University of Virginia Library

23. EDGAR HUNTLY.
CHAPTER XXIII.

My deportment, at an interview
so much desired and so wholly unforeseen,
was that of a maniac. The petrifying
influence of surprise, yielded to the
impetuosities of passion. I held him in
my arms: I wept upon his bosom, I sobbed
with emotion which, had it not found
passage at my eyes, would have burst
my heart-strings. Thus I who had
escaped the deaths that had previously
assailed me in so many forms, should
have been reserved to solemnize a scene
like this by...dying for joy!

The sterner passions and habitual
austerities of my companion, exempted
him from pouring out this testimony of
his feelings. His feelings were indeed
more allied to astonishment and incredulity
than mine had been. My person
was not instantly recognized. He shrunk
from my embrace, as if I were an apparition
or impostor. He quickly disengaged
himself from my arms, and withdrawing
a few paces, gazed upon me as on
one whom he had never before seen.

These repulses were ascribed to the
loss of his affection. I was not mindful
of the hideous guise in which I stood
before him, and by which he might justly
be misled to imagine me a ruffian or a
lunatic. My tears flowed now on a new
account, and I articulated in a broken
and faint voice—My master! my friend!
Have you forgotten! have you ceased to
love me?

The sound of my voice made him
start and exclaim—Am I alive? am I
awake? Speak again I beseech you, and
convince me that I am not dreaming or
delirious.

Can you need any proof, I answered,
that it is Edgar Huntly, your pupil, your
child that speaks to you?

He now withdrew his eyes from me
and fixed them on the floor. After a
pause he resumed, in emphatic accents.
Well, I have lived to this age in unbelief.
To credit or trust in miraculous
agency was foreign to my nature, but
now I am no longer sceptical. Call me
to any bar, and exact from me an oath
that you have twice been dead and twice
recalled to life; that you move about
invisibly, and change your place by the
force, not of muscles, but of thought,
and I will give it.

How came you hither? Did you
penetrate the wall? Did you rise through
the floor?

Yet surely 'tis an error. You could
not be he whom twenty witnesses affirmed
to have beheld a lifeless and mangled
corpse upon the ground, whom my own
eyes saw in that condition.

In seeking the spot once more to provide
you a grave, you had vanished.
Again I met you. You plunged into a
rapid stream, from an height from which
it was impossible to fall and to live: yet,
as if to set the limits of nature at defiance;
to sport with human penetration, you rose
upon the surface: You floated; you
swam: Thirty bullets were aimed at
your head, by marks-men celebrated for
the exactness of their sight. I myself
was of the number, and I never missed
what I desired to hit.

My predictions were confirmed by
the event. You ceased to struggle; you
sunk to rise no more, and yet after these
accumulated deaths, you light upon this
floor: so far distant from the scene of
your catastrophe; over spaces only to be
passed, in so short a time as has since
elapsed, by those who have wings.

My eyes, my ears bear testimony to
your existence now, as they formerly
convinced me of your death—What am
I to think; What proofs am I to credit?
—There he stopped.

Every accent of this speech added
to the confusion of my thoughts. The
allusions that my friend had made were
not unintelligible. I gained a glimpse
of the complicated errors by which we
had been mutually deceived. I had fainted
on the area before Deb's hut. I was found

by Sarsefield in this condition, and imagined
to be dead.

The man whom I had seen upon the
promontory was not an Indian. He belonged
to a numerous band of pursuers,
whom my hostile and precipitate deportment
caused to suspect me for an enemy.
They that fired from the steep were
friends. The interposition that screened
me from so many bullets, was indeed
miraculous. No wonder that my voluntary
sinking, in order to elude their shots,
was mistaken for death, and that, having
accomplished the destruction of this foe,
they resumed their pursuit of others.
But how was Sarsefield apprized that it
was I who plunged into the river? No
subsequent event was possible to impart
to him the incredible truth.

A pause of mutual silence ensued.
At length, Sarsefield renewed his expressions
of amazement at this interview, and

besought me to explain why I had disappeared
by night from my Uncle's house,
and by what series of unheard of events
this interview was brought about. Was
it indeed Huntly whom he examined and
mourned over at the threshold of Deb's
hut? Whom he had sought in every
thicket and cave in the ample circuit of
Norwalk and Chetasco? Whom he had
seen perish in the current of the Delaware?

