University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER III.

The ensuing day was spent, partly in sleep, and partly in
languor and disquietude. I incessantly ruminated on the
incidents of the last night. The scheme that I had formed
was defeated. Was it likely that this unknown person
would repeat his midnight visits to the Elm? If he did, and
could again be discovered, should I resolve to undertake a
new pursuit, which might terminate abortively, or in some
signal disaster? But what proof had I that the same route
would be taken, and that he would again inter himself alive
in the same spot? Or, if he did, since his reappearance
would sufficiently prove that the cavern was not dangerous,
and that he who should adventure in, might hope to come
out again in safety, why not enter it after him? What could
be the inducements of this person to betake himself to subterranean
retreats? The basis of all this region is limestone;
a substance that eminently abounds in rifts and cavities.
These, by the gradual decay of their cementing parts, frequently
make their appearance in spots where they might
have been least expected. My attention has often been excited
by the hollow sound which was produced by my casual
footsteps, and which shewed me that I trod upon the roof of
caverns. A mountain-cave and the rumbling of an unseen
torrent, are appendages of this scene, dear to my youthful
imagination. Many of romantic structure were found within
the precincts of Norwalk.

These I had industriously sought out; but this had hitherto
escaped my observation, and I formed the resolution of
sometime exploring it. At present I determined to revisit
the Elm, and dig in the spot where this person had been
employed in a similar way. It might be that something was
here deposited which might exhibit this transaction in a new
light. At the suitable hour, on the ensuing night, I took my
former stand. The person again appeared. My intention
to dig was to be carried into effect on condition of his absence,
and was, consequently, frustrated.

Instead of rushing on him, and breaking at once the spell
by which his senses were bound, I concluded, contrary to
my first design, to wait his departure, and allow myself to be

conducted whithersoever he pleased. The track into which
he now led me was different from the former one. It was a
maze, oblique, circuitous, upward and downward, in a degree
which only could take place in a region so remarkably
irregular in surface, so abounding with hillocks and steeps,
and pits and brooks as Salsbury. It seemed to be the sole
end of his labors to bewilder or fatigue his pursuer, to pierce
into the deepest thickets, to plunge into the darkest cavities,
to ascend the most difficult heights, and approach the slippery
and tremulous verge of the dizziest precipices.

I disdained to be outstripped in this career. All dangers
were overlooked, and all difficulties defied. I plunged into
obscurities, and clambered over obstacles, from which, in a
different state of mind, and with a different object of pursuit,
I should have recoiled with invincible timidity. When the
scene had passed, I could not review the perils I had undergone
without shuddering.

At length my conductor struck into a path which, compared
with the ruggedness of that which we had lately trodden,
was easy and smooth. This track led us to the skirt of
the wilderness, and at no long time we reached an open field,
when a dwelling appeared, at a small distance, which I
speedily recognized to be that belonging to Inglefield. I
now anticipated the fulfilment of my predictions. My conductor
directed his steps towards the barn, into which he
entered by a small door.

How were my doubts removed! This was no other than
Clithero Edny. There was nothing in his appearance incompatible
with this conclusion. He and his fellow servant
occupied an apartment in the barn as a lodging room. This
arduous purpose was accomplished, and I retired to the
shelter of a neighboring shed, not so much to repose myself
after the fatigues of my extraordinary journey, as to devise
farther expedients.

Nothing now remained but to take Clithero to task; to
repeat to him the observations of the two last nights; to
unfold to him my conjectures and suspicions; to convince
him of the rectitude of my intentions, and to extort from him
a disclosure of all the circumstances connected with the
death of Waldegrave, which it was in his power to communicate.

In order to obtain a conference, I resolved to invite him to
my uncle's, to perform a certain piece of work for me under
my own eyes. He would, of course, spend the night with
us, and in the evening I would take an opportunity of entering
into conversation with him.

