University of Virginia Library

3. EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER III.

The ensuing day was spent,
partly in sleep, and partly in languor and
disquietude. I incessantly ruminated
on the incidents of the last night. The
scheme that I had formed was defeated.
Was it likely that this unknown person
would repeat his midnight visits to the
Elm? If he did, and could again be discovered,
should I resolve to undertake a
new pursuit, which might terminate abortively,
or in some signal disaster? But
what proof had I that the same rout
would be taken, and that he would again
inter himself alive in the same spot? Or,

if he did, since his reappearance would
sufficiently prove that the cavern was
not dangerous, and that he who should
adventure in, might hope to come out
again in safety, why not enter it after
him? What could be the inducements
of this person to betake himself to subterranean
retreats? The basis of all this
region is limestone; a substance that eminently
abounds in rifts and cavities.
These, by the gradual decay of their
cementing parts, frequently make their
appearance in spots where they might
have been least expected. My attention
has often been excited by the hollow
sound which was produced by my casual
footsteps, and which shewed me that I
trod upon the roof of caverns. A mountain-cave
and the rumbling of an unseen
torrent, are appendages of this scene,
dear to my youthful imagination. Many
of romantic structure were found within
the precincts of Nor-walk.

These I had industriously sought out;
but this had hitherto escaped my observation,
and I formed the resolution of
sometime exploring it. At present I
determined to revisit the Elm, and dig
in the spot where this person had been
employed in a similar way. It might
be that something was here deposited
which might exhibit this transaction in a
new light. At the suitable hour, on the
ensuing night, I took my former stand.
The person again appeared. My intention
to dig was to be carried into effect
on condition of his absence, and was, consequently,
frustrated.

Instead of rushing on him, and breaking
at once the spell by which his senses
were bound, I concluded, contrary to my
first design, to wait his departure, and
allow myself to be conducted whithersoever

he pleased. The track into which
he now led me was different from the
former one. It was a maze, oblique,
circuitous, upward and downward, in a
degree which only could take place in a
region so remarkably irregular in surface,
so abounding with hillocks and steeps,
and pits and brooks as Salsbury. It seemed
to be the sole end of his labours to bewilder
or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce
into the deepest thickets, to plunge into
the darkest cavities, to ascend the most
difficult heights, and approach the slippery
and tremulous verge of the dizziest
precipices.

I disdained to be outstripped in this
career. All dangers were overlooked,
and all difficulties defied. I plunged
into obscurities, and clambered over obstacles,
from which, in a different state of
mind, and with a different object of pursuit,
I should have recoiled with invincible

timidity. When the scene had
passed, I could not review the perils I
had undergone without shuddering.

At length my conductor struck into
a path which, compared with the ruggedness
of that which we had lately
trodden, was easy and smooth. This
track led us to the skirt of the wilderness,
and at no long time we reached an open
field, when a dwelling appeared, at a
small distance, which I speedily recognized
to be that belonging to Inglefield.
I now anticipated the fulfilment of my
predictions. My conductor directed his
steps towards the barn, into which he
entered by a small door.

How were my doubts removed! This
was no other than Clithero Edny. There
was nothing in his appearance incompatible
with this conclusion. He and his
fellow servant occupied an apartment in
the barn as a lodging room. This arduous

purpose was accomplished, and I
retired to the shelter of a neighbouring
shed, not so much to repose myself after
the fatigues of my extraordinary journey,
as to devise farther expedients.

Nothing now remained but to take
Clithero to task; to repeat to him the
observations of the two last nights; to
unfold to him my conjectures and suspicions;
to convince him of the rectitude of
my intentions, and to extort from him a
disclosure of all the circumstances connected
with the death of Waldegrave,
which it was in his power to communicate.

In order to obtain a conference, I
resolved to invite him to my uncle's to
perform a certain piece of work for me
under my own eyes. He would, of
course, spend the night with us, and in
the evening I would make an opportunity

of entering into conversation with
him.

