University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Let me now return to myself, says the narrator. I
could not sleep after I got home. It was the longest
night I ever passed in my life, and the cottage was
before me, and the trees, and the sky, and the man,
and the woman, all night long. But when the new
day-break appeared, and the fresh wind blew upon me
through the open windows, I began to be heartily
ashamed of my night sickness; to feel as if a great
part of the suffering I have described, had been the
suffering of a sleeper, but on casting my eye down to
my boots, I found them covered with wet leaves, and
with the fine yellow dust of a meadow flower that
grew near the cottage.

The day was delightful. I never was happier since
I came into the world. I took an early breakfast,
mounted my horse and rode off to — street, where
Middleton lodged. It was a morning altogether, such
as I could not forget were I to live a thousand years—
the sky so blue, the green trees and every leaf thereon
so active with vitality. My blood was like wine—
it had been like water. I walked freely and I breathed
freely, and I wondered at my lack of courage in the
night. I may be wrong, the joy that I felt now was
no more perhaps, than others feel every day, after a
night of anxiety or fever; but from that hour to this,
I have never felt as I felt then, nothing like that festivity
of the blood, that hilarity of the soul, that champaigne
joyousness of temper, and if I ever should

again, I know it will scare me: I may be wrong—
but such is my belief now.

The animal I rode, a creature all spirit and fire, set
off at a free gallop the moment I touched the saddle,
and as I rode along, I felt—I hardly know how to describe
it—as if the fresh wind of the north, the brave
sea breeze were blowing through and through me, and
winnowing soul and body, as it blew, from evil and
bad thought, and sorrow and mischief and pestilence.
But before I had gone far, the occurrences of the night
began to crowd back upon my memory one by one, to
wear a steadier shape, and to press about me, and to
start up in the path before me. I thought of the tall
man, of the apparition at the window, of the female
that stood near me, of the carriage of the two as they
whispered together, and before I recollected myself, I
was careering at full speed for the cottage. Where
now! cried a voice at a window as I rode by.

I reined up; and my heart gave way as I did so. I
was opposite No. 80, the very house in which poor
Middleton lived.

Pray, said I, assuming a careless air, pray tell me
if Mr. Middleton is up—my compliments to him, and
perhaps he will take a ride with me.

Tell the gentleman, said another voice at the door,
he is not up—

Not up!—for shame—say to him if you please, that
I am here.

Mr. Middleton was away all night sir, and he never
likes to be disturbed.

I was so happy! the tears actually sprang to my
eyes, and yet I determined to conceal my joy, and
carry it through with a swaggering air—

My compliments to Mr. Middleton, sir, and say that
I am waiting for him at the door on horse-back, and
that I will neither dismount nor stay long for him
here, if I do not see his head at the window.

Very well, sir, said a man at the window, and away
he went with the message.

Where now was my foolish terror? where now the
foreboding that shook me to death in the night-season?
where the bitter grief and self-reproach, and faith in
the supernatural that made a child of me in the dark?

He was out all night, sir—he hasn't come home yet
sir, said the man, looking out of the window of the
room in which Middleton slept.

I heard no more. My heart died within me, and
before I knew it, I was galloping away toward the
cottage. My sensations were terrible—I remember
this, but I remember little of what they were till my
horse, after clearing a fence at the edge of the wood—
a fence which at another time, I would not have leaped
for my right-arm—brought me in full sight of the cottage.
There it was—there—just as I had seen it in
the dead of the previous night, dark and silent as the
grave, the windows below barred and bolted with iron,
the windows above shut close, that one even where the
woman had appeared, and a part of the steps were
broken away. I caught my breath when I saw this—
and I felt—much as if I knew that murder had been
perpetrated there, and that I myself was appointed
from above to pursue and destroy the man-slayer. I
rode up to the door, and struck it forcibly and resolutely
two or three times, but there was no answer for me;
I knocked again and again till the whole house rung,
and shook with a long continued reverberation; after