A period of the deepest deliberation was necessary to
qualify myself for performing suitably my part in this projected
interview. I attended to the feelings that were suggested
in this new state of my knowledge. I found reason
to confide in my newly acquired equanimity. Remorse, said
I, is an ample and proper expiation for all offences. What
does vengeance desire but to inflict misery? If misery
come, its desires are accomplished. It is only the obdurate
and exulting criminal that is worthy of our indignation. It is
common for pity to succeed the bitterest suggestions of resentment.
If the vengeful mind be delighted with the spectacle
of woes of its own contriving, at least its canine hunger
is appeased, and thenceforth, its hands are inactive.

On the evening of the next day, I paid a visit to Inglefield.
I wished to impart to him the discoveries that I had made,
and to listen to his reflections on the subject. I likewise desired
to obtain all possible information from the family respecting
the conduct of Clithero.

My friend received me with his usual kindness. Thou
art no stranger to his character; thou knowest with what paternal
affection I have ever been regarded by this old man;
with what solicitude the wanderings of my reason and my
freaks of passion, have been noted and corrected by him.
Thou knowest his activity to save the life of thy brother,
and the hours that have been spent by him, in aiding my
conjectures as to the cause of his death, and inculcating the
lessons of penitence and duty.

The topics which could not but occur at such a meeting,
were quickly discussed, and I hastily proceeded to that
subject which was nearest my heart. I related the adventures
of the two preceding nights, and mentioned the inference
to which they irresistibly led.

He said that this inference coincided with suspicions he had
formed, since our last interview, in consequence of certain
communications from his housekeeper. It seems the character
of Clithero, had, from the first, exercised the inquisitiveness

of this old lady. She had carefully marked his musing and
melancholy deportment. She had tried innumerable expedients
for obtaining a knowledge of his past life, and particularly
of his motives for coming to America. These expedients,
however profound and addressful, had failed. He
took no pains to elude them. He contented himself with
turning a deaf ear to all indirect allusions and hints, and,
when more explicitly questioned, with simply declaring that
he had nothing to communicate worthy of her notice.

During the day he was a sober and diligent workman.
His evenings he spent in incommunicative silence. On
Sundays, he always rambled away, no one knew whither, and
without a companion. I have already observed that he and
his fellow servant occupied the same apartment in the barn.
This circumstance was not unattended to by Miss Inglefield.
The name of Clithero's companion was Ambrose. This
man was copiously interrogated by his mistress, and she
found him by no means so refractory as the other.

Ambrose, in his tedious and confused way, related that
soon after Clithero and he had become bed-fellows, the former
was considerably disturbed by restlessness and talking
in his sleep. His discourse was incoherent. It was generally
in the tone of expostulation, and appeared to be entreating
to be saved from some great injury. Such phrases as
these, "have pity;" "have mercy," were frequently intermingled
with groans, and accompanied with weeping. Sometimes
he seemed to be holding conferences with some one,
who was making him considerable offers on condition of his
performing some dangerous service. What he said in his
own person, and in answer to his imaginary tempter, testified
the utmost reluctance.

Ambrose had no curiosity on the subject. As this interruption
prevented him at first from sleeping, it was his custom
to put an end to the dialogue, by awakening his companion,
who betrayed tokens of great alarm and dejection,
on discovering how he had been employed, he would solicitously
inquire what were the words that he had uttered; but
Ambrose's report was seldom satisfactory, because he had
attended to them but little, and because he grudged every
moment in which he was deprived of his accustomed
repose.

Whether Clithero had ceased from this practice, or habit
had reconciled his companion to the sounds, they no longer
occasioned any interruption to his slumber.

No one appeared more shocked than he at the death of
Waldegrave. After this event his dejection suddenly increased.
This symptom was observed by the family, but
none but the housekeeper took the trouble to notice it to
him, or build conjectures on the incident. During nights,
however, Ambrose experienced a renewal of his ancient disturbances.
He remarked that Clithero, one night, had disappeared
from his side. Ambrose's range of reflection
was extremely narrow. Quickly falling asleep, and finding
his companion beside him when he awoke, he dismissed it
from his mind.