A period of the deepest deliberation
was necessary to qualify myself for performing
suitably my part in this projected
interview. I attended to the feelings
that were suggested in this new
state of my knowledge. I found reason
to confide in my newly acquired equanimity.
Remorse, said I, is an ample and
proper expiation for all offences. What
does vengeance desire but to inflict
misery? If misery come, its desires are
accomplished. It is only the obdurate
and exulting criminal that is worthy of
our indignation. It is common for pity
to succeed the bitterest suggestions of
resentment. If the vengeful mind be
delighted with the spectacle of woes of
its own contriving, at least its canine
hunger is appeased, and thenceforth, its
hands are inactive.

On the evening of the next day, I
paid a visit to Inglefield. I wished to
impart to him the discoveries that I had
made, and to listen to his reflections on
the subject. I likewise desired to obtain
all possible information from the family
respecting the conduct of Clithero.

My friend received me with his usual
kindness. Thou art no stranger to his
character; thou knowest with what paternal
affection I have ever been regarded
by this old man; with what solicitude
the wanderings of my reason and my
freaks of passion, have been noted and
corrected by him. Thou knowest his
activity to save the life of thy brother,
and the hours that have been spent by
him, in aiding my conjectures as to the
cause of his death, and inculcating the
lessons of penitence and duty.

The topics which could not but occur
at such a meeting, were quickly discussed,
and I hastily proceeded to that
subject which was nearest my heart.
I related the adventures of the two preceding
nights, and mentioned the inference
to which they irresistably led.

He said that this inference coincided
with suspicions he had formed,
since our last interview, in consequence
of certain communications from his
house-keeper. It seems the character
of Clithero, had, from the first, exercised
the inquisitiveness of this old lady. She
had carefully marked his musing and
melancholy deportment. She had tried
innumerable expedients for obtaining a
knowledge of his past life, and particularly
of his motives for coming to America.
These expedients, however profound
and addressful, had failed. He
took no pains to elude them. He contented

himself with turning a deaf ear
to all indirect allusions and hints, and,
when more explicitly questioned, with
simply declaring that he had nothing to
communicate worthy of her notice.

During the day he was a sober and
diligent workman. His evenings he
spent in incommunicative silence. On
sundays, he always rambled away, no
one knew whither, and without a companion.
I have already observed that
he and his fellow servant occupied the
same apartment in the barn. This circumstance
was not unattended to by
Miss Inglefield. The name of Clithero's
companion was Ambrose. This man
was copiously interrogated by his mistress,
and she found him by no means
so refractory as the other.

Ambrose, in his tedious and confused
way, related that soon after Clithero and
he had become bed-fellows, the former

was considerably disturbed by restlessness
and talking in his sleep. His discourse
was incoherent. It was generally
in the tone of expostulation, and appeared
to be intreating to be saved from some
great injury. Such phrases as these
“have pity; “have mercy,” were frequently
intermingled with groans, and
accompanied with weeping. Sometimes
he seemed to be holding conferences
with some one, who was making him
considerable offers on condition of his
performing some dangerous service.
What he said, in his own person, and
in answer to his imaginary tempter, testified
the utmost reluctance.

Ambrose had no curiosity on the
subject. As this interruption prevented
him at first from sleeping, it was his
custom to put an end to the dialogue, by
awakening his companion, who betrayed
tokens of great alarm and dejection, on

discovering how he had been employed,
he would solicitously inquire what were
the words that he had uttered; but Ambrose's
report was seldom satisfactory,
because he had attended to them but little,
and because he begrudged every moment
in which he was deprived of his accustomed
repose.

Whether Clithero had ceased from
this practice, or habit had reconciled his
companion to the sounds, they no longer
occasioned any interruption to his slumber.

No one appeared more shocked
than he at the death of Waldegrave,
after this event his dejection suddenly
increased. This symptom was observed
by the family, but none but the house-keeper
took the trouble to notice it to
him, or build conjectures on the incident.
During nights, however, Ambrose experienced

a renewal of his ancient disturbances.
He remarked that Clithero, one
night, had disappeared from his side.
Ambrose's range of reflection was extremely
narrow. Quickly falling asleep,
and finding his companion beside him
when he awoke, he dismissed it from
his mind.

