 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO FRANK.
Frank!---Frank!---Lock your hands upon your heart---
go down upon your knees. It is true after all----true.---
William was murdered. Yes!----and Edward Molton
was the murderer. Lord, God! what a complication
of horrour and crime has been revealed to me.
Now listen.----Last evening, I had been to Jane's.
Something that I saw, displeased me; and I left the house
Sarah---for God's sake, Frank, do you enforce it---send
for Juliet---Let not a day---not an hour pass---I will go
for her----I will tear her away, by force----sword in
hand---from the devils that beset her.
I went to Molton's. It was moonlight. He proposed
a walk;---and the temperature of the evening was so
soft and pleasant, that his physician consented; and we
wandered together for more than two hours. I never heard
Molton's true voice before. I never before saw him in
such a temper. God!—he underwent a transfiguration before
my very eyes---he walked out, in spirit, like an archangel.
I was uplifted, awed and borne away, by his great
eloquence. It was unearthly—the deep, deep utterance
of an acquitted, anointed rebel. It grew dark; and we returned
by a way that was unfrequented. The wind rose;
and, at last, Molton himself confessed, that he knew not
where we were—at this moment. I thought that I could
perceive a ruined building near—I was right. It was
so—and a part of our own tenement. I was amused, when
I discovered the truth, for it had never appeared to me before
as it did then. I had been bewildered, and had never
approached it before, on the same side. We entered, and
were advancing with outstretched hands, when Molton
suddenly caught my arm. My blood retreated. He breathed
like one, at his last gasp—but not a sound escaped from
his lips. He stopped—put his hand to his forehead—and
disappeared. A moment after, he returned—he took
my hand. His own was cold as death. He appeared to
have made some discovery. His track was like an Indian
upon the scent of his prey. His eyes flashed---I
could see them sparkle, though it was very dark. He
compelled me to follow him, by main force; and I did,
along by the broken wall---to a green spot---where the
great oak stands;---he paused there, for a moment---and
stood like one, trying to recall some forgotten thing----
but then a sudden recollection seemed to strike him. Some
sound, I know not what, escaped between his set teeth;
and he dashed through the shrubbery. I thought that he
was mad, but I followed him---he struck the doors aside---
one after the other, while he passed on, as with an iron arm;
stood in the centre of my own room.
“By the everlasting God!” he oried, then----“This
accounts for it! Yes---yes!--there is the very closet!--that
the door---there--fool!---madman!---why did I not suspect
the truth?---Those spots of blood!---smoking, absolutely
smoking under my nostrils—the whole house quivering
with the unbidden presence!—mortal spasms, affecting even
material things!---My sleep broken---my senses disordered---my
heart crumbling---and yet,---the truth---the
truth never suspected, before! John Omar—come here---
here! There—place your foot there!---a little more this
way. Look at me---can you see my face?---Look at me,
and listen. You are standing on blood. What blood?---
blood, shed by this hand---this?---whose?---the blood of
your cousin William! What! do you stagger! are you
not ashamed? Look at me---behold—Lo! I set my foot upon
the spot. Do I tremble? No. Yet---with this hand, I
slew him---and the spot where his blood rattled out, is
yet hot to the bottoms of my feet. It was just such a
night as this. Yes---guard the door. I am your prisoner,
am I?---fool! were you twenty times the man that you
are—I could rend you, limb from limb, ere you were
able to utter a loud cry. Beware how you provoke me.
Hear me out---or, where I stand---on this very spot, will
I tread your heart into the solid wood, as I did his. Hear
me. It is the retribution of heaven. I am constrained
to speak. It is against my will. It was just such a
night as this. I had been unhappy---mad, it may be;---
for after the deed, I was mad. In that way, do I account
for the tremendous fact, that I have held communion
with the murdered man, night after night; slept within
smell of the blood, that I had let out---travelled, through
and through, the apartments of his habitation; and never
knew; never suspected; never dreamt that I was within
them---or near them, till this moment.”
Helen heard our voices, and entered with a light.—
Never did I see such a countenance as his, when that
light struck it. It was dislocated marble—rigid--white—
and the sweat was on it, like the night dew.
