University of Virginia Library

25. EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER XXV.

Here ended the tale of Sarsefield.
Humiliation and joy were mingled
in my heart. The events that preceded
my awakening in the cave were now
luminous and plain. What explication
was more obvious? What but this solution
ought to have been suggested by
the conduct I had witnessed in Clithero?

Clithero! Was not this the man whom
Clithero had robbed of his friend? Was
not this the lover of Mrs. Lorimer, the
object of the persecutions of Wiatte?
Was it not now given me to investigate

the truth of that stupendous tale? To
dissipate the doubts which obstinately
clung to my imagination respecting it?

But soft! Had not Sarsefield said that
he was married? Was Mrs. Lorimer so
speedily forgotten by him, or was the
narrative of Clithero the web of imposture
or the raving of insanity?

These new ideas banished all personal
considerations from my mind. I
looked eagerly into the face of my friend,
and exclaimed in a dubious accent—How
say you? Married? When? To whom?

Yes, Huntly, I am wedded to the
most excellent of women. To her am
I indebted for happiness and wealth and
dignity and honour. To her do I owe
the power of being the benefactor and
protector of you and your sisters. She
longs to embrace you as a son. To
become truly her son, will depend upon
your own choice and that of one, who
was the companion of our voyage.

Heavens! cried I, in a transport of
exultation and astonishment. Of whom
do you speak. Of the mother of Clarice?
The sister of Wiatte? The sister of the
ruffian who laid snares for her life? Who
pursued you and the unhappy Clithero,
with the bitterest animosity?

My friend started at these sounds as
if the earth had yawned at his feet. His
countenance was equally significant of
terror and rage. As soon as he regained
the power of utterance, he spoke—Clithero!
Curses light upon thy lips for
having uttered that detested name!
Thousands of miles have I flown to
shun the hearing of it. Is the madman
here? Have you set eyes upon him?
Does he yet crawl upon the face of the
earth? Unhappy? Unparalleled, unheard
of, thankless miscreant! Has he told his
execrable falsehoods here? Has he dared
to utter names so sacred as those of Euphemia
Lorimer and Clarice?

He has: He has told a tale, that had
all the appearances of truth—

Out upon the villain! The truth!
Truth would prove him to be unnatural;
develish; a thing for which no language
has yet provided a name! He has called
himself unhappy? No doubt, a victim to
injustice! Overtaken by unmerited calamity.
Say! Has he fooled thee with
such tales?

No. His tale was a catalogue of
crimes and miseries of which he was the
author and sufferer. You know not his
motives, his horrors:—

His deeds were monstrous and infernal.
His motives were sordid and flagitious.
To display all their ugliness and
infamy was not his province. No: He
did not tell you that he stole at midnight
to the chamber of his mistress: a woman
who astonised the world by her loftiness
and magnanimity; by indefatigable beneficence

and unswerving equity; who had
lavished on this wretch, whom she
snatched from the dirt, all the goods of
fortune; all the benefits of education; all
the treasures of love; every provocation
to gratitude; every stimulant to justice.

He did not tell you that in recompense
for every benefit, he stole upon her
sleep and aimed a dagger at her breast.
There was no room for flight or ambiguity
or prevarication. She whom he meant
to murder stood near, saw the lifted weapon,
and heard him confess and glory in
his purposes.

No wonder that the shock bereft her,
for a time, of life. The interval was
seized by the ruffian to effect his escape.
The rebukes of justice, were shunned by
a wretch conscious of his inexpiable guilt.
These things he has hidden from you,
and has supplied their place by a tale
specious as false.

No. Among the number of his crimes,
hypocrisy is not to be numbered. These
things are already known to me: he spared
himself too little in the narrative. The
excellencies of his lady; her claims to
gratitude and veneration, were urged
beyond their true bounds. His attempts
upon her life, were related. It is true
that he desired and endeavoured to
destroy her.

How? Has he told you this?

He has told me all. Alas! the criminal
intention has been amply expiated—

What mean you? Whence and how
came he hither. Where is he now? I
will not occupy the same land, the same
world with him. Have this woman and
her daughter lighted on the shore
haunted by this infernal and implacable
enemy?

Alas! It is doubtful whether he
exists. If he lives, he is no longer to be

feared; but he lives not. Famine and
remorse have utterly consumed him.

