University of Virginia Library

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 honor. 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, devilish; 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 astonished 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 endeavored
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 entreated him to afford
me the respite of a few hours repose.

He was sensible of the deplorableness of my condition,
and chid 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 reassemble
before the morrow's dawn. The distance of the
neighboring farm was small, and Sarsefield promised to be
expeditious. He left me to myself and my own ruminations.

Harassed 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 was 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 musket 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 musket
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
repel 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 surprise, 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 staircase, 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 moment's 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 recognised. 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 Walcot's. 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.