“Woman—Begone!” said he.
She hesitated---looked terribly alarmed---“I command
thee, Helen—leave me!---dear Helen, do not trouble me,
now.---But leave the light. I will be with thee, anon---
Go, Helen!—go dear.”
She departed. Molton resumed his incoherent speech;
and, during the whole scene that followed, he never
stirred his feet, nor his hands; but, on he went, on, on
forever, like a speaking corpse.
“Why did I not know the spot?---it was winter then,
the trees were leafless---the habitation desolate---the earth
wet, and soaking to my tread.”
“Your cousin insulted me. I smiled. He cursed me in
the bitterness of his wrath, and hatred. I bore it all.---
Many eyes were upon me, but I bore it; for, I had learnt
what it is to have the blood-dew abide upon the blossoming
heart. I was patient---very patient; but, human patience
hath its limits. He would have struck me. His
arm was raised---it was about to descend. I retreated---
for I knew that, if it touched me, in the descent, I
should shatter it to the shoulder. Nay---I knew that, ere
he could raise his hand again, my knife---I always carry
one---see here---this knife, would be buried, up to the handle
in his side---I promised to meet him. “Alone,”
said he, menacing me.---“Alone,” said I. “Your weapon?”
said he. “I care not,” was my reply. But on
second thought, I named the small-sword. He assented.
My reasons were simple. I was a pretty good swordsman.
I might disarm, or wound him. I could do as I
pleased, about killing him. At any rate, swords were less
fatal than pistols; for both could not well be killed
with swords; and I was the challenged person. We met,
at the time, and on the spot agreed upon. You have
stood upon it. His body is buried under the very tree,
beneath which we first measured blades. I provided
against any accident; for I knew that he was desperate;
and, as I had never seen him play, I thought it probable
that he would shorten his blade, and close upon me.---
That might be fatal---and, therefore, I had prepared an
exculpation of him, and left it upon my table, with the
original correspondence between us. He, I soon found,
forget his look. It was a pale moonlight, much like this
which led us abroad to-night. His eyes were of a preternatural
brightness, but his lips were deadly pale.---
His bearing had been noble---but very arrogant toward
me; and I gathered from his whole aspect now, that he
was determined to kill me, at all hazard. I determined
to prevent it. We fought. I disarmed him, once---
and broke his sword; but the point wounded me in the
sword arm. I asked him if he was satisfied. He answered
sullenly, no.---He grappled me by the throat, as
he said this—but I broke loose from him, and dashed him
against the tree. In the struggle, my sword was broken,
or I should assuredly have slain him. We stood awhile,
then, panting and breathing. I was exhausted, by loss
of blood.—The trampling of horses' hoofs, sounded near
us; and we were fain to delay our combat for awhile. I
would not have believed that such a mortal deadlessness
could exist in one so young. But so it was.—“Follow
me,” said he.—“We shall find arms.” I followed him,
weak and dizzy. He strode onward—and I never looked
to the right nor left, until we stood in a large room,
that I had never been in before. The moon shone
through and through it.—He took a pair of pistols from
that very closet.—His breathing was loud, and the only
words that passed, were—
“Where are we, sir?”
“No matter—the house is uninhabited.”
He offered me the pistol. I refused, again, and again.
I was unwilling to kill him—and, perhaps, afraid to die.
I felt less confidence. He pressed me sorely—he levelled.
I refused to raise mine. He called me by every opprobrious
name—coward—scoundrel—and liar. I shook,
with terrour and rage. My blood retreated from my
heart. A murderous thought arose—it might have died
—but for him. I could have strangled it—but the madman,
weary of delay, and impatient for my blood, sprang
upon me, again; and, as he did, he pronounced a word—
a single word;—it was only a name, but it was the name
of one that I loved—O God!—more than anything—
that name—her name—and coupled it with dishonour.