Famine? Remorse? You talk in riddles.

He has immured himself in the
desert. He has abjured the intercourse
of mankind. He has shut himself in
caverns where famine must inevitably
expedite that death for which he longs
as the only solace of his woes. To no
imagination are his offences blacker and
more odious than to his own. I had hopes
of rescuing him from this fate, but my
own infirmities and errors have afforded
me sufficient occupation.

Sarsefield renewed his imprecations
on the memory of that unfortunate man:
and his inquiries as to the circumstances
that led him into this remote district. His
inquiries were not to be answered by
one in my present condition—My languors
and fatigues had now gained a
pitch that was insupportable. The wound

in my face had been chafed, and inflamed
by the cold water and the bleak air; and
the pain attending it, would no longer
suffer my attention to stray. I sunk
upon the floor, and intreated him to
afford me the respite of a few hours
repose.

He was sensible of the deplorableness
of my condition, and child himself
for the negligence of which he had already
been guilty. He lifted me to the
bed, and deliberated on the mode he
should pursue for my relief. Some molifying
application to my wound, was immediately
necessary; but in our present
lonely condition, it was not at hand. It
could only be procured from a distance.
It was proper therefore to hasten to the
nearest inhabited dwelling, which belonged
to one, by name Walton, and
supply himself with such medicines as
could be found.

Meanwhile there was no danger of
molestation and intrusion. There was
reason to expect the speedy return of
those who had gone in pursuit of the
savages. This was their place of rendezvous,
and hither they appointed to
re-assemble before the morrow's dawn.
The distance of the neighbouring farm
was small, and Sarsefield promised to be
expeditious. He left me to myself and
my own ruminations.

Harrassed by fatigue and pain, I had
yet power to ruminate on that series of
unparalleled events, that had lately happened.
I wept, but my tears flowed
from a double source; from sorrow, on
account of the untimely fate of my uncle,
and from joy, that my sisters were preserved,
that Sarsefield had returned and
was not unhappy.

I reflected on the untoward destiny
of Clithero. Part of his calamity consisted
in the consciousness of having killed

his patronness; but it now appeared,
though by some infatuation, I had not
previously suspected, that the first impulse
of sorrow in the lady, had been
weakened by reflection and by time.
That the prejudice persuading her that
her life and that of her brother were to
endure and to terminate together, was
conquered by experience or by argument.
She had come, in company with
Sarsefield and Clarice to America. What
influence might these events have upon
the gloomy meditations of Clithero.
Was it possible to bring them together;
to win the maniac from his solitude,
wrest from him his fatal purposes, and
restore him to communion with the
beings whose imagined indignation is
the torment of his life.

These musings were interrupted by
a sound from below which were easily
interpreted into tokens of the return of
those with whom Sarsefield had parted

at the promontory, voices were confused
and busy but not turbulent. They
entered the lower room and the motion
of chairs and tables shewed that they
were preparing to rest themselves after
their toils.

Few of them were unacquainted with
me, since they probably were residents
in this district. No inconvenience, therefore,
would follow from an interview,
though, on their part, wholly unexpected.
Besides, Sarsefield would speedily
return and none of the present
visitants would be likely to withdraw to
this apartment.

Meanwhile I lay upon the bed, with
my face turned towards the door, and
languidly gazing at the ceiling and walls.
Just then a musquet was discharged in
the room below. The shock affected me
mechanically and the first impulse of
surprise, made me almost start upon my
feet.

The sound was followed by confusion
and bustle. Some rushed forth and
called on each other to run different
ways, and the words “That is he”—
“Stop him” were spoken in a tone of
eagerness, and rage. My weakness and
pain were for a moment forgotten, and
my whole attention was bent to discover
the meaning of this hubbub. The musquet
which I had brought with me to
this chamber, lay across the bed. Unknowing
of the consequences of this
affray, with regard to myself, I was
prompted by a kind of self-preserving
instinct, to lay hold of the gun, and prepare
to repell any attack that might be
made upon me.