On several ensuing nights he awakened
in like manner, and always found
his companion's place empty. The repetition
of so strange an incident at length
incited him to mention it to Clithero.
The latter was confounded at this intelligence.
He questioned Ambrose with
great anxiety as to the particulars of this
event, but he could gain no satisfaction
from the stupid inattention of the other.
From this time there was a visible augmentation
of his sadness. His fits of
taciturnity became more obstinate, and a
deeper gloom sat upon his brow.

There was one other circumstance,
of particular importance, mentioned by
the house-keeper. One evening some
one on horseback, stopped at this gate.
He rattled at the gate, with an air of
authority, in token of his desire that
some one would come from the house.
Miss Inglefield was employed in the
kitchen, from a window of which she
perceived who it was that made the signal.
Clithero happened, at the same
moment, to be employed near her. She,
therefore, desired him to go and see
whom the stranger wanted. He laid
aside his work and went. The conference
lasted above five minutes. The
length of it excited in her a faint degree
of surprise, inducing her to leave her
employment, and pay an unintermitted
attention to the scene. There was
nothing, however, but its duration that
rendered it remarkable.

Clithero at length entered, and the
traveller proceeded. The countenance
of the former betrayed a degree of perturbation
which she had never witnessed
before. The muscles of his face was
distorted and tremulous. He immediately
sat down to his work, but he
seemed, for some time, to have lost all
power over his limbs. He struggled to
avoid the sight of the lady, and his gestures,
irresolute, or misdirected, betokened
the deepest dismay. After some
time, he recovered, in some degree, his
self-possession; but, while the object was
viewed through a new medium, and the
change existed only in the imagination
of the observer, a change was certainly
discovered.

These circumstances were related to
me by Inglefield and corroborated by his
house-keeper. One consequence inevitably
flowed from them. The sleepwalker,

he who had led me through so
devious a tract, was no other than Clithero.
There was, likewise, a strong
relation between this person and him
who stopped at the gate. What was the
subject of discourse between them? In
answer to Miss Inglefield's interrogatories,
he merely said that the traveller inquired
whither the road led, which at a
small distance forward, struck out of the
principal one. Considering the length of
the interview it was not likely that this
was the only topic.

My determination to confer with him
in private acquired new force from these
reflections. Inglefield assented to my
proposal. His own affairs would permit
the absence of his servant for one day.
I saw no necessity for delay, and immediately
made my request to Clithero. I
was fashioning an implement, I told him,
with respect to which I could not wholly

depend upon my own skill. I was acquainted
with the dexterity of his contrivances,
and the neatness of his workmanship.
He readily consented to assist
me on this occasion. Next day he came.
Contrary to my expectation, he prepared
to return home in the evening. I urged
him to spend the night with us; but no:
It was equally convenient, and more
agreeable to him, to return.

I was not aware of this resolution. I
might, indeed, have foreseen, that,
being conscious of his infirmity, he
would desire to avoid the scrutiny of
strangers. I was painfully disconcerted,
but it occurred to me, that the best that
could be done, was to bear him company,
and seize some opportunity, during this
interval, of effecting my purpose. I told
him, that since he would not remain, I
cared not if, for the sake of recreation,
and of a much more momentous purpose,

I went along with him. He tacitly,
and without apparent reluctance, consented
to my scheme, and accordingly, we
set off together. This was an awful crisis.
The time had now come, that was
to dissipate my uncertainty. By what
means should I introduce a topic so momentous
and singular? I had been qualified
by no experience for rightly conducting
myself on so critical an emergency.
My companion preserved a
mournful and inviolable silence. He afforded
me no opening, by which I might
reach the point in view. His demeanour
was sedate, while I was almost disabled,
by the confusion of my thoughts, to utter
a word.

It was a dreadful charge that I was
about to insinuate. I was to accuse my
companion of nothing less than murder.
I was to call upon him for an avowal of
his guilt. I was to state the grounds of

my suspicions, and desire him to confute,
or confirm them. In doing this, I was
principally stimulated by an ungovernable
curiosity; yet, if I intended not the
conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least,
purpose the infliction of evil. I persuaded
myself, that I was able to exclude
from my bosom, all sanguinary or
vengeful impulses; and that, whatever
should be the issue of this conversation,
my equanimity would be unsubdued.