On several ensuing nights he awakened in like manner,
and always found his companion's place empty. The repetition
of so strange an incident at length incited him to mention
it to Clithero. The latter was confounded at this intelligence.
He questioned Ambrose with great anxiety as to
the particulars of this event, but he could gain no satisfaction
from the stupid inattention of the other. From this
time there was a visible augmentation of his sadness. His
fits of taciturnity became more obstinate, and a deeper gloom
sat upon his brow.

There was one other circumstance, of particular importance,
mentioned by the housekeeper. One evening some
one on horseback, stopped at this gate. He rattled at the
gate, with an air of authority, in token of his desire that
some one would come from the house. Miss Inglefield was
employed in the kitchen, from a window of which she perceived
who it was that made the signal. Clithero happened,
at the same moment, to be employed near her. She, therefore,
desired him to go and see whom the stranger wanted. He
laid aside his work and went. The conference lasted above
five minutes. The length of it excited in her a faint degree
of surprise, inducing her to leave her employment, and
pay an unintermitted attention to the scene. There was
nothing, however, but its duration that rendered it remarkable.

Clithero at length entered, and the traveller proceeded.
The countenance of the former betrayed a degree of perturbation

which she had never witnessed before. The
muscles of his face were distorted and tremulous. He immediately
sat down to his work, but he seemed, for some
time, to have lost all power over his limbs. He struggled to
avoid the sight of the lady, and his gestures, irresolute, or
misdirected, betokened the deepest dismay. After some
time, he recovered, in some degree, his self-possession; but
while the object was viewed through a new medium, and the
change existed only in the imagination of the observer, a
change was certainly discovered.

These circumstances were related to me by Inglefield
and corroborated by his housekeeper. One conseqence
inevitably flowed from them. The sleep-walker, he who
had led me through so devious a tract, was no other than
Clithero. There was, likewise, a strong relation between this
person and him who stopped at the gate. What was the
subject of discourse between them? In answer to Miss Inglefield's
interrogatories, he merely said that the traveller inquired
whither the road led, which at a small distance forward,
struck out of the principal one. Considering the length of
the interview it was not likely that this was the only topic.

My determination to confer with him in private acquired
new force from these reflections. Inglefield assented to my
proposal. His own affairs would permit the absence of his
servant for one day. I saw no necessity for delay, and immediately
made my request to Clithero. I was fashioning
an implement, I told him, with respect to which I could not
wholly depend upon my own skill. I was acquainted with
the dexterity of his contrivances, and the neatness of his
workmanship. He readily consented to assist me on this
occasion. Next day he came. Contrary to my expectation,
he prepared to return home in the evening. I urged
him to spend the night with us; but no; it was equally
convenient, and more agreeable to him, to return.

I was not aware of this resolution. I might, indeed, have
foreseen, that, being conscious of his infirmity, he would
desire to avoid the scrutiny of strangers. I was painfully
disconcerted, but it occurred to me, that the best that could
be done, was to bear him company, and seize some opportunity,
during this interval, of effecting my purpose. I told
him, that since he would not remain, I cared not if, for the

sake of recreation, and of a much more momentous purpose,
I went along with him. He tacitly, and without
apparent reluctance, consented to my scheme, and accordingly,
we set off together. This was an awful crisis. The
time had now come, that was to dissipate my uncertainty.
By what means should I introduce a topic so momentous
and singular? I had been qualified by no experience for
rightly conducting myself on so critical an emergency. My
companion preserved a mournful and inviolable silence. He
afforded me no opening, by which I might reach the point
in view. His demeanor was sedate, while I was almost
disabled, by the confusion of my thoughts, to utter a word.

It was a dreadful charge that I was about to insinuate. I
was to accuse my companion of nothing less than murder.
I was to call upon him for an avowal of his guilt. I was
to state the grounds of my suspicions, and desire him to
confute, or confirm them. In doing this, I was principally
stimulated by an ungovernable curiosity; yet, if I intended
not the conferring of a benefit, I did not, at least, purpose
the infliction of evil. I persuaded myself, that I was able
to exclude from my bosom, all sanguinary or vengeful impulses;
and that, whatever should be the issue of this conversation,
my equanimity would be unsubdued.

