cold, they must continue to hover in my sight.

Carwin, as I said, had left the room, but he still
lingered in the house. My voice summoned him
to my aid; but I scarcely noticed his re-entrance,
and now faintly recollect his terrified looks, his
broken exclamations, his vehement avowals of innocence,

the effusions of his pity for me, and his
offers of assistance.

I did not listen—I answered him not—I ceased
to upbraid or accuse. His guilt was a point to
which I was indifferent. Ruffian or devil, black
as hell or bright as angels, thenceforth he was nothing
to me. I was incapable of sparing a look or
a thought from the ruin that was spread at my feet.

When he left me, I was scarcely conscious of
any variation in the scene. He informed the inhabitants
of the hut of what had passed, and they
flew to the spot. Careless of his own safety, he
hasted to the city to inform my friends of my condition.

My uncle speedily arrived at the house. The
body of Wieland was removed from my presence,
and they supposed that I would follow it; but no,
my home is ascertained; here I have taken up my
rest, and never will I go hence, till, like Wieland,
I am borne to my grave.

Importunity was tried in vain: they threatened
to remove me by violence—nay, violence was used;
but my soul prizes too dearly this little roof to endure
to be bereaved of it. Force should not prevail
when the hoary locks and supplicating tears of
my uncle were ineffectual. My repugnance to
move gave birth to ferociousness and phrenzy when
force was employed, and they were obliged to consent
to my return.

They besought me—they remonstrated—they
appealed to every duty that connected me with him
that made me, and with my fellow-men—in vain.
While I live I will not go hence. Have I not fulfilled
my destiny?

Why will ye torment me with your reasonings
and reproofs? Can ye restore to me the hope of

my better days? Can ye give me back Catharine
and her babes? Can ye recall to life him who died
at my feet?

I will eat—I will drink—I will lie down and rise
up at your bidding—all I ask is the choice of my
abode. What is there unreasonable in this demand?
Shortly will I be at peace. This is the
spot which I have chosen in which to breathe my
last sigh. Deny me not, I beseech you, so slight
a boon.

Talk not to me, O my revered friend! of Carwin.
He has told thee his tale, and thou exculpatest
him from all direct concern in the fate of
Wieland. This scene of havock was produced by
an illusion of the senses. Be it so: I care not from
what source these disasters have flowed; it sussices
that they have swallowed up our hopes and our
existence.

What his agency began, his agency conducted
to a close. He intended, by the final effort of his
power, to rescue me and to banish his illusions from
my brother. Such is his tale, concerning the truth
of which I care not. Henceforth I foster but one
wish—I ask only quick deliverance from life and
all the ills that attend it.—

Go wretch! torment me not with thy presence
and thy prayers.—Forgive thee? Will that avail
thee when thy fateful hour shall arrive? Be thou
acquitted at thy own tribunal, and thou needest not
fear the verdict of others. If thy guilt be capable
of blacker hues, if hitherto thy conscience be without
stain, thy crime will be made more flagrant by
thus violating my retreat. Take thyself away from
my sight if thou wouldest not behold my death!

Thou art gone! murmuring and reluctant! And
now my repose is coming—my work is done!