University of Virginia Library

I. EDGAR HUNTLY.

CHAPTER I.

I sit down, my friend, to comply with thy request. At
length does the impetuosity of my fears, the transports of my
wonder permit me to recollect my promise and perform it.
At length am I somewhat delivered from suspense and from
tremors. At length the drama is brought to an imperfect
close, and the series of events, that absorbed my faculties,
that hurried away my attention, has terminated in repose.

Till now, to hold a steadfast pen was impossible; to
disengage my senses from the scene that was passing or
approaching; to forbear to grasp at futurity; to suffer so
much thought to wander from the purpose which engrossed
my fears and my hopes, could not be.

Yet am I sure that even now my perturbations are sufficiently
stilled for an employment like this? That the incidents
I am going to relate can be recalled and arranged
without indistinctness and confusion? That emotions will
not be reawakened by my narrative, incompatible with order
and coherence? Yet when I shall be better qualified for
this task I know not. Time may take away these headlong
energies, and give me back my ancient sobriety; but this
change will only be effected by weakening my remembrance
of these events. In proportion as I gain power over words,

shall I lose dominion over sentiments. In proportion as my
tale is deliberate and slow, the incidents and motives which
it is designed to exhibit will be imperfectly revived and
obscurely portrayed.

O! why art thou away at a time like this. Wert thou
present, the office to which my pen is so inadequate would
easily be executed by my tongue. Accents can scarcely be
too rapid, or that which words should fail to convey, my
looks and gestures would suffice to communicate. But I
know thy coming is impossible. To leave this spot is equally
beyond my power. To keep thee in ignorance of what has
happened would justly offend thee. There is no method of
informing thee except by letter, and this method, must I,
therefore, adopt.

How short is the period that has elapsed since thou and I
parted, and yet how full of tumult and dismay has been my
soul during that period! What light has burst upon my
ignorance of myself and of mankind! How sudden and
enormous the transition from uncertainty to knowledge!

But let me recall my thoughts; let me struggle for so
much composure as will permit my pen to trace intelligible
characters. Let me place in order the incidents that are to
compose my tale. I need not call on thee to listen. The
fate of Waldegrave was as fertile of torment to thee as to me.
His bloody and mysterious catastrophe equally awakened thy
grief, thy revenge, and thy curiosity. Thou wilt catch from
my story every horror and every sympathy which it paints.
Thou wilt shudder with my forboding and dissolve with my
tears. As the sister of my friend, and as one who honors
me with her affection, thou wilt share in all my tasks and all
my dangers.

You need not be reminded with what reluctance I left you.
To reach this place by evening was impossible, unless I had
set out early in the morning, but your society was too precious
not to be enjoyed to the last moment. It was indispensable
to be here on Tuesday, but my duty required no
more than that I should arrive by sunrise on that day. To
travel during the night, was productive of no formidable
inconvenience. The air was likely to be frosty and sharp,
but these would not incommode one who walked with
speed. A nocturnal journey in districts so romantic and

wild as these, through which lay my road, was more congenial
to my temper than a noonday ramble.

By nightfall I was within ten miles of my uncle's house.
As the darkness increased, and I advanced on my way, my
sensations sunk into melancholy. The scene and the time
reminded me of the friend whom I had lost. I recalled his
features, and accents, and gestures, and mused with unutterable
feelings on the circumstances of his death.

My recollections once more plunged me into anguish and
perplexity. Once more I asked, who was his assassin? By
what motives could he be impelled to a deed like this?
Waldegrave was pure from all offence. His piety was rapturous.
His benevolence was a stranger to remissness or
torpor. All who came within the sphere of his influence
experienced and acknowledged his benign activity. His
friends were few, because his habits were timid and reserved,
but the existence of an enemy was impossible.

I recalled the incidents of our last interview, my importunities
that he should postpone his illomened journey till the
morning, his inexplicable obstinacy; his resolution to set out
on foot, during a dark and tempestuous night, and the horrible
disaster that befel him.