What followed, I hardly know. Our pistols rang together—we
were blinded and stunned by the smoke and
noise—we grappled, and fell—and here---here, where I
now stand---I first came to my senses. My knife was in
a dead man's heart---I was griping it, by the handle; and
my fingers were cramped---he was cold, cold---and the
moon had gone down---the smoke had all gone---and the
whole house was silent as death. I arose---I was stiff
and sore---I had but a dim recollection of what had passed---I
recollected it, however, gradually; but I felt no
emotion---none. There was a preternatural sternness
and calmness in my movement. I took hold of his hand
---I lifted it---it was clenched---and it adhered to mine,
strangely, for a moment;---but, I shook it off, and it fell,
with a dead, heavy sound, upon the floor. I raised the
head---it fell, with the same sound. I felt upon the floor
---how long it had been there, I knew not---but the blood
had become a thick coagulated matter. I waited there,
even there, in the darkness, for whole hours---sitting by
the body—without one emotion of terrour. At last, I
bethought myself of my safety. My plan was formed,
immediately. I took the pistols, and the body---and I
bore them to the tree, through the cold and horrible
darkness and silence---the sweat falling from my face, like
rain; and my shoes full of blood---partly my own---partly
his. I laid him under the tree. Our broken swords,
I laid by him. Our pistols, just as they were, I left. I then
went into town, and caused a note to be left with you,
sir—the contents of which, you cannot have forgotten.
I know all your movements. But what could you do?---
It was evident that he had met me, armed against my
life. What evidence had you against me? None. The
wound, in his side, you had never seen---or, if you had,
it would have deceived a wiser man than you; for I ran
the blade of my sword into the same wound, after I had
stabbed him with the knife, that you might be deceived.
Are you willing to destroy me? Do your worst. Here
am I---a murderer, ready to accompany you, wherever
weary of life.”
O, Frank, what was there in the voice of this man, the
deep troubled voice, that so shook me? I felt as if I had
been the murderer. Frank!---can you believe it? I stood
before him, as if I were the criminal, he the judge. In
my heart, I pitied him---wept with him---yea, wept with
him.
“And now,” said he, “I am about to depart. Never
will I sleep, again, under this roof. Sleep!---O, I know
not what sleep is. Let me sit down. I have something to
communicate. You have been disturbed at night---all that
have slept here, make the same complaint. This house was
once in your family. Will you accept of it, again? You
are welcome to it. I have spent a night in it, for the last
time. Give me your hand. My pulse, you see, is regular
and full. Now listen to me. I am no believer in
spirits. I have taught myself to laugh at all tales that
relate to them, as the gossip of the nursery. Yet---I cannot
stay here. Let me tell you what I have seen. I had
been here but two nights, when Helen awoke me, and
whispered that there was somebody in the room. I arose,
and searched every corner and hiding place, with my
sword. She is not a timid woman;---but, hardly had I
shut my eyes, when I heard her breathing change. I
looked up. Omar, I am not a man to be easily disturbed.
I do not depend upon my senses---they are fallible---
but I employ my reason. Yet I saw something, as plainly
as I now see you, standing with its arms folded, near
that window---the attitude, I then thought, was that of a
wounded man. I continued to look at it, for some time;
but, as I arose, it went away. I returned to my bed. I
endeavoured to account for it, as an illusion. I shut my
eyes;---but it was not in my brain. Nor did I again see
it, although I tried every position, and watched all night.
My attention was then turned to Helen. She was insensible,
and white. I questioned her, when she recovered;
but all that she recollected, was, that after I had returned
to bed, she felt strangely cold on one side, and, happening
to look up, saw, or thought she saw, the face of
a dead man, close to mine.
Some time after that, we were alarmed again; but, I
ridiculed the whole, as a childish notion. We slept here,
then; and it was only by her continual persuasion, that I
removed to the chamber opposite. The servants complained
of strange sounds—as of people, walking about,
softly, in their stocking feet...and whispering....poor souls
—and you, I remember, were cruelly disturbed. All these
things made their impression upon me: but, still, I forbore
to confess my terrour. I was ashamed of it—I
am still ashamed of it. But, one night—listen to
me, patiently. It may never be your fate, to meet with a
man who can tell, so calmly, what he has seen; or one,
who appears so entirely master of himself, and is honest
and true.”