which I alighted, and went up the outside stairs to the
second story and tried every window and every door,
and called and shouted till I was weary. And then I
came down, walked all round the house below, and
struck at every door and listened at every window in
the same way. The silence grew frightful—insupportable—I
could bear it no longer; and I began to
look about for something with which to force open the
door, when a bit of glass broke underneath my foot,
with a sharp jingling noise that instantly reminded
me of what I heard near the same place the night before.
It was a broken vial of exquisite workmanship,
chased with gold, and stained (through and through it
appeared to me) with a rich, brilliant, crimson liquid,
of a very grateful odour. Was it poison? If so—to
whom administered? and by whom? These were
questions of life and death; but while I was thinking
them over, my attention was attracted by something
white on the top of a bush near the wood—it fluttered
in the breeze, and appeared to be a signal. I ran up to
it. It was a pocket-handkerchief, and when I came to
examine it close, I found a spot of blood upon it, and
the initials of the woman that I saw in the night, C. C.
O. The grass here was much trodden; the tops of the
plants near had been lately stripped of their leaves
and bark. I touched a twig that was broken—it left a
stain—I took up a handful of the crushed leaves—the
dew was yet upon them, but they left a tinge too, which
it was impossible to mistake, or to see without a shudder,
upon the white handkerchief. There was a trail
on the turf too, as if something heavy had been
dragged over it; and a track which I followed from
this very spot to the verge of the bank where it
suddenly disappeared. On looking over, there was
nothing to be seen—for the water was high, nothing
but a shrub nearly plucked up by the roots, just over
the edge of the bank. It must have been tugged at
by a strong hand, for the coarse dark foliage was
torn, bruised and laden with fresh earth, as if it had
been pressed into the soil for a moment and then
recovered with a spring. I withdrew from the river-side
when I saw this, and hurried back to the cottage
once more, and staggered up to the windows and
shouted there till the skies answered me, to the door
and shook it until the house itself shook, and leaned
my shoulder against a pannel and heaved with all my
power, till I heard something give away inside; after
which I was able to open it. But when I did so far
enough to look in, I felt afraid; the quiet and the
darkness appalled me. I hesitated, knocked and
called again, and so loud was the outcry, that my
horse when he heard it, broke his bridle and set off at
full speed into the thick wood, leaving me alone,
just when the society of a dog would have been a
relief to me. At last I entered, but on tip-toe and
vary cautiously and felt my way inch by inch to the
little back parlor. But as I went by the foot of the
stairs I happened to look up, and there I saw, or
thought I saw—it might be a delusion to be sure—and
when I recalled the state of my feelings at the time,
I am ready to acknowledge that I must have been
deceived—but I saw, or thought I saw, as plainly as
I ever saw any thing in my life, the shadow of a tall
man at the top of the stairs, erect and immovable, as
if he stood there waiting for me to approach. I turned
away my head and looked out into the warm soft
air to reassure myself; and when I looked again, the
shadow was gone. But I wanted the courage to go
up, and I stood still therefore, and held my breath,
and watched the stairway and argued with myself
about my unheard of cowardice, till, though I could
neither hear nor see, motion nor footstep, voice nor
shape, I had argued myself back, by little and little
to the very door of the front-parlor which I threw
open, with a rude angry effort and walked in. It was
very dark, and for a little time I could see nothing,
not even the massy furniture, nothing but a feeble
shadowy glimmer, where the dust was eddying in a
little stray sun-shine that streamed through a crack of
the window-shutter. As I advanced, a flash struck
my eyes, and hastily turning my head, the first thing
I saw was a drawn sword lying on the table near me—
the blade of a sword-cane rather; it belonged to
Middleton; I knew it immediately, and seized it with
a quick sharp thrill, and took it to the door that I
might examine the blade; it was dark near the point
and bruised and discolored as with fire. But with a
sword in my grasp what had I to fear? nothing, said
I to myself, nothing, and I held it before me and
ascended the stairs forthwith, in a temper the very
thought of which now makes my blood run cold; for
I know—I am satisfied, perfectly satisfied—that if a
human creature had started up suddenly before me
from the darkness, I should have dealt him a blow
without any consideration of the consequences, and
without waiting to interchange a word; so great was
my fear, so dreadful my agitation. But I met nothing—saw
nothing, heard nothing, till I had continued
my search through a long wide passage to a
bed-room, the first of a suite which had been occupied
by Middleton during his illness; but when I had got
so far, I heard the outer door below shut with a loud
noise, and immediately two or three other doors were
flung to, one after the other, with a violence that
shook the whole house. What could I do? I grasped
the weapon of death, I planted my foot, and waited
for several minutes for somebody to appear. It was
nothing but the wind perhaps, after all, nothing but
the wind; for after the echoes died away, you might
have heard a pin drop. I entered the room with my
sword before me and after walking round and round
it, and throwing up the curtains I looked into the
other, which was connected with it—and I was satisfied
from all that I saw, that whoever the occupants
were, they could not be far off—they certainly had not
been gone long. So I called out several times, and
louder and louder each time, and struck the heavy iron
shod heel of my boot on the marble hearth, and
shouted, and rapped on the chimney-piece, and the
wall, and the door; but still there was no answer.
What could I believe? It was very strange; for the
bed-clothes before me appeared as if they had not entirely
sunk down into their proper place---you
could swear they had been hastily thrown off by some
body a few minutes before, judging by what else I saw
that somebody whoever it was, could have had little
or no time to escape. I staid but a minute or two,
yet I saw enough to satisfy me that I was in the bedroom
of a female—or a female had been there at any
rate... for the floor was littered with parts of her
dress. Here I trod on a slipper, and there lay a coronet
which had been crushed with a heavy blow or
trodden with a heavy foot. In a far corner lay the
fragments of a superb necklace tangled with fine
black hair, as if it had been plucked away in wrath.
On the very latch of the door, hung the vestiges of a
handkerchief that I knew, I had seen it on the head
of Claire—wreathed about her brow like a turban, I
could not mistake what I saw; it was a part of the
gorgeous apparel I had seen her wear in the south.