Instead of noticing his questions, my
soul was harrowed with anxiety respecting
the fate of my uncle and sisters.
Sarsefield could communicate the tidings
which would decide on my future lot, and
set my portion in happiness or misery.
Yet I had not breath to speak my inquiries.
Hope tottered, and I felt as if a
single word would be sufficient for its
utter subversion. At length, I articulated
the name of my Uncle.

The single word sufficiently imparted
my fears, and these fears needed no verbal
confirmation. At that dear name,
my companion's features were overspread
by sorrow—Your Uncle, said he, is dead.

Dead? Merciful Heaven! And my
sisters too! Both?

Your Sisters are alive and well.

Nay, resumed I, in faultering accents,
jest not with my feelings. Be not cruel
in your pity. Tell me the truth.

I have said the truth. They are well,
at Mr. Inglefield's.

My wishes were eager to assent to
the truth of these tidings. The better
part of me was then safe: but how did
they escape the fate that overtook my
uncle? How did they evade the destroying
hatchet and the midnight conflagration?
These doubts were imparted in a
tumultuous and obscure manner to my
friend. He no sooner fully comprehended

them, than he looked at me, with
some inquietude and surprise.

Huntly, said he, are you mad—What
has filled you with these hideous prepossessions?
Much havoc has indeed
been committed in Chetasco and the wilderness;
and a log hut has been burnt
by design or by accident in Solebury,
but that is all. Your house has not been
assailed by either fire-brand or tom-hawk.
Every thing is safe and in its ancient
order. The master indeed is gone, but
the old man fell a victim to his own temerity
and hardihood. It is thirty years
since he retired with three wounds, from
the field of Braddock; but time, in no
degree, abated his adventurous and military
spirit. On the first alarm, he summoned
his neighbours, and led them in
pursuit of the invaders. Alas! he was
the first to attack them, and the only one
who fell in the contest.

These words were uttered in a manner
that left me no room to doubt of their
truth. My uncle had already been lamented,
and the discovery of the nature
of his death, so contrary to my forebodings,
and of the safety of my girls,
made the state of my mind partake more
of exultation and joy, than of grief or
regret.

But how was I deceived? Had not
my fusil been found in the hands of an
enemy? Whence could he have plundered
it but from my own chamber? It hung
against the wall of a closet; from which
no stranger could have taken it except by
violence. My perplexities and doubts
were not at an end, but those which constituted
my chief torment were removed.
I listened to my friend's intreaties to tell
him the cause of my elopement, and the

incidents that terminated in the present
interview.

I began with relating my return to
consciousness in the bottom of the pit; my
efforts to free myself from this abhorred
prison; the acts of horror to which I was
impelled by famine, and their excruciating
consequences; my gaining the outlet
of the cavern, the desperate expedient by
which I removed the impediment to my
escape, and the deliverance of the captive
girl; the contest I maintained before
Deb's hut; my subsequent wanderings;
the banquet which hospitality afforded
me; my journey to the river-bank; my
meditations on the means of reaching the
road; my motives for hazarding my life,
by plunging into the stream; and my subsequent
perils and fears till I reached
the threshold of this habitation.

Thus, continued I, I have complied
with your request. I have told all that

I, myself, know. What were the incidents
between my sinking to rest at
Inglefield's, and my awaking in the chambers
of the hill; by which means and by
whose contrivance, preternatural or human,
this transition was effected, I am
unable to explain; I cannot even guess.

What has eluded my sagacity may not
be beyond the reach of another. Your
own reflections on my tale, or some facts
that have fallen under your notice, may
enable you to furnish a solution. But,
meanwhile, how am I to account for your
appearance on this spot? This meeting
was unexpected and abrupt to you, but it
has not been less so to me. Of all mankind,
Sarsefield was the farthest from my
thoughts, when I saw these tokens of a
traveller and a stranger.