A few moments elapsed when I
thought I heard light footsteps in the
entry leading to this room. I had no
time to construe these signals, but watching
fearfully the entrance, I grasped my
weapon with new force, and raised it so

as to be ready at the moment of my
danger. I did not watch long. A figure
cautiously thrust itself forward. The
first glance was sufficient to inform me
that this intruder was an Indian, and, of
consequence, an enemy. He was unarmed.
Looking eagerly on all sides, he
at last spied me as I lay. My appearance
threw him into consternation, and
after the fluctuation of an instant, he
darted to the window, threw up the sash,
and leaped out upon the ground.

His flight might have been easily
arrested by my shot, but surprize, added
to my habitual antipathy to bloodshed,
unless in cases of absolute necessity,
made me hesitate. He was gone, and I
was left to mark the progress of the drama.
The silence was presently broken
by firing at a distance. Three shots, in
quick succession, were followed by the
deepest pause.

That the party, recently arrived, had
brought with them one or more captives,
and that by some sudden effort, the prisoners
had attempted to escape, was the
only supposition that I could form. By
what motives either of them could be
induced to seek concealment in my chamber,
could not be imagined.

I now heard a single step on the
threshold below. Some one entered the
common room. He traversed the floor
during a few minutes, and then, ascending
the stair-case, he entered my chamber.
It was Sarsefield. Trouble and
dismay were strongly written on his
countenance. He seemed totally unconscious
of my presence, his eyes were
fixed upon the floor, and as he continued
to move across the room, he heaved
forth deep sighs.

This deportment was mournful and
mysterious. It was little in unison with
those appearances which he wore at our

parting, and must have been suggested
by some event that had since happened.
My curiosity impelled me to recall him
from his reverie. I rose and seizing
him by the arm, looked at him with an
air of inquisitive anxiety. It was needless
to speak.

He noticed my movement, and turning
towards me, spoke in a tone of some
resentment—Why did you deceive me?
Did you not say Clithero was dead?

I said so because it was my belief.
Know you any thing to the contrary?
Heaven grant that he is still alive, and
that our mutual efforts may restore him
to peace.

Heaven grant, replied my friend,
with a vehemence that bordered upon
fury. Heaven grant that he may live
thousands of years, and know not, in
their long course, a moments respite
from remorse and from anguish; but this
prayer is fruitless. He is not dead, but

death hovers over him. Should he live,
he will live only to defy justice and perpetrate
new horrors. My skill might
perhaps save him, but a finger shall not
be moved to avert his fate.

Little did I think, that the wretch
whom my friends rescued from the power
of the savages, and brought wounded
and expiring hither was Clithero. They
sent for me in haste to afford him surgical
assistance. I found him stretched upon
the floor below, deserted, helpless and
bleeding. The moment I beheld him,
he was recognized. The last of evils
was to look upon the face of this assassin,
but that evil is past, and shall never be
endured again.

Rise and come with me. Accommodation
is prepared for you at Walcots.
Let us leave this house, and the moment
you are able to perform a journey, abandon
forever this district.

I could not readily consent to this
proposal. Clithero had been delivered
from captivity but was dying for want of
that aid which Sarsefield was able to
afford. Was it not inhuman to desert
him in this extremity? What offence had
he committed that deserved such implacable
vengeance? Nothing I had
heard from Sarsefield was in contradiction
to his own story. His deed, imperfectly
observed, would appear to be atrocious
and detestable, but the view of all its
antecedent and accompanying events and
motives, would surely place it in the
list not of crimes, but of misfortunes.

But what is that guilt which no penitence
can expiate? Had not Clithero's
remorse been more than adequate to
crimes far more deadly and enormous
than this? This, however, was no time
to argue with the passions of Sarsefield.
Nothing but a repetition of Clithero's
tale, could vanquish his prepossessions

and mollify his rage, but this repetition
was impossible to be given by me, till a
moment of safety and composure.

These thoughts made me linger, but
hindered me from attempting to change
the determination of my friend. He
renewed his importunities for me to fly
with him. He dragged me by the arm,
and wavering and reluctant I followed
where he chose to lead. He crossed
the common-room, with hurried steps
and eyes averted from a figure, which
instantly fastened my attention.

It was, indeed, Clithero, whom I now
beheld, supine, polluted with blood, his
eyes closed and apparently insensible.
This object was gazed at with emotions
that rooted me to the spot. Sarsefield,
perceiving me determined to remain
where I was, rushed out of the house,
and disappeared.