I had no courage, no heart, no time to look further,
and I hurried away; I was only there for a minute or
so as I have said before, but I saw every thing, and I
never shall forget what I saw, never to my dying day.
As for the rest of the rooms I merely walked into
them, one after the other, and hitched up the curtains
and set open the large green blinds, and threw a
hurried glance at the furniture and passed on, till I
came to the door of the particular room I was in
search of, and there I stopped and held my breath
again, palsied anew with unspeakable terror. I
cannot describe it—I cannot—I know that no language
would suffice to give you a faithful idea of
what I suffered, and yet, how can I help trying over
and over again to describe it? I was afraid even to
touch the lock. I felt as if something was about to
start up before me—as if something would happen if
I persevered against the pressure that I felt; as if a
strong hand, that of my Good-Angel perhaps, was
crowding me away from the door. But how could I
possibly go away? I that could not endure the reproaches
of my own heart for having done as I did in
the night? No, no—I had gone too far, much too
far in a strange house to think of escape. If I did
not persevere, what on earth could I say for myself?

The door was fast; and I knocked very softly two or
three times and, then louder and louder yet, and
called and shouted and stamped as before, till getting
half crazy with fright—for the sound of my own
voice terrified me—I lifted my arm with all my
strength and struck the pannel. It gave way and fell
into the dark, large, hollow, quiet room with a noise
which appeared to me so like the sharp splitting of a
coffin lid in a great sepulchre, that I shuddered and
recoiled, as if the loud angry protracted reverberation
were a preternatural voice warning me off. I could
now see all over the room, there was nothing alive
within it, I knew, unless there might be in a bed that
I saw, the curtains of which were drawn. But why
detail my sensations? why pretend to describe them?
It is all vanity and foolishness. I knew not whither
to go, nor what to say; I was mad—furious; and
when I put my hand through the broken pannel, and
discovered that the key was yet in the lock, my very
flesh crept, and the hair of my head rose, for I knew
from that moment, I knew as well as if I saw her at
my feet, I knew that the woman who appeared at the
window was a dead woman—a corpse—and lying
there in that very bed before me. I knew it as well
as if I could see her. So, I collected all my strength,
and put my back to the door and burst it open with a
tremendous crash, overthrowing the furniture which
lay piled up against it, furniture that no woman was
ever able to move, sprang into the room with a loud
cry and went straightway up to the bed, my hands
quivering with excessive agitation, my whole body in
a sweat, and tore aside the curtains.