You were imperfectly acquainted with
my wanderings. You saw me on the
ground before Deb's hut. You saw me

plunge into the river. You endeavoured
to destroy me while swimming; and you
knew, before my narrative was heard,
that Huntly was the object of your enmity.
What was the motive of your
search in the desert, and how were you
apprized of my condition? These things
are not less wonderful than any of those
which I have already related.

During my tale the features of Sarsefield
betokened the deepest attention.
His eye strayed not a moment from my
face. All my perils and forebodings,
were fresh in my remembrance, they
had scarcely gone by; their skirts, so to
speak, were still visible. No wonder
that my eloquence was vivid and pathetic,
that I pourtrayed the past as if it were
the present scene; and that not my tongue
only, but every muscle and limb, spoke.

When I had finished my relation.
Sarsefield sunk into thoughtfulness.

From this, after a time, he recovered
and said: Your tale, Huntly; is true, yet,
did I not see you before me, were I not
acquainted with the artlessness and rectitude
of your character, and, above all,
had not my own experience, during the
last three days, confirmed every incident,
I should question its truth. You
have amply gratified my curiosity, and
deserve that your own, should be gratified
as fully. Listen to me.

Much has happened since we parted,
which shall not be now mentioned. I
promised to inform you of my welfare by
letter, and did not fail to write, but
whether my letters were received, or
any were written by you in return, or if
written were ever transmitted, I cannot
tell; none were ever received.

Some days since, I arrived, in company
with a lady who is my wife, in America.

You have never been forgotten
by me. I knew your situation to be
little in agreement with your wishes,
and one of the benefits which fortune
has lately conferred upon me, is the
power of snatching you from a life of
labour and obscurity; whose goods,
scanty as they are, were transient and
precarious; and affording you the suitable
leisure and means of intellectual
gratification and improvement.

Your silence made me entertain some
doubts concerning your welfare, and
even your existence. To solve these
doubts, I hastened to Solebury, some
delays upon the road, hindered me from
accomplishing my journey by day-light.
It was night before I entered the Norwalk
path, but my ancient rambles with
you made me familiar with it, and I was
not affraid of being obstructed or bewildered.

Just as I gained the southern outlet,
I spied a passenger on foot, coming
towards me with a quick pace. The
incident was of no moment, and yet the
time of night, the seeming expedition of
the walker, recollection of the mazes and
obstacles which he was going to encounter,
and a vague conjecture that, perhaps,
he was unacquainted with the difficulties
that awaited him, made me eye him with
attention as he passed.

He came near, and I thought I recognized
a friend in this traveller. The form,
the gesture, the stature bore a powerful
resemblance to those of Edgar Huntly.
This resemblance was so strong, that I
stopped, and after he had gone by, called
him by your name. That no notice was
taken of my call proved that the person
was mistaken, but even though it were
another, that he should not even hesitate
or turn at a summons which he could not

but perceive to be addressed, though
erroneously, to him, was the source of
some surprize. I did not repeat my call,
but proceeded on my way.

All had retired to repose in your
uncle's dwelling. I did not scruple to
rouse them, and was received with affectionate
and joyous greetings. That you
allowed your uncle to rise before you,
was a new topic of reflection. To my
inquiries concerning you, answers were
made that accorded with my wishes. I
was told that you were in good health
and were then abed. That you had not
heard and risen at my knocking, was
mentioned with surprise, but your uncle
accounted for your indolence by saying
that during the last week you had fatigued
yourself by rambling night and day,
in search of some maniac, or visionary

who was supposed to have retreated into
Norwalk.

I insisted upon awakening you myself.
I anticipated the effect of this sudden and
unlooked for meeting, with some emotions
of pride as well as of pleasure. To
find, in opening your eyes, your old preceptor
standing by your bed-side and
gazing in your face, would place you, I
conceived, in an affecting situation.

Your chamber door was open, but
your bed was empty. Your uncle and
sisters were made acquainted with this
circumstance. Their surprise gave way
to conjectures that your restless and
romantic spirit, had tempted you from
your repose, that you had rambled abroad
on some phantastic errand, and would
probably return before the dawn. I willingly
acquiesced in this opinion, and
my feelings being too thoroughly aroused
to allow me to sleep, I took possession

of your chamber, and patiently awaited
your return.