I revolved various modes of introducing the topic, by
which my mind was engaged. I passed rapidly from one
to another. None of them were sufficiently free from objection,
to allow me to adopt it. My perplexity became,
every moment, more painful, and my ability to extricate
myself, less.

In this state of uncertainty, so much time elapsed, that
the Elm at length appeared in sight. This object had somewhat
of a mechanical influence upon me. I stopped short,
and seized the arm of my companion. Till this moment,
he appeared to have been engrossed by his own reflections,
and not to have heeded those emotions, which must have
been sufficiently conspicuous in my looks.

This action recalled him from his reverie. The first idea
that occurred to him, when he had noticed my behavior,
was, that I was assailed by some sudden indisposition.

What is the matter, said he, in a tone of anxiety; are
you not well?

Yes, replied I, perfectly well; but stop a moment; I have
something to say to you.

To me? Answered he, with surprise.

Yes, said I, let us turn down this path, pointing at the
same time, to that along which I had followed him the preceding
night.

He now partook, in some degree, of my embarrassment.

Is there any thing particular? said he, in a doubting accent.
There he stopped.

Something, I answered, of the highest moment. Go
with me down this path. We shall be in less danger of
interruption.

He was irresolute and silent, but seeing me remove the
bars and pass through them, he followed me. Nothing
more was said till we entered the wood. I trusted to the
suggestions of the moment. I had now gone too far to recede,
and the necessity that pressed upon me, supplied me
with words. I continued.

This is a remarkable spot. You may wonder why I have
led you to it. I ought not to keep you in suspense. There
is a tale connected with it, which I am desirous of telling
you. For this purpose I have brought you hither. Listen
to me.

I then recapitulated the adventures of the two preceding
nights. I added nothing, nor retrenched any thing. He
listened in the deepest silence. From every incident, he
gathered new cause of alarm. Repeatedly he wiped his
face with his handkerchief, and sighed deeply. I took no
verbal notice of these symptoms. I deemed it incumbent
on me to repress nothing. When I came to the concluding
circumstance, by which his person was identified, he heard
me, without any new surprise. To this narrative, I subjoined
the inquiries that I had made at Inglefield's, and the result
of those inquiries. I then continued in these words.

You may ask why I subjected myself to all this trouble?
The mysteriousness of these transactions would have naturally
suggested curiosity in any one. A transient passenger
would probably have acted as I have done. But I had
motives peculiar to myself. Need I remind you of a late
disaster? That it happened beneath the shade of this tree?
Am I not justified in drawing certain inferences from your

behavior? What they are, I leave you to judge. Be it your
task, to confute, or confirm them. For this end I have conducted
you hither.

My suspicions are vehement. How can they be otherwise?
I call upon you to say whether they be just.

The spot where we stood was illuminated by the moon,
that had now risen, though all around was dark. Hence
his features and person were easily distinguished. His hands
hung at his side. His eyes were downcast, and he was
motionless as a statue. My last words seemed scarcely to
have made any impression on his sense. I had no need to
provide against the possible suggestions of revenge. I felt
nothing but the tenderness of compassion. I continued, for
some time, to observe him in silence, and could discover no
tokens of a change of mood. I could not forbear, at last,
to express my uneasiness at the fixedness of his features and
attitude.

Recollect yourself. I mean not to urge you too closely.
This topic is solemn, but it need not divest you of the fortitude
becoming a man.

The sound of my voice startled him. He broke from
me, looked up, and fixed his eyes upon me with an expression
of affright. He shuddered and recoiled as from a
spectre. I began to repent of my experiment. I could say
nothing suitable to this occasion. I was obliged to stand a
silent and powerless spectator, and to suffer this paroxysm to
subside of itself. When its violence appeared to be somewhat
abated, I resumed.

I can feel for you. I act not thus, in compliance with a
temper that delights in the misery of others. The explanation
that I have solicited is no less necessary for your sake than
for mine. You are no stranger to the light in which I viewed
this man. You have witnessed the grief which his fate
occasioned, and the efforts that I made to discover, and
drag to punishment his murderer. You heard the execrations
that I heaped upon him, and my vows of eternal revenge.
You expect that, having detected the offender, I
will hunt him to infamy and death. You are mistaken. I
consider the deed as sufficiently expiated.