The first intimation I received of this misfortune, the insanity
of vengeance and grief into which I was hurried, my
fruitless searches for the author of this guilt, my midnight
wanderings and reveries beneath the shade of that fatal Elm,
were revived and reacted. I heard the discharge of the pistol,
I witnessed the alarm of Inglefield, I heard his calls to his
servants, and saw them issue forth with lights, and hasten to
the spot whence the sound had seemed to proceed. I
beheld my friend, stretched upon the earth, ghastly with a
mortal wound, alone, with no traces of the slayer visible, no
tokens by which his place of refuge might be sought, the
motives of his enmity or his instruments of mischief might be
detected.

I hung over the dying youth, whose insensibility forbade
him to recognise his friend, or unfold the cause of his destruction.
I accompanied his remains to the grave, I tended
the sacred spot where he lay, I once more exercised my
penetration and my zeal in pursuit of his assassin. Once

more my meditations and exertions were doomed to be
disappointed.

I need not remind thee of what is past. Time and
reason seemed to have dissolved the spell which made me
deaf to the dictates of duty and discretion. Remembrances
had ceased to agonize, to urge me to headlong acts, and
foster sanguinary purposes. The gloom was half dispersed,
and a radiance had succeeded sweeter than my former joys.

Now, by some unseen concurrence of reflections, my
thoughts reverted into some degree of bitterness. Methought
that to ascertain the hand who killed my friend, was not
impossible, and to punish the crime was just. That to forbear
inquiry or withhold punishment was to violate my duty
to my God and to mankind. The impulse was gradually
awakened that bade me once more to seek the Elm; once
more to explore the ground; to scrutinize its trunk. What
could I expect to find? Had it not been an hundred times
examined? Had I not extended my search to the neighboring
groves and precipices? Had I not pored upon the brooks,
and pryed into the pits and hollows, that were adjacent to
the scene of blood?

Lately I had viewed this conduct with shame and regret;
but in the present state of my mind, it assumed the appearance
of conformity with prudence, and I felt myself irresistibly
prompted to repeat my search. Some time had elapsed
since my departure from this district. Time enough for
momentous changes to occur. Expedients that formerly
were useless, might now lead instantaneously to the end
which I sought. The tree which had formerly been shunned
by the criminal, might, in the absence of the avenger
of blood, be incautiously approached. Thoughtless or fearless
of my return, it was possible that he might, at this
moment, be detected hovering near the scene of his offences.

Nothing can be pleaded in extenuation of this relapse into
folly. My return, after an absence of some duration, into
the scene of these transactions and sufferings, the time of
night, the glimmering of the stars, the obscurity in which
external objects were wrapped, and which, consequently, did
not draw my attention from the images of fancy, may, in
some degree, account for the revival of those sentiments and
resolutions, which immediately succeeded the death of Waldegrave,

and which, during my visit to you, had been suspended.

You know the situation of the Elm, in the midst of a
private road, on the verge of Norwalk, near the habitation of
Inglefield, but three miles from my uncle's house. It was
now my intention to visit it. The road in which I was travelling,
led a different way. It was requisite to leave it, therefore,
and make a circuit through meadows and over steeps. My
journey would, by these means, be considerably prolonged,
but on that head I was indifferent, or rather, considering how
far the night had already advanced, it was desirable not to
reach home till the dawn.

I proceeded in this new direction with speed. Time,
however, was allowed for my impetuosities to subside, and
for sober thoughts to take place. Still I persisted in this
path. To linger a few moments in this shade; to ponder
on objects connected with events so momentous to my
happiness, promised me a mournful satisfaction. I was
familiar with the way, though trackless and intricate, and I
climbed the steeps, crept through the brambles, leapt the
rivulets and fences with undeviating aim, till at length I
reached the craggy and obscure path, which led to Inglefield's
house.

In a short time, I descried through the dusk the wide
spread branches of the Elm. This tree, however faintly
seen, cannot be mistaken for another. The remarkable
bulk and shape of its trunk, its position in the midst of the
way, its branches spreading into an ample circumference,
made it conspicuous from afar. My pulse throbbed as I
approached it.

My eyes were eagerly bent to discover the trunk and the
area beneath the shade. These, as I approached, gradually
became visible. The trunk was not the only thing which
appeared in view. Somewhat else, which made itself distinguishable
by its motions, was likewise noted. I faltered
and stopped.