The morning returned but Huntly
made not his appearance. Your uncle
became somewhat uneasy at this unseasonable
absence. Much speculation and
inquiry, as to the possible reasons of
your flight was made. In my survey of
your chamber, I noted that only part of
your cloathing remained beside your
bed. Coat, hat, stockings and shoes lay
upon the spot where they had probably
been thrown when you had disrobed
yourself, but the pantaloons, which according
to Mr. Huntly's report, completed
your dress, were no where to be
found. That you should go forth on so
cold a night so slenderly appareled,
was almost incredible. Your reason or
your senses had deserted you, before so
rash an action could be meditated.

I now remembered the person I had
met in Norwalk. His resemblance to
your figure, his garb, which wanted hat,
coat, stockings and shoes, and your absence
from your bed at that hour, were
remarkable coincidences: but why did
you disregard my call? Your name,
uttered by a voice that could not be
unknown, was surely sufficient to arrest
your steps.

Each hour added to the impatience
of your friends; to their recollections
and conjectures, I listened with a view
to extract from them some solution of
this mystery. At length, a story was
alluded to, of some one who, on the preceding
night, had been heard walking
in the long room; to this was added, the
tale of your anxieties and wonders occasioned
by the loss of certain manuscripts.

While ruminating upon these incidents,
and endeavouring to extract from

this intelligence a clue, explanatory of
your present situation, a single word,
casually dropped by your uncle, instantly
illuminated my darkness and dispelled
my doubts.—After all, said the old man,
ten to one, but Edgar himself was the
man whom we heard walking, but the
lad was asleep, and knew not what he
was about.

Surely said I, this inference is just.
His manuscripts could not be removed
by any hands but his own, since the rest
of mankind were unacquainted not only
with the place of their concealment, but
with their existence. None but a man,
insane or asleep, would wander forth so
slightly dressed, and none but a sleeper
would have disregarded my calls. This
conclusion was generally adopted, but
it gave birth in my mind, to infinite inquietudes.
You had roved into Norwalk,
a scene of inequalities, of prominences

and pits, among which, thus destitute
of the guidance of your senses,
you could scarcely fail to be destroyed,
or at least, irretreivably bewildered. I
painted to myself the dangers to which
you were subjected. Your careless feet
would bear you into some whirlpool or
to the edge of some precipice, some internal
revolution or outward shock would
recall you to consciousness at some perilous
moment. Surprise and fear would
disable you from taking seasonable or
suitable precautions, and your destruction
be made sure.

The lapse of every new hour, without
bringing tidings of your state, enhanced
these fears. At length, the propriety
of searching for you occurred,
Mr. Huntly and I determined to set out
upon this pursuit, as well as to commission
others. A plan was laid by which
every accessible part of Norwalk, the

wilderness beyond the flats of Solebury,
and the valey of Chetasco, should be traversed
and explored.

Scarcely had we equipped ourselves
for this expedition, when a messenger
arrived, who brought the disastrous
news of Indians being seen within these
precincts, and on the last night a farmer
was shot in his fields, a dwelling in Chetasco
was burnt to the ground, and its
inhabitants murdered or made captives.
Rumour and inquiry had been busy, and
a plausible conjecture had been formed,
as to the course and number of the enemies.
They were said to be divided
into bands, and to amount in the whole
to thirty or forty wariors. This messenger
had come to warn us of danger
which might impend, and to summon us
to join in the pursuit and extirpation of
these detestable foes.

Your uncle, whose alacrity and vigour
age had not abated, eagerly engaged in
this scheme. I was not averse to contribute
my efforts to an end like this.
The road which we had previously designed
to take, in search of my fugitive
pupil, was the same by which we must
trace or intercept the retreat of the savages.
Thus two purposes, equally momentous,
would be answered by the same
means.

Mr. Huntly armed himself with your
fusil; Inglefield supplied me with a gun;
during our absence the dwelling was
closed and locked, and your sisters
placed under the protection of Inglefield,
whose age and pacific sentiments unfitted
him for arduous and sanguinary
enterprises. A troop of rustics was
collected, half of whom remained to
traverse Solebury and the other, whom
Mr. Huntly and I accompanied, hastened
to Chetasco.