O! never, never shall I forget! never though I

should live a million of years, the deep awful rapture
of my heart, when I first beheld (as it were in a
vision) the brave calm, beautiful creatures before me,
asleep I thought like two happy children, asleep in
their untroubled innocence, the one in the bosom of
the other, and their arms interlocked with love. I
could have dropped on my knees and cried for joy.
But alas! that joy was soon over. They slept much
too soundly. They had never heard my cries, nor
the knocking, nor the continued sound of my approach.
As I thought of this, I ran up to the window, and
burst open the shutters and tore away the superb
hangings, and stood there as the wind blew into the
room and the light of day entered and filled it—I
know not how long—powerless and speechless, the
weapon of death dropping out of my grasp and my
knees tottering as I stood; looking at the two sleepers,
the sun shone all over them, flowers upon the bed, a
profusion of green leaves and blossoms and buds, the
fresh-wind of the morning blowing their changeable
hair all together, like a warm silken shadow over the
white pillow and rich flowers, and making low music
through all the desolate chambers of the house and
sounding with joy among the tree branches that over-shadowed
it.

Her head lay upon his arm, her cheek on which
there was yet a flush, near his heart, and his mouth
touched her forehead. Both her hands were locked
in his, and held with a strong desperate convulsive
energy. Both of their wonderful faces, even there,
even at such a time, were so full of beauty and composure,
that as I looked at them I was afraid to move
or breathe, lest if I stirred I should make them less

happy. Their sleep was like a trance, they lay like
enchanted creatures, things hardly of earth spell-bound
by creatures not of our earth. My tears fell
in a shower like the summer rain, without either
scalding or bitterness—they had never fallen so pleasantly
before. For the first time in my life I found
that weeping was a relief to the heart. I had been
told as much before, but I never could believe it.
How like death sleep is!...How like sleep death is!
who would fear death now! so calm, so beautiful,
said I.

But on going a little nearer, I detected traces of
keen sharp suffering upon the sweet brow of the
female; and a few livid spots about her temples and
about her naked shoulders; much as if some of the
finer vessels under the white skin had some how or
other been crushed, until the crimson fluid of her
young heart had suffused itself through the lucid
whiteness. Poor child! poor Elizabeth! So beautiful
when alive. How much more beautiful in death!
Her face now was full of innocent love, touched with
unspeakable sorrow and gentleness, and a something
haughty about the forehead and mouth. But his! O
it was like nothing I ever saw in life. It was terrible
beyond expression. His lip had a passionate proud
curl; his forehead was wrought and established with
a look of rebellion, of defiance, of savage, haughty
stern triumph, resolute as death and somewhat like
that which I had seen before when both of as were
out in the field of blood together—somewhat like it,
I say, but sculpture to shadow in comparison. Yet,
with all this, and more to terrify me, there was a
gravity and a solidity and a tremendous quiet over

the whole visage taken together, as if in some awful
paroxysm of determination, having got a form, and
shape and hue and character for a single moment, it
had instantaneously become (like lava poured into
the sea) solid and immutable forever.

I knew not which way to look nor whither to go,
and I sat down upon the bed-side and wept like a
child—I could not restrain my tears, nor did I try to
check them, till happening to turn my eyes again to
the face of poor Gerard, I saw—or thought I saw—
that while I was looking another way the expression
of haughty repose there had undergone a little
change. Ay—ay—and the whole face, if I could
believe my own senses appeared to be turned rather
more toward the face of the woman, rather more
than it was when I saw it first.

While I sat considering this with a vague childish
idea that something was about to occur, one of the
little hands of poor Elizabeth dropped from his grasp
and I saw his head move, and a spasm quivering
about his mouth. I started up from the bed, with a
loud cry, I suppose, for a loud cry came back to me
from every room in the house, and I stood up in the
middle of the floor, bewildered with hope and shivering
with affright. I knew that both of the bodies
were dead—absolutely dead, and yet I half expected
them to arise and pursue me. A low thick sob followed.
The chest of the man heaved while I was looking
at him, and subsided before my face. Then and
not till then, did I begin to recollect where I was and
what was my duty. Hitherto I had been half delirious—but
now, God be thanked! the fear that made
me so was no more. I ran up to the bed in a transport

of joy; I took the poor fellow into my arms, I
tore him away from his bride, I carried him to the
window and shrieked for help! help! till the neighbourhood
was all up in arms, and I heard the people
on every side, pouring to my relief. I saw them afar
off, I heard their shouting in the wood, I saw their
faces, their encouraging gestures, I heard the door
open below and feet ascending the stairs—I could endure
it no longer, I fainted away.