To a casual observer this appearance would have been
unnoticed. To me, it could not but possess a powerful
significance. All my surmises and suspicions, instantly
returned. This apparition was human, it was connected

with the fate of Waldegrave, it led to a disclosure of the
author of that fate. What was I to do? To approach unwarily
would alarm the person. Instant flight would set him
beyond discovery and reach.

I walked softly to the roadside. The ground was covered
with rocky masses, scattered among shrub-oaks and dwarf-cedars,
emblems of its sterile and uncultivated state. Among
these it was possible to elude observation and yet approach
near enough to gain an accurate view of this being.

At this time, the atmosphere was somewhat illuminated
by the moon, which, though it had already set, was yet so
near the horizon, as to benefit me by its light. The shape
of a man, tall and robust, was now distinguished. Repeated
and closer scrutiny enabled me to perceive that he was
employed in digging the earth. Something like flannel was
wrapt round his waist and covered his lower limbs. The
rest of his frame was naked. I did not recognise in him
any one whom I knew.

A figure, robust and strange, and half naked, to be thus
employed, at this hour and place, was calculated to rouse
up my whole soul. His occupation was mysterious and
obscure. Was it a grave that he was digging? Was his
purpose to explore or to hide? Was it proper to watch
him at a distance, unobserved and in silence, or to rush
upon him and extort from him by violence or menaces, an
explanation of the scene?

Before my resolution was formed, he ceased to dig. He
cast aside his spade and sat down in the pit that he had dug.
He seemed wrapt in meditation; but the pause was short,
and succeeded by sobs, at first low, and at wide intervals,
but presently louder and more vehement. Sorely charged
was indeed that heart whence flowed these tokens of sorrow.
Never did I witness a scene of such mighty anguish,
such heart-bursting grief.

What should I think? I was suspended in astonishment.
Every sentiment, at length, yielded to my sympathy. Every
new accent of the mourner struck upon my heart with additional
force, and tears found their way spontaneously to my
eyes. I left the spot where I sood, and advanced within
the verge of the shade. My caution had forsaken me, and

instead of one whom it was duty to persecute, I beheld, in
this man, nothing but an object of compassion.

My pace was checked by his suddenly ceasing to lament.
He snatched the spade, and rising on his feet, began to cover
up the pit with the utmost diligence. He seemed aware
of my presence, and desirous of hiding something from my
inspection. I was prompted to advance nearer and hold his
hand, but my uncertainty as to his character and views, the
abruptness with which I had been ushered into this scene,
made me still hesitate; but though I hesitated to advance,
there was nothing to hinder me from calling.

What, ho! said I. Who is there? What are you doing?

He stopt, the spade fell from his hand, he looked up and
bent forward his face towards the spot where I stood. An
interview and explanation were now methought unavoidable.
I mustered up my courage to confront and interrogate this
being.

He continued for a minute in his gazing and listening
attitude. Where I stood I could not fail of being seen, and
yet he acted as if he saw nothing. Again he betook himself
to his spade, and proceeded with new diligence to fill up the
pit. This demeanor confounded and bewildered me. I
had no power but to stand and silently gaze upon his motions.

The pit being filled, he once more sat upon the ground,
and resigned himself to weeping and sighs with more vehemence
than before. In a short time the fit seemed to
have passed. He rose, seized the spade, and advanced to
the spot where I stood.

Again I made preparation as for an interview which could
not but take place. He passed me, however, without appearing
to notice my existence. He came so near as almost to
brush my arm, yet turned not his head to either side. My
nearer view of him, made his brawny arms and lofty stature
more conspicuous; but his imperfect dress, the dimness of
the light, and the confusion of my own thoughts, hindered
me from discerning his features. He proceeded with a few
quick steps, along the road, but presently darted to one side
and disappeared among the rocks and bushes.

My eye followed him as long as he was visible, but my
feet were rooted to the spot. My musing was rapid and
incongruous. It could not fail to terminate in one conjecture,

that this person was asleep. Such instances were not
unknown to me, through the medium of conversation and
books. Never, indeed, had it fallen under my own observation
till now, and now it was conspicuous and environed
with all that could give edge to suspicion, and vigor to
inquiry. To stand here was no longer of use, and I turned
my steps toward my uncle's habitation.