I was walking, excessively fatigued, about two months
ago, along a desolate road, in this neighbourhood. There
was a thick mist in the wind. You have observed the
strange, foreign air, of this old town. The venerable
solidity, fashion and spaciousness, of the dwelling-houses
—all standing apart and alone—surrounded by heavy,
well built walls—with towers, wings, arches, and abutments—are
of another age—another country—another
race of men. What a profound silence, at this moment,
over the whole place! It is a perfect solitude; and every
dwelling house, of itself, is another solitude, totally unlike
any thing else to be found in America. You are not
so sensibly affected with the silent, old fashioned feudal
grandeur of the habitations here, as I am. But, had
you never entered one of them, till you were a full grown
man, you would feel as I do. Just turn your head for a
moment—look through that narrow window—where
will you find such a tree as that?—it looks as if it were
a thousand years old. That clear, deep water, too!—I
remember that very glitter, on the night of which I speak
—it was like a brightness in the air. Look there, too.
Indeed, sir, you must feel it—every man must feel, standing
as we are now, alone, at night, in a vast chamber
like this, looking out upon the whole city of Annapolis,
that here dwelt the ancient nobility of Maryland---haughty
and lonely. It looks dark and sullen, as the retreat
look. Mr. Omar, I was never more affected with the
solemnity of the place, than on that night. I wandered,
I know not how long, nor hardly in what direction, with
my eyes upon the ground, continually asking myself
what had become of the ancient people—whose dwelling
places, about me, were no longer inhabited; or inhabited
by strangers to their blood, who had bought manors and
castles, literally, for a few hundreds of dollars. At last,
I found myself in the open fields, there—back of you—
near the Severn—just in the centre of that beautiful
sweep, there, where all the waters run together, and
shut up the town;—but still, I held on my way, for the
cool, fresh feeling of the wet turf, was pleasant to my
feet—now and then, looking about me for glimpses
of the water, and half inclined to go into it, and spend
the night there, in swimming about the full brink. I do
not well know how it happened, but, at last, I had fairly
lost myself. There was a thick mist in the air—a something
heavier than mist—a fog, that loaded down the
heart. I felt it, like a heavy weight, upon my blood.—
I grew troubled, without knowing why;—and, after a
while—I know not how long I had been rambling with
my head down—happening to look up, toward the higher
ground—near the water—I saw, what I thought, a
man following me. It was late, and I was unarmed---
or, rather, I had no arms but this knife, which my residence
in South America, gave me the custom of wearing.
But he kept opposite to me; and walked, I thought,
like one in distress. I approached him. He vanished.
I then thought that it was my own shadow, and produced
by some optical delusion; for such things have been. I returned
to the very spot—I saw it again—I walked, but
the shadow stopped—I stood still, yet that walked. It
was not my shadow;—because there was no light—no
moon—no star—it was only a sickly twilight. My
heart did feel cold at last, and my blood curdled. I approached;
it stood still, like one, sternly regarding me.
Nay, I could have sworn that I struck my knife into it,
once more—for I was desperate, with a strange unnatural
again, at a great distance, with long strides, and a noise.
less step. Even then, shall I confess it to you?—I
thought of William—the manner appeared like his—and
my blood ran cold. Such was the effect, that I became
sick.
I have now done. I am satisfied. I do not say that he
hath appeared to me. No—I choose to imagine that, what
I have seen, is a deception. But, I will not expose myself
any longer, to such deception. It would drive me
mad. Farewell.—Do with me, what you will. The
house is yours—furniture and all. I shall leave it, this
hour, never to enter it again. I shall only send for my
books, and a few pictures, that are dear to me—.”
There, Frank—what am I to do with him?—I will be
governed by you. Write to me, immediately. As for the
house, I will have nothing to do with it. It is of no
great value, to be sure; and the furniture is mere rubbish;
but, although it is quite too serious a matter to accept in
this way---I am unaccountably affected. A strange humour
is upon me. What think you? I have tried to
forget it all; but something was there, I am sure of it---
it was not the mere delirium of a fever! Tell me—do
you believe it possible for the departed to re-appear?—
How little this Molton is known? He makes no stir,
here, now; and the affair of poor William's death seems
to be forgotten.—What shall we do?
| Randolph | |