I revolved various modes of introducing
the topic, by which my mind was
engaged. I passed rapidly from one to
another. None of them were sufficiently
free from objection, to allow me to adopt
it. My perplexity became, every moment,
more painful, and my ability to extricate
myself, less.

In this state of uncertainty, so much
time elapsed, that the Elm at length appeared
in sight. This object had somewhat

of a mechanical influence upon me.
I stopped short, and seized the arm of
my companion. Till this moment, he
appeared to have been engrossed by his
own reflections, and not to have heeded
those emotions, which must have been
sufficiently conspicuous in my looks.

This action recalled him from his reverie.
The first idea that occurred to
him, when he had noticed my behaviour,
was, that I was assailed by some sudden
indisposition.

What is the matter, said he, in a tone
of anxiety: Are you not well?

Yes, replied I, perfectly well; but stop
a moment; I have something to say to
you.

To me? Answered he, with surprise.

Yes, said I, let us turn down this
path, pointing at the same time, to that

along which I had followed him the preceding
night.

He now partook, in some degree, of
my embarrassment.

Is there any thing particular? said he,
in a doubting accent. There he stopped.

Something, I answered, of the highest
moment. Go with me down this path.
We shall be in less danger of interruption.

He was irresolute and silent, but seeing
me remove the bars and pass through
them, he followed me. Nothing more
was said till we entered the wood. I
trusted to the suggestions of the moment.
I had now gone too far to recede, and the
necessity that pressed upon me, supplied
me with words. I continued.

This is a remarkable spot. You may
wonder why I have led you to it. I ought
not to keep you in suspence. There is a
tale connected with it, which I am desirous

of telling you. For this purpose I
have brought you hither. Listen to me.

I then recapitulated the adventures of
the two preceding nights. I added nothing,
nor retrenched any thing. He listened
in the deepest silence. From every incident,
he gathered new cause of alarm.
Repeatedly he wiped his face with his
handkerchief, and sighed deeply. I took
no verbal notice of these symptoms. I
deemed it incumbent on me to repress
nothing. When I came to the concluding
circumstance, by which his person
was identified, he heard me, without any
new surprise. To this narrative, I subjoined
the inquiries that I had made at
Inglefield's, and the result of those inquiries.
I then continued in these words.

You may ask why I subjected myself
to all this trouble? The mysteriousness
of these transactions would have naturally
suggested curiosity in any one. A

transient passenger would probably have
acted as I have done. But I had motives
peculiar to my self. Need I remind you of
a late disaster? That it happened beneath
the shade of this tree? Am I not
justified in drawing certain inferences
from your behaviour? What they are,
I leave you to judge. Be it your task,
to confute, or confirm them. For this
end I have conducted you hither.

My suspicions are vehement. How
can they be otherwise? I call upon you
to say whether they be just.

The spot where we stood was illuminated
by the moon, that had now risen,
though all around was dark. Hence his
features and person were easily distinguished.
His hands hung at his side.
His eyes were downcast, and he was motionless
as a statue. My last words
seemed scarcely to have made any impression
on his sense. I had no need to

provide against the possible suggestions
of revenge. I felt nothing but the tenderness
of compassion. I continued, for
some time, to observe him in silence,
and could discover no tokens of a change
of mood. I could not forbear, at last, to
express my uneasiness at the fixedness of
his features and attitude.

Recollect yourself. I mean not to
urge you too closely. This topic is solemn,
but it need not divest you of the
fortitude becoming a man.

The sound of my voice startled him.
He broke from me, looked up, and fixed
his eyes upon me with an expression of
affright. He shuddered and recoiled
as from a spectre. I began to repent of
my experiment. I could say nothing suitable
to this occasion. I was obliged to
stand a silent and powerless spectator,
and to suffer this paroxysm to subside of

itself. When its violence appeared to be
somewhat abated, I resumed.

I can feel for you. I act not thus, in
compliance with a temper that delights
in the misery of others. The explanation
that I have solicited is no less necessary
for your sake than for mine. You are no
stranger to the light in which I viewed
this man. You have witnessed the grief
which his fate occasioned, and the efforts
that I made to discover, and drag to punishment
his murderer. You heard the
execrations that I heaped upon him, and
my vows of eternal revenge. You expect
that, having detected the offender, I will
hunt him to infamy and death. You are
mistaken. I consider the deed as sufficiently
expiated.