I am no stranger to your gnawing cares. To the deep
and incurable despair that haunts you, to which your waking

thoughts are a prey, and from which sleep cannot secure
you. I know the enormity of your crime, but I know not
your inducements. Whatever they were, I see the consequences
with regard to yourself. I see proofs of that remorse
which must ever be attendant on guilt.

This is enough. Why should the effects of our misdeeds
be inexhaustible? Why should we be debarred from a
comforter? An opportunity of repairing our errors may, at
least, be demanded from the rulers of our destiny.

I once imagined, that he who killed Waldegrave infficted
the greatest possible injury on me. That was an error,
which reflection has cured. Were futurity laid open to
my view, and events, with their consequences, unfolded; I
might see reason to embrace the assassin as my best friend.
Be comforted.

He was still incapable of speaking; but tears came to his
relief. Without attending to my remonstrances, he betrayed
a disposition to return. I had, hitherto, hoped for some
disclosure, but now feared that it was designed to be withheld.
He stopped not till we reached Inglefield's piazza.
He then spoke, for the first time, but in a hollow and tremulous
voice.

You demand of me a confession of crimes. You shall
have it. Some time you shall have it. When it will be, I
cannot tell. Something must be done, and shortly.

He hurried from me into the house, and after a pause, I
turned my steps homewards. My reflections, as I proceeded,
perpetually revolved round a single point. These were
scarcely more than a repetition, with slight variations, of a
single idea.

When I awoke in the morning, I hied, in fancy, to the
wilderness. I saw nothing but the figure of the wanderer
before me. I traced his footsteps anew, retold my narrative,
and pondered on his gestures and words. My condition
was not destitute of enjoyment. My stormy passions
had subsided into a calm, portentous and awful. My soul
was big with expectation. I seemed as if I were on the eve of
being ushered into a world, whose scenes were tremendous,
but sublime. The suggestions of sorrow and malice had,

for a time, taken their flight, and yielded place to a generous
sympathy, which filled my eyes with tears, but had more in it
of pleasure than of pain. That Clithero was instrumental to
the death of Waldegrave, that he could furnish the clue, explanatory
of every bloody and mysterious event, that had
hitherto occurred, there was no longer the possibility of
doubting. He, indeed, said I, is the murderer of excellence,
and yet it shall be my province to emulate a father's clemency,
and restore this unhappy man to purity, and to peace.

Day after day passed, without hearing any thing of Clithero.
I began to grow uneasy and impatient. I had gained
so much, and by means so unexpected, that I could more
easily endure uncertainty, with respect to what remained to
be known. But my patience had its limits. I should,
doubtless, have made use of new means to accelerate this
discovery, had not his timely appearance made them superfluous.

Sunday being at length arrived, I resolved to go to Inglefield's,
seek an interview with his servant, and urge him, by
new importunities, to confide to me the secret. On my way
thither, Clithero appeared in sight. His visage was pale
and wan, and his form emaciated and shrunk. I was astonished
at the alteration, which the lapse of a week had
made in his appearance. At a small distance I mistook him
for a stranger. As soon as I perceived who it was, I greeted
him with the utmost friendliness. My civilities made little
impression on him, and he hastened to inform me, that he
was coming to my uncle's, for the purpose of meeting and
talking with me. If I thought proper, we would go into the
wood together; and find some spot, where we might discourse
at our leisure, and be exempt from interruption.

You will easily conceive with what alacrity I accepted
his invitation. We turned from the road into the first path,
and proceeded in silence, till the wildness of the surrounding
scenery informed us, that we were in the heart of Norwalk.
We lighted on a recess, to which my companion appeared to
be familiar, and which had all the advantages of solitude, and
was suitable to rest. Here we stopped. Hitherto my companion
had displayed a certain degree of composure. Now
his countenance betokened a violent internal struggle. It

was a considerable time before he could command his speech.
When he had so far effected the conquest of his feelings, he
began.