I am no stranger to your gnawing
cares. To the deep and incurable despair
that haunts you, to which your waking
thoughts are a prey, and from which

sleep cannot secure you. I know the
enormity of your crime, but I know not
your inducements. Whatever they were,
I see the consequences with regard to
yourself. I see proofs of that remorse
which must ever be attendant on guilt.

This is enough. Why should the effects
of our misdeeds be inexhaustible? Why
should we be debarred from a comforter?
An opportunity of repairing our
errors may, at least, be demanded from
the rulers of our destiny.

I once imagined, that he who killed
Waldegrave inflicted the greatest possible
injury on me. That was an error, which
reflection has cured. Were futurity laid
open to my view, and events, with their
consequences unfolded; I might see
reason to embrace the assassin as my
best friend. Be comforted.

He was still incapable of speaking;
but tears came to his relief. Without attending

to my remonstrances, he betrayed
a disposition to return. I had, hitherto,
hoped for some disclosure, but now feared
that it was designed to be withheld.
He stopped not till we reached Inglefield's
piazza. He then spoke, for the first time,
but in an hollow and tremulous voice.

You demand of me a confession of
crimes. You shall have it. Some time
you shall have it. When it will be, I cannot
tell. Something must be done, and
shortly.

He hurried from me into the house,
and after a pause, I turned my steps homewards.
My reflections, as I proceeded,
perpetually revolved round a single point.
These were scarcely more than a repetitition,
with slight variations, of a single
idea.

When I awoke in the morning, I hied,
in fancy, to the wilderness. I saw nothing
but the figure of the wanderer before

me. I traced his footsteps anew,
retold my narrative, and pondered on his
gestures and words. My condition was
not destitute of enjoyment. My stormy
passions had subsided into a calm, portentous
and awful. My soul was big with
expectation. I seemed as if I were on
the eve of being ushered into a world,
whose scenes were tremendous, but sublime.
The suggestions of sorrow and
malice had, for a time, taken their flight,
and yielded place to a generous sympathy,
which filled my eyes with tears, but
had more in it of pleasure than of pain.
That Clithero was instrumental to the
death of Waldegrave, that he could furnish
the clue, explanatory of every
bloody and mysterious event, that had
hitherto occurred, there was no longer
the possibility of doubting. He, indeed,
said I, is the murderer of excellence,
and yet it shall be my province to emulate
a father's clemency, and restore this
unhappy man to purity, and to peace.

Day after day passed, without hearing
any thing of Clithero. I began to
grow uneasy and impatient. I had gained
so much, and by means so unexpected,
that I could more easily endure uncertainly,
with respect to what remained
to be known. But my patience had its
limits. I should, doubtless, have made
use of new means to accelerate this discovery,
had not his timely appearance
made them superfluous.

Sunday being at length arrived, I resolved
to go to Inglefield's, seek an interview
with his servant, and urge him, by
new importunities, to confide to me the
secret. On my way thither, Clithero appeared
in sight. His visage was pale and
wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk.
I was astonished at the alteration, which
the lapse of a week had made in his appearance.

At a small distance I mistook
him for a stranger. As soon as I perceived
who it was, I greeted him with the
utmost friendliness. My civilities made
little impression on him, and he hastened
to inform me, that he was coming to my
uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and
talking with me. If I thought proper, we
would go into the wood together: and
find some spot, where we might discourse
at our leisure, and be exempt from interruption.

You will easily conceive with what
alacrity I accepted his invitation. We
turned from the road into the first path,
and proceeded in silence, till the wildness
of the surrounding scenery informed us,
that we were in the heart of Nor-walk.
We lighted on a recess, to which my companion
appeared to be familiar, and
which had all the advantages of solitude,
and was suitable to rest. Here we stopped.

Hitherto my companion had displayed
a certain degree of composure.
Now his countenance betokened a violent
internal struggle. It was a considerable
time before he could command his
speech. When he had so far effected
the conquest of his